Diary of a Sadman Installment 4: Dialing for Democracy

My Fellow Americans
by Patrick Okell

It started out as an argument with my wife. Isn't that how everything dumb in your life starts out — an argument with your wife or girlfriend or boyfriend or mother? And it was about something stupid.

"They say she isn't a real American," I muttered, dropping the newspaper to the coffee table.

"Who?" asked my wife.

"Theresa Heinz Kerry." I had just finished reading an article about how she was perceived by many voters as being not American enough to be first lady. This annoyed me to no end.

"Who says she's not American?"

"Those people."

"What people?"

"Those people in the middle — In the red states." I didn't really want to talk about it, so I'm not sure why I brought it up.

"Well, she isn't really."

"Yes, she is," I shot back with the venom meant for the Republicans and red state swing voters I had come to so detest.

"Not to those people."

"What are you talking about? She is an immigrant who rose up from, well, less than she has now, to . . . uh, the position she has now in American life. There is no more American story than that."

"She didn't rise up from anywhere — she married the heir to a ketchup fortune."
"Well, that's a very American story. She's as American as Arnold." I'm not sure why this mattered, but it seemed a good point.

"She has houses all over the world, she hardly even lived here." I did not know this. My wife had the upper hand in this debate having attended college with one of Theresa Heinz Kerry's sons and having actually met her once at her house in Georgetown. It's not that she had anything against Theresa Heinz Kerry, or John Kerry. In fact, she is almost as fervently anti-Bush and pro-Kerry as I am. She was just agreeing with the observation that Theresa Heinz Kerry may be a little exotic for the tastes of your average battleground state voter. In this she also had the upper hand. You see, my wife grew up in Ohio.

"So, she raised her sons here and was married to a senator." My argument was on its knees (they usually are when you begin your point with "so"), but for some reason I wouldn't give up. This thing really bothered me.

I knew it was coming. It was inevitable and completely impossible to defend against: "What exactly do you know about being American? You're not even American. You can't vote — because you can't be bothered." It was her political weapon of mass destruction, and it destroyed me every time.

It was true. Although I had lived in the U.S. since I was ten years old, I had never become an American citizen. There were all kinds of reasons, some of them had to do with not wanting to give up on being Canadian even though I had long since forgotten what that meant. But it was also as if something deep down in me didn't want to become an American, like it was a force I had to resist as long as I could.

When my family moved here from Canada it was only going to be for a couple years and then we were going to go straight back. As a kid, my mother used to give us blank maps of Canada to colour in with province names and ask us to sing the national anthem from memory periodically so as to keep up our Canadian-ness. It's a tough anthem seeing how it's so damn boring. There are no bombs bursting in air or rockets' red glare etc., and what does it mean to "stand on guard for thee?" In fact, Canadian-ness is a difficult thing to maintain, because no one really knows what it is. We fell back on politeness and good table manners.

Unlike classic immigrant tales, ours wasn't one of diving into the American melting pot. We stayed clinging to the side as long as we possibly could. We didn't arrive on a steamer at Ellis Island and settle on the Lower East Side, or inner-tube to Florida. We crossed the border at Blaine, Washington in our car, drove another two and a half hours, and finally parked in the woodsy suburbs of Seattle. Eventually, my parents and even my younger brother succumbed. They became Americans — though their fervor was borne of tax and estate planning issues, rather than burning patriotism. I was the last hold out.

I think I could have become an American citizen any time after my eighteenth birthday. But I didn't. I mean, I had a green card so I could work and live here as long as I wanted. I paid taxes, I registered for selective service. I did everything an American does except vote — then again, not voting is fairly American too.

When George W. Bush was elected, at first I was annoyed at not having been able to vote against him — not that it would have mattered — and I thought about becoming a citizen so I could vote against him next time. But as his administration took hold, I became more and more disgusted and wanted as little to do with America as I could while still hypocritically enjoying all of the benefits and privileges of living here.

