The Dishwasher’s Congressman
Raúl Grijalva exits the stage—leaving behind a trail of artworks, news tips, and a rare kindness that stretched from Tune Inn to Congress.
WASHINGTON—Raúl Grijalva’s gone, and the world’s a smaller, meaner place without him. I met him back when I was scrubbing plates at the Tune Inn, that Capitol Hill dive where lawmakers drowned their votes in bourbon. Dozens stumbled through—senators, congressmen, the whole suited circus—but Grijalva stood apart.
At the Tune, they called Raúl “the mayor”, not because he ran the joint, but because he owned it’s street-facing patio in a way no other lawmaker has before or since. While some of the more polished, elected phonies barked for drinks, Raúl learned my name. Mine, the busboy’s, the dishwasher’s—every grease-stained soul in the back. He’d bum us cigarettes, Marlboro Reds, with fingers gritty as ours, and sometimes slide a fiver across the bar with a gruff, “Get yourself a beer, Pablo.” Grijalva was the only congressman who ever really saw us.
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April 23, 2010, sticks with me. Grijalva hit the cable news circus in the late afternoon, live from the Cannon Rotunda, calling for a boycott of Arizona—his own damn state, the 7th district he bled for. He was pissed about S.B. 1070, that anti-migrant turd of a bill from Jan Brewer’s embarrassing reign as governor and Raúl let the country know it through the camera lens, then walked back to the Tune Inn for a shot and a beer.
That particular night, I was slinging drinks behind the bar next door at the Hawk ‘n’ Dove, and every Latino on the line—busboys, dishwasher, window chef—caught him on TV. We cheered like it was a prizefight. He was ours, a rare pinche wey in Congress swinging for migrants while the gringo suits just punched down. Clips from Grijalva’s interview were replayed across English and Spanish TV news broadcasts throughout the evening and into the night.
Later, as he shuffled down Pennsylvania Ave’s red brick sidewalk toward a cab, I ran up. “Hey, Congressman!” I hollered. He jumped, damn near tripping, dread all over his face—like I was some thug come to collect. “Uh, I just wanna thank you,” I said, sheepish. “For standing up for immigrants. We saw you next door, man. Fucking great job.” He blinked, dazed. “You really think so?” he mumbled. “Yeah!” I fired back. “It was awesome. What’s wrong with you?” He didn’t say. Just climbed into the cab with his deputy chief—a tiny, loyal shadow—and rolled off into the night.
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Next day, Kasie Hunt’s POLITICO piece explained it. While Raúl was on air, his Arizona offices were taking hits—threats, harassment, violence. He’d been on the phone with cops all night, praying his staff and family were safe. No wonder he looked like a ghost. He was hauling a whole state on his back, and half of it wanted him dead.
For years after, I’d catch him now and then—at the Tune Inn or some Hispanic Caucus gig. I’d say hi, bum a smoke for old times, maybe buy him a Budweiser if he’d let me. Usually he wouldn’t, so I’d send one over anyway—a nod to the only congressman who’d bothered with my name. I climbed the Beltway ladder over the next decade, bouncing through jobs in politics and media, but he stayed that guy.
Then, in 2021, with Covid choking everything, I landed my dream gig: Hill reporter in the Capitol press corps. First day in the Speaker’s Lobby—thick rugs, painted plaster, oily portraits of old speakers glaring down—he squinted at me. “Pedro, right?” “Pablo,” I corrected, totally relieved he remembered me, at all. “Oh, that’s right,” he laughed, and we were back.
For three years, we’d shoot the shit in that fancy hall, slinging backcountry Spanglish like a secret handshake—“pinche” this, “pendejada” that, and a whispered “motherfucker” when it fit … half out of respect for the place, half knowing it ruffled the suits. I was with Latino Rebels then, a scrappy site he knew well as chairman of the Natural Resources Committee—Puerto Rico was our shared beat. He’d hook me up with anything: “Come outside,” he’d say, waving me past the “Members Only” sign to that stone balcony where press didn’t belong. First lawmaker to know me as a dishwasher, now my first big source. Life’s a loop.
Raúl’s gone now—cancer snuffed him out Thursday, March 13, 2025, at 77, after twelve bruising terms in the House. He enjoyed cold beer, Marlboro Reds and underdogs. The small stuff was his gospel: a committee trick to shove a markup through, a tweak to the Puerto Rico Status Act, a cub reporter’s first break, a dishwasher’s name at Tune Inn. That was Raúl Grijalva—voice of migrants, workers, Tribes, Latinos, a scrapper with a heart for the long shots. The Tune Inn’s quieter now, the Speaker’s Lobby’s got a chill, but what lingers are us strays he lifted up without a fuss—and those wild ink sketches he scratched out on long flights and droning hearings, little masterpieces of a restless soul—
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PABLO ON SIGNAL
