Emil Pitkin

Lanyards

When I was a boy in the late 90s, my parents took me to St. Petersburg one May. I have a distinct memory of stepping out of the metro station into the sun, and while my eyes were adjusting to the light, hearing the jangling of medals. It was May 9th, the day that the Soviets, and now the Russians, celebrate VE Day. The source of the jangling were two World War II veterans: broad chests, bushy, wiry, gray brows, erect posture, measured gait. Their whole chests were pinned with cascading ribbons and medals. One of them saw the mesmerized boy and began to tell his story: “This Order of Stalin medal is for the liberation of Warsaw. This Order of Stalin is for the conquest of Berlin. One more Order of Stalin, and I’d have been named Hero of the USSR…”

July, 2016. Cleveland, Ohio, USA.

Ashton has been gone for two hours. He had tied his bow tie, looked over his shoulder to say “Sir, I won’t be long” and disappeared out into the streets of Cleveland, thronged with Republicans. The 2016 Republican National Convention, that quadrennial pageant, that coronation for the Republican nominee for president, is in full swing. Republican senators are here. Fox News anchors, personalities, executives. Republican congressmen. Republican mayors. Ex-staffers for Republican politicians, now making a living as lobbyists – they’re here. Right-wing think tanks: here. Country music stars. Ex-senators. Conservative Hollywood stars (plural, sic). Journalists of every stripe. A frothing, partying, exuberant vortex of politics, media, and power.

Turn left: Paul Ryan, Speaker of the House, is addressing the right-wing Milken Forum. Turn right: Twitter is hosting a party for journalists and tech lobbyists. Turn around: Martina McBride is singing to 100 pasty lobbyists twisting under the violet lights. To enter any of these events, you present the correct laminated, hard plastic ticket hanging around your neck on a lanyard. The right watch signifies taste and power at the Harvard Club of New York; the right lanyard signifies belonging here at the convention.

Ashton, attuned like a sensitive instrument to the flows of power and influence, commanded me to go to Cleveland (“Good Sir, the thing about it is everybody will be there. I know what rooms to work. Give praise to the angels!”), so the two of us rented a small flat for the week of the convention. I had arrived with a vague plan to give away 300 business cards, while he simply looked over his shoulder to say “Sir, I won’t be long.” For two hours I took sales calls with potential clients out of the living room and checked in with the engineers. And just as I give a thought to where Ashton has disappeared to, the door to the flat opens…

Ashton has returned in triumph. From a thick tangle of ribbon around his neck are suspended a dozen laminated cards, his bowtie the centroid of the new geometry he’s carrying. With a guileless chuckle (“Good Sir, this is what we do!”) he removes his spoils and lays them out on the kitchen island. Unseen, unknown doors now lay open to me, to us. A private reception with the US Chamber of Commerce; floor pass to the nominating convention; exclusive roundtable with energy lobbyists and congressmen on the Energy and Commerce Committee; for fun, tickets to a country music concert (it was fun for me because it proved a target-rich environment); VIP pass for an American Unity Fund event, decaled with sponsor logos from Microsoft, Facebook, and…GovPredict?

“Ash, didn’t we ixnay sponsoring the AUF event? $25,000 price tag too rich for our blood, remember?[[1]](#_ftn1)”

“Sir, Sir!”

I tried my damnedest to suppress the smile coming over me, I really did. But this was Sir Lawrence Olivier come out on stage, and you are mesmerized before the first line is spoken.

“I talked to our friend xxx over there. Can we afford to pitch in $1,000?”

“Not really.”

“My my my. I guess we’ll just show up and do what we do.”

Ashton divvied up the lanyards and cards – the lion’s share went to me, a few he kept, a few triplicates were left in reserve to use as currency with targets. The newly opened doors, which we walked through until 3 or 4am every night, allowed me to give away the 300 business cards to the highest caliber of DC insider I’d come across to that point. Senator Norm Coleman, who later became a mentor and patron was behind one of those doors, as well as clients who, in 2019, remembered me and the pitch I’d given in the exclusive rooms. Morgan Ortagus, who’d award me the 40 Under 40 later that year, was a special guest with a special VIP lanyard Ashton gave her for the American Unity Fund event.

The last morning I was up at 8am Central Time, bleary-eyed, to give a 9am Eastern pitch to a prospect over video. I took an unbalanced step from the couch, steadied myself against the island, and saw into the bedroom across the combined kitchen and living room, door ajar, Ashton lying spread-eagle on the bed in last night’s solid black bow tie. By the time the client pitch was done, Ashton was back in the flat with one final lanyard with a ticket to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, hanging loose over a bow tie patterned in tasteful argyle.