After 9/11, I felt something different. It wasn't patriotism; I think living in a country most of your life but not being a citizen sort of inoculates you against that. And I still despised the Bush administration. But I felt like I could no longer sit back and watch. The world was going to hell and I needed to do my part as a citizen to try and get it back on the rails. To me this included winning the right to vote. Besides, I was living in this country — it had been my home for the past twenty some years and I loved it, or at least parts of it.

The truth is I never did it. I have no reason for my disenfranchisement other than pure inertia. Another election is upon us and I will still have no say in it. I did actually send away for the citizenship application and even read it. The questions surprised me. They were largely concerned with whether I had ever been a member of the communist or any other "totalitarian party", associated with the "Nazi government of Germany", or been or "procured" a prostitute. While I never have been a communist, a Nazi or a prostitute, I found the questions annoying. I would like to say that's why I never filled out the application, but it would be a lie. The real reason was they wanted to know the exact dates of every trip I have made outside the United States since I immigrated in 1977. Like I said, we moved to Seattle, which is less than three hours from the Canadian border. Every long weekend or holiday we fled north back to family and friends. The trips outside the country were too numerous to count. Add to those the trips I made by myself to Europe, North Africa, Asia, South America. I had done my best to fill up the pages of two Canadian passports in my young adult years. There was simply no way I could fit all of my trips onto the ten measly lines they provided on the form. Sure, they said I could attach additional pages if needed, but Christ, who has time for additional pages? So there it sat on my desk with all the other things I needed to tend to but probably never would.

My wife was right; my opinion didn't count because I had not bothered to become an American. I had the opportunity to influence (at least in theory) a decision that would effect in some way big or small every single person (and many animals and probably some plants) on the planet. I could help decide who would be the next leader of the most powerful nation in the history of the world. We should all have this power — I mean everyone in the world, everyone who will impacted by this person's policies and predilections — not just security moms and NASCAR dads in the American heartland. I had this power within my grasp, but I hadn't bothered to complete the paperwork to get it.

My lethargy disgusted me. Bush was going to win again, Kerry would lose and the whole world would continue on the road to hell. I had to do something. I had to defeat Bush. I had to help Kerry. But how? It was too late to become a citizen in time for the election. Hell, it was almost too late to order a pizza before the election.

Here's what I could do: if I could convince just one person to vote for Kerry who might otherwise vote for Bush, then I would in effect influence the election. It was citizenship by proxy. Finally I would know what it felt like to be a citizen and to have a voice. Maybe I could change the world. Hell, if I liked it, I might even make it official.

The notion seemed brilliantly simple, but I still wasn't sure how to carry it out. Most of my friends and all of my relatives who could vote were voting for Kerry. I had one friend who had earlier promised to let me decide his vote for him. He claimed to have voted for Nader in the last election and said that without my guidance his vote would go Libertarian this time. I didn't believe him. I needed to find someone who might actually vote for Bush and convince them otherwise. I had to find an undecided voter, maybe even one from a swing state.
How could I get in touch with someone like this? I had never actually met an undecided voter. The answer was ridiculously obvious once I actually thought about it. I mean who was in the business of convincing undecided voters to vote for Kerry and against Bush (besides Bush himself)? I needed to volunteer for the Kerry campaign!

Now even though I don't have a lot going on in my life at the moment, the idea of spending a lot of time doing something for free wasn't all that appealing. I mean, it's great and I'm glad people do it. My wife has volunteered every week for years, first as a mentor in a local school and then in a program that teaches physically and mentally disabled children to ride horses. I admit, I don't know exactly why they need to learn to ride horses, but apparently it is very good for them and I applaud it, I really do. The fact that she manages to do it and hold down a stressful full-time job supporting my lazy ass is really admirable — and I admire it. It's just not for me. But that was the beauty of this plan; I didn't need to spend the next month slaving away on some get out the vote effort or stuffing envelopes to send to faithful campaign donors. I needed only to convince one undecided voter to vote for Kerry and then I would be done. Once I managed that, I would feel the power of democracy and I could go home to sleep the satisfied, flag-draped sleep of a patriot. Well, not really, but I might feel less frustrated.

I called the Kerry campaign headquarters in Seattle. A woman answered the phone in a pleasant voice and said, "Victory 2004." At first I thought I had the wrong number. Then she continued, "Kerry Edwards campaign for America," or something to that effect. I asked if they still needed volunteers. They did. Thank God! I asked if I could be one. "Absolutely," she told me. It felt like I was being welcomed into a club I had always longed to join but never knew how. "I just need your name, phone number and legislative district." I managed the first two with no trouble. "Do you know your legislative district?" she asked politely.

"No." How should I know my legislative district? I couldn't vote — I wasn't a citizen. Should I tell her that? Did it matter? Would it somehow come out later that Kerry had an alien working on his campaign and invalidate the election? My mind reeled.

"It's O.K. if you don't know it, we don't really need it," said the woman on the phone.

"O.K., yeah sorry I don't really know." I felt like an impostor already.
"What would you like to do?"

"Uh, well I don't know really, anything except going door to door." Apparently there was a limit to what I was willing to do to save the world from the catastrophe of a second Bush term.

"O.K., great. And how much time do you have?"

Christ, I didn't know. How long could this possibly take? I couldn't really tell her that I had as much time as it would take to convince one undecided voter to vote for Kerry and then I was out of there. "Well, my schedule is pretty flexible to be honest."

"Well, could you give me a ballpark number?" She was really very nice.

"Per week?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I don't know, say ten hours."

"Oh, that's great! I will pass this on and someone will call you soon."

Crap, I already felt over-committed. Why had I said ten hours? It sounded like an awfully long time now.

So, now all I had to do was wait. I'm good at that. I waited four days until I gave up on them ever calling me back. By Friday morning I had resigned myself to voting repeatedly on the MSN.com insta-poll as my only organ of democracy. That was good enough, right? Eventually perception becomes reality, and if I could just left click on "Kerry", clean the cookies out of my browser and then click on "Kerry" again, over and over, eventually the pundits and spinners on TV would talk about Kerry like he was winning, and causing him to be, well, winning. As much sense as it made, though, somehow sitting alone in my pajamas clicking my mouse did not feel satisfying. I gave up in favor of breakfast.

Sure I could call the campaign back, but it was the morning after the first debate, and Kerry had done very, very well. I imagined the Kerry office phone would be ringing off the hook now with people wanting to volunteer all of a sudden. [No, calling them now would be jumping on the bandwagon and there was nothing worse than political bandwagonism. Where were you people four days ago, when the campaign was going nowhere? I would wait.

Half an hour later, as I was carefully arranging my scrambled eggs on my toast, my cell phone rang. It was Joyce from the Kerry campaign. She had a voice every bit as pleasant as the first lady I had talked to. They wanted my help. Can you believe it? They wanted my help! Sure I was willing to help. What day was good for me? Well, let's see, seeing as how I don't really have a job, I thought, pretty much any day is good for me. Joyce told me that they had weekend spots available if that was more convenient. I considered it for a second, but really who wants to give up their weekends?

At this point the reception on my cell phone was beginning to crack as it always does in my apartment. It was getting hard to communicate. I could have told Joyce that I would call her back from my home phone, but somehow it seemed that telling her that would give her the impression [clearly indicate to her that] I was sitting at home in my pajamas watching the Sopranos on DVD. I told her I was nearly out of cell phone range — on a business trip — and apologized in advance if I lost her. "How about Tuesday?" I asked. Tuesday seemed harmless enough. Joyce said that Tuesday would be fine and that I could come anytime between 10:00 and 4:00. Suddenly, on the verge of losing a perfectly good Tuesday to volunteerism, the day took on real value and no longer felt disposable. Despite this pang of volunteer's remorse, I kept my nerve and told Joyce I would be there at 1:00. That would be just fine, she told me and thanked me very much for volunteering. Jesus, I felt better about myself already.

