Physical Games

Every spring, on the first Monday of April, Congress met to renew the laws of physics. It wasn’t ever controversial. The House and Senate would read through Newton's three laws of motion and Einstein’s theory of relativity with haste and would always stamp them back into place. The President would ceremoniously sign them in the Rose Garden, and by evening the universe was to remain intact. The papers were filed, the champagne would gush forth, and the laws of nature would labor silently for another twelve months.

The public always considered it no more than a formality, similar to changing the batteries on a smoke detector or reciting the pledge. The news barely even covered it anymore. “Routine Reaffirmation of Reality Successful,” the headline would read, tucked under ads for anti-aging cream and tax services.

Inside the Capitol, though, the ritual was treated with due gravity. The Sergeant at Arms carried the gavel diligently. A clerk carried in a glass pendulum that swung slowly with intensity. The fluorescent lights hummed with the rhythm of the pendulum. Each member of Congress was a part of either the Newtonian or Einsteinian caucus. One could differentiate the two by the apple pin the Newtonians wore, and the Einsteinians wore a pin of Einstein’s face—his tongue protruding from his mouth.

Representatives would pour their coffee, laugh and joke with one another, and prepare for the vote that would end no later than lunch. It was a rushed vote, as gravity never got any lighter.

So the mood went for many years after the two scientists’ discoveries—tedious and as steady as the pull of the Earth.

But this year, the voters began choosing sides. They elected a nearly evenly split Congress between the Newtonians and Einsteinians. Thus, the floors of both houses of Congress were electric with disagreements.

Congressman Crane of Vermont insisted that Newton’s laws were outdated and that scientists could discover a better and easier way of making sense of gravity.

“F = ma? This is the best we can do in 2025? For Pete’s sake, people, quantum mechanics is the future!” the old man cried.

Representative Mallory clutched her apple pin like pearls. “Mr. Crane,” she began, “you want to ignore gravity? What do you want? Our oceans flying off the planet? Our children floating to Mars? This is no matter for debate, you imbecile!” Her voice rose, startling the half-asleep clerk.

The Speaker of the House, an exhausted-looking man with his tie hanging off his neck lopsidedly, banged the gavel. “Order,” he exclaimed. “This is our ritual, and I will not have it disgraced by petty insults! Ladies and gentlemen, these laws must pass, or…” His voice trailed off. He need not say what would happen. Everyone knew. The chamber fell silent. The universe seemed to be holding its breath.

Representative Crane shouted out of his seat, propelled with fury. “The apple fell, the theory stood, but we are smarter than a 17th-century wig-wearing halfwit!”

The chamber thundered with applause and heckles at the same time. All members leapt to their feet to make their shrillish voices heard. Representative Mallory fell back into her seat after sufficiently heckling the gray-haired man from Vermont.

The clerk was jerked awake by all the commotion. She began watching the pendulum swing and felt herself swooning back to her drowsy state. The tension of the room nevertheless coiled into electric danger. Time was slowly running out.

By mid-morning, the previous years of ceremonious bipartisanship faded from memory. This was now an all-out political boxing match, and neither side would hold any of their punches. Amendments were proposed to the laws; filibusters were lengthy and dull. Someone proposed tabling the discussion until later, when Congress could learn to get along. This only elicited criticism from his side as a traitor—an insider from across the aisle. The laws themselves waited patiently for approval, nearly forgotten in all of the mounting personal attacks. The atmosphere grew thicker and thicker. Outside the chambers was no different.

Organizers for both the Newtonian and Einsteinian camps began behaving like their leaders. Newtonians threw apples; Einsteinians threw textbooks. They waved signs reading “Support Newton!” and “Embrace Relativity!” One man stood in the middle, turning from side to side with a sign that simply read “Reality is Independent of Politics.”

No one appeared to recognize that the universe was listening and judging the partisan shenanigans. The entire world held its breath as the clock ticked.

By afternoon, the many congressmen and women had drunk a nation’s worth of coffee. Cups littered the floor and desks. Every seat contained a slumping member of Congress, yawning and raising their fists as much as they could. The old folks had missed lunch, and it showed. The Speaker of the House fixed his posture, rubbed his temples, and proclaimed the final vote. His voice echoed off the rotunda and vaulted off the walls.

“First motion,” he continued, “to reaffirm the validity of Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity, for the sake of our world.” The roll call began.

“Aye,” the Einsteinians called one by one. Each Newtonian shouted “Nay” and gave looks that could kill to their opposition. Despite all the efforts of the Einsteinians and their ideological commitments, the motion failed. A pin could be heard in both chambers. The nation looked on as the second vote began.

“Aye,” all of the Newtonians shouted with arrogance. “Nay,” the Einsteinians said resentfully. Another down-the-aisle vote. The floor erupted. The Speaker of the House straightened his papers, stood calmly, and proclaimed, “Both motions have failed. The House is adjourned.” He left the chamber without another word. Gasps uttered around the country. Silent indifference manifested beyond the borders.

Lawmakers grasped their desks and closed their eyes. They began blaming one another for what was coming. “How could you do this?” and “Party over reality? Really?” shouted representatives.

“Hold on to something!” Representative Mallory screamed. The pendulum stopped swinging. The lights hummed. Knuckles went white. Sweat poured. Parents around the nation hugged their children.

Nothing happened. People waited. Still nothing. The minutes passed, and not a thing had happened. “Maybe there’s a delay,” a man at a bar said to his fellow patrons. “Reality takes a minute, I suppose.”

The world remained stubbornly intact. Representative Crane stood. “That’s it? Nothing?”

“We’ve fought over nothing?” a Newtonian asked. Crane shrugged helplessly.

The Speaker re-entered the chamber, his tie fixed, looking up at the wondrous paintings of indifferent philosophers and gods. Nobody spoke for a long time. A few members shuffled out, quiet as mice. They avoided eye contact with reporters who were screaming questions and even some insults.

The Sergeant at Arms collected the gavel and paperwork from the Speaker. He looked into the Speaker’s beady eyes and said quaintly, “See you next April.”

By midnight, the story of the pointless ritual was everywhere. Politicians resigned, parties dissolved, and voters demanded change now that the jig was up. When asked about his next actions for a disillusioned country, the President said only, “I don’t know how to fix this. Our nation is forever scarred.”

Above him, the stars carried on their patient, endless work. They burned, collapsed, and drifted. No approval was needed.