Why I Oughtta

Last night I did some political volunteering.

I got a call during the work day from a certain progressive organization (the one you probably delete a lot of e-mails from — I think I may have signed a disclosure sheet saying I wouldn't talk about them). They were looking for volunteers to come help out at their Farragut Square office. I couldn't think of a good reason to say no, so I set up an appointment to come in.

I wasn't sure what to expect when I walked in. It was in a fancy office building — or at least looked fancy from the outside. Inside, it was full of fresh paint on brittle drywall and industrial carpet. It reminded me of my Hebrew school classroom. I went into the office and it was mostly empty, save three women who were making calls.

I was hoping that there would be a scruffy gay man in his late twenties with floppy hair. A whip-smart, firebrand intellectual — wearing his uniform of a worn sweater with a crisp collared shirt poking out underneath — who I would have a casual flirtation with all evening. We'd exchange glances until it was quitting time, at which point: babies.

No such luck. Since I got there early, I was in charge of letting people into the elevator and sending them to the 6th floor. Here's who I let in, in order:

– Ed. Late forties, I'm guessing, but looked a little older. He came in wearing overalls, a windbreaker and a bumper sticker on his belly reading “Defeat the Republicans.” Long, tangled, thin hair pulled back into a hair tie. Halfway through the volunteer session, he offered everyone strawberries.
– Jeff. Handsome, poised man in his fifties. Wedding ring. Dressed head-to-toe in Eddie Bauer or some sort of sporty outdoor store. I'm guessing he's the kind of guy who goes to look at Civil War battlefields on the weekend now that the kids are in college.
– Jenny. Substitute teacher-looking woman with a mom haircut.

When we all regroup in the meeting room, it's explained that we'll be making calls to Florida's 9th congressional district. I guess I knew this all along, but when the coordinator (a twentysomething woman in a green turtleneck) mentions that we'll be on the phone I instantly regret signing up. The thing I hate most in the world (not counting the music of Dave Matthews and smoked salmon) is asking people for money. Luckily, we weren't asking people for money, only time (for volunteering). For some reason, this is better to me.

We also introduced ourselves to the group by saying our name, where we're from originally, and what we hate the most about the current administration. I said “the way they manipulate hatred of gay people.” Ed said “everything.” Jeff said “their arrogance.” Jenny said their environmental policy/global warming stance.

The coordinator gives us our scripts and tells us how to recruit volunteers. What we'll be doing is asking people in the hotly contested district to make calls to people who might vote in presidential elections, but not mid-term elections. She gives us tips and pointers and tells us to smile when we're on the phone. The people we're calling are members of the organization, so it's not like we're calling at random.

I go through the first two pages of phone numbers and no one's home. Or the number's disconnected. At first, I'm overjoyed. I'd love to not get ahold of anyone and legitimately be able to upturn my hands and shrug my shoulders, saying I gave it the old college try, but — gosh darn it — no one was home. After a while, however, it all gets really effing old. In fact, I get into a sort of trance of phone calls and unanswered rings. It hits me that if I actually got somebody to pick up, I'd be completely unprepared.

Finally, I get a hit. The man answers my questions with trepidation at first, because he's not sure what I'm all about, but when he realizes I'm with a partisan organization he launches into a tirade.

“Who you're talking to is a free-thinking republican. If it were up to me, I would throw all the sons of bitches out. I wouldn't support a republican and I wouldn't support a democrat.”

So I gave up on that one. Even marked him a future “Do not call.”

Yikes.

More calls. I get a few 'no's. Then I get a woman who is enthusiastic about hearing from us, but nervous about volunteering. I sign her up for the more minimal volunteering option.

More calling. More unanswered rings.

Then I get Bob. When I begin to chat with Bob, I realize that he is really chatty. He's a grandfatherly sort. Super nice and very excited to talk with a progressive organization.

I ask if he wants to help out and he says “sure.” He'd even be willing to do the more active option (you can either make an hour's worth of calls to start or commit to what amounts to 9 hours worth of calling). Then he drops the bomb.

“I'm an engineer and I lost my job, so I've been sitting around the house a lot.”

I say that hopefully with a regime change the economy will get better.

“Yes. I remember in 2000, my son shook Al Gore's hand and I just thought 'this is amazing.' This man is going to be president of the United States.”

I say that it's a shame things didn't work out that year.

“Yeah. My wife died about a year ago, so I don't have a lot to do.”

I'm stunned. I sputter for a minute before saying something along the lines of it being good to stay busy and proactive.

I finalize the arrangements for his volunteering and he keeps talking to me. Meanwhile the coordinator is looking at me from behind because we're having our mid-session check-in and it's time to get off the phone.

I'm super-depressed. Eventually I tell him that I have to make more phone calls and we say goodbye.

At the end of the night I had signed up three people total (two nine-hour people and one one-hour) and that felt good. That was, in fact, the goal that we had been given. I knew they were going to high-pressure me into signing up for another session and I visibly irked the coordinator when I filled out “TBD” as my next appointment to volunteer. I don't know if I will. Maybe if I get a sudden urge — it was pretty hellish.