The call center was in a run-down basement suite near the University. Everything — carpet, walls, desks, even the phones — was a pale shade of office drab. Most of the room was occupied by a crew of paid solicitors calling for various charities and other clients, a mix of college kids who needed beer money and run of the mill derelicts. Those of us tending to the shining light of democracy occupied one abbreviated wall of the large room. After being directed to the Kerry volunteers by one of the kids, a girl with blue hair showing serious roots, I met Joyce the pleasant volunteer coordinator I had spoken with on the phone.

Joyce's size was no match for her enthusiasm. Maybe five foot three with blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and tasteful wire-rimmed glasses, she had the air of a well-scrubbed music teacher. She wore a garish Kerry Edwards T-shirt that unfortunately expressed a sentiment I supported with a graphic I could hardly stand to look at. After she had introduced herself and thanked me profusely for coming, Joyce introduced me to her black, bug-eyed pug, Princess, who sat nearly upright on her haunches in the chair beside Joyce's.
We went over the script quickly. It was pretty basic: "Hi my name is [blank] and I'm a volunteer for the Kerry Edwards campaign and Washington State Democrats. I am not calling for money, but to ask for your support in the very important election coming up on Tuesday, November 2nd . . . blah, blah, blah." I was pretty sure I could handle it, and though I was encouraged to stick with the spirit of the scripted message, Joyce told me it was O.K. if I improvised a little bit and made it sound more natural. She then wiped the telephone receiver with some sort of a wet disposable cloth before handing it over to me. Flu season, she explained, and one couldn't be too careful.

That's right, it was flu season. I thanked her and agreed that, no, one couldn't be too careful. This got us into a discussion of the grave shortage of flu vaccine this year. I'm sure neither one of us actually knows anything about vaccine manufacturing, but we were both perfectly content to lay the blame for this looming calamity at the feet the commander in chief.

Joyce wished me luck and left me alone with my list of numbers, my script and my phone. I read the script over twice more to make sure I was sufficiently familiar with it. I didn't want to memorize it because that would sound too scripted. I figured I would ad lib and sort of make it my own. I picked up the decontaminated receiver and began to dial my first number. Before I could enter the seventh digit I hung up. I was terrified. What was I thinking? Calling people I didn't know, and asking them to do something they might not want to do? This was like dating. I decided to read the script through again to make sure I had all the points down.

To be honest, I wasn't actually feeling that well and was beginning to wonder if I should have come at all. You see, I was a little hung-over. A good friend had just come back from Cuba the night before and so I had gone down to the pub with him to hear all about his trip. Indirectly, it appeared Castro had managed to strike a blow to democracy.

Determined to overthrow the tyranny of my Cuban-instigated hangover, I picked up the receiver and dialed again. My hand shook a little as I punched in the last digit on the keypad. My throat tightened listening to the ring on the other end, and I believe I began to sweat a little as I scanned the script reminding myself not to say "blank" where it read "blank" on the page. Not since dating was I as relieved to hear an answering machine. Also reminiscent of those days was my wondering after hanging up if I should have left a message. I checked with Joyce. No, we were not to leave messages on answering machines. O.K., good news, I would not be showing up numerous times like a stalker on that woman's caller I.D.

After a drink of water, I dialed again. Another answering machine, then another and another. My relief was turning into disappointment as I continued to dial. I was beginning to actually want to talk to someone. Finally, on what was probably my fifteenth call I got a live person. I looked down at my script and read from it word for word like a robot. "Hello," the woman on the other end interrupted me about one third of the way through it. I think she thought I was a recording.

"Yes, hello?" I answered.

"Look, thanks for your call. I will be voting for John Kerry on Election Day."

"Oh, O.K." I looked down at my script. There was no response for this.

"Thank you," she said finally into my nervous silence.

