Tom Outland Goes to Washington
On Willa Cather and the government shutdown.
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“In Washington nothing is ever done, and nothing is ever settled.”
Willa Cather, 1946
On the fourth day of government shutdown, 2013, it’s been helpful for me to think about a passage in Willa Cather’s book, The Professor’s House, published 88 years ago. Cather tells the story of an aging professor looking back on the stretch of his days and finding them increasingly defined by a young former student of his, the brightest of them all, killed in Normandy on the brink of a promising career. The student, Tom Outland, showed up on the professor’s front steps, appearing out of the American southwest at the age of 18 or so, where he had been a cowboy, a railroad man, an attendant at high stakes poker games. He “idealized the people he loved and paid his devoir to the ideal rather than to the individual”; “One of his sentimental superstitions was that he must never on any account owe any material advantage to his friends, that he must keep affection and advancement far apart, as if they were chemicals that would disintegrate each other.” He was an orphan; he had memorized the Aeneid with the help of a town priest. He’d pulled himself up by his bootstraps.
The vast middle section of the book, “Tom Outland’s Story,” outlines the great disappointment that drives the young man to the professor’s doorstep and the academic life. It begins with winter work on a ranch, where Tom Outland and his friend, Roddy, are given a herd of cattle to take care of for the season, next to a blue mesa that during the long lazy days attracts Tom’s attention. Hidden high up in a canyon cave, secluded from prying eyes for who knows how many hundreds of years by rivers and rocks, Tom finds the deserted ruins of a dead civilization—a proud and accomplished one, whose people have built high and well. Tom is drawn to the hidden village, and wishes to bring knowledge of this long-dead Native American nation to all Americans, their accidental descendants.
So Tom Outland goes to Washington. His friend Roddy—who had joked about breaking tools and equipment while they surveyed the village because, who cares? Uncle Sam would pay them back—stakes Tom 600 dollars and his Pullman ticket east. Tom arrives in D.C. one bright January morning and after sightseeing, gets to work. He tracks down his elected representative, who happily meets with him, and provides a letter to the Indian Commissioner, who is also friendly but less helpful, explaining that he deals only with live Indians, not dead ones. Tom goes back to his elected representative, who (a little more sullenly) offers him a letter of introduction to the head of the Smithsonian, at whose office Tom hangs around for a few days, volleyed this way and that by secretaries and clerks. Eventually a kind secretary encourages him to take the chief of the head of the Smithsonian out to lunch, because only through number twos does anything get done in D.C., Tom Outland learns. And he buys the man lunch, purchases a bottle of Chateau d’Yquem, which the chief likes but Tom has never heard of before. The sated chief arranges a meeting with the head of the Smithsonian, who is scientifically interested in Tom’s findings but informs Tom that they just don’t have the money at the moment, though there is an appropriations bill before Congress for just this sort of thing, so perhaps best to go back and talk to Tom’s elected representative and see what kind of support he might hammer together. Around this time Tom learns that there is another issue on the director of the Smithsonian’s mind—an International Exposition in Paris, for which Congress doles out committee memberships and sinecures. And wouldn’t you know that the appropriations bill for that particular Exposition is also with Congress at the moment. You can guess which gets funded and which doesn’t.
Tom goes home. “I left Washington at last,” he says, “wiser than I came. I had no plans, I wanted nothing but to get back to the mesa and live a free life and breathe free air, and never, never again to see hundreds of little black-coated men pouring out of white buildings.” On the mesa, at least, he will have the comfort of the serene Indian ruins, which he can pick through and explore at his leisure. But no story has a happy ending: off the train in Tarpin, Tom finds that his friend Roddy has sold all the valuables from the site, to a German who takes the goods out through Mexico City. For a long time Tom can never forgive his friend. It is the symbolic pairing to his Washington betrayal—betrayed by his own government, betrayed for cash. Tom finds that there is no route left for him. He jumps a train, leaves the ruins to themselves.
Mark Chiusano's first book of short stories, Marine Park, will be published by Penguin in 2014.