"Thank you," I replied with particularly gracious emphasis on the "you."
Hanging up, I felt good that I had at least managed to talk to someone and that they were going to vote for Kerry. My goal, however, had not been achieved. I dialed again. I was about to hang up, having let the phone ring a ridiculously long time, when I heard a click at the other end and a faint, "hello?" According to my list, I should be talking to Ruth Benson, age 81 and a resident of West Seattle.

"Hello, Mrs. Benson, my name is Patrick and I'm a volunteer for the Kerry Edwards campaign and Washington State Democrats . . ." I could hear a TV loudly in the background.

"Yes, hello?"

I started over. "Hello, Mrs. Benson, I'm calling from the Kerry Edwards Campaign asking for your support in the very important election coming up on November second."

"Who?"

"John Kerry."

"Oh." There was a pause on her end that I hoped was recognition. Then she began again; "there is a dog on TV that can open doors. Can you believe it?"
I couldn't.

"Thank you for your time Mrs. Benson, I hope we can count on your support on Election Day."

"Oh, yes, O.K., then goodbye." Mrs. Benson was gone, and if I was going to be honest with myself, I couldn't really count on her to represent me at the polls. Frantically, I punched seven more numbers into the phone. Another live person answered, Chuck Oakover, 39, of Ballard. I wound up my spiel and got entirely through it before Mr. Oakover informed me that he, "would be voting for the independent party."

"Why?" I asked. He hung up.

I needed a break. There were five of us there calling for Kerry, and breaks didn't seem to be a problem. In fact two of the volunteers had been talking to each other pretty much non-stop since I arrived. There being no other form of entertainment, I decided to listen to their conversation. These guys were a new breed to me. They were Democratic nerds. Sure, they might also play Dungeons and Dragons in their spare time, but right now they were geeking out about Democratic politics. George was a rather heavy-set friendly guy in his thirties. He wore a Brazilian soccer jersey and jeans and seemed to be a foreign policy guy. He was explaining to Kevin, the differences between George W. Bush's worldview and policies and his father's. I think it's safe to say George wasn't exactly breaking any new ground here. Kevin was our token representative from the head office downtown. He looked to be the youngest of all of us, being probably in his twenties, and, unlike the rest of us, he was dressed business casual — something Al Gore might have worn late on the campaign trail last time around. I don't know what his title was or whether he was actually being paid, but he'd apparently done a lot of work for this and other Democratic causes. He was regaling George with tales of his work organizing an event to do with the opening of the Clinton library or something. Not only had spoken to Chelsea Clinton on the telephone several times concerning items related to the event, but he actually met her. He said that she was really cool. I was glad to hear it — I had worried about her. Needless to say, George was very impressed. Listening to him for a while, I wondered if Kevin was the type of guy who eventually gets an undersecretary or assistant position or something. I sort of hoped not.

Kevin was interrupted by one of the paid crew who actually worked there in the space. He was a young kid in jeans and an '80's rock T-shirt and had come over from across the room to see if he could stay after his shift and make some calls for Kerry in order take care of a community service hours requirement. Kevin thought it would be fine but said that he should call the head office to check it out for sure. I had serious doubts about whether calling for a campaign would or should qualify as community service hours, but I kept them to myself. Another guy, further along, hunched over his phone had curly salt and pepper long hair and a beard. He wore a fanny pack, and, under that, a dress. I shit you not — no it wasn't one of those man kilts — it was a full on summer dress with flowers on it. Of course since it was winter he had a gray sweater on underneath. It was a wonder they hadn't sent him out door to door in the suburbs.

Starting to feel bored and guilty, I turned back to my phone and dialed again. A few answering machines later, I heard a live woman's soft voice on the other end. "Hello?"

"Hi my name is Patrick, and I'm a volunteer with the Kerry campaign . . ." I continued, actually substituting some of my own words for those on the script and generally doing what I considered to be a great job. Before I could finish though, I was interrupted.

" Yeah, look — that's fine — good, but I'm in the middle of a nap right now."
Jesus Christ lady, I'm in the middle of a national nightmare! Instead of saying that, I apologized for disturbing her and hung up. No matter, I would not be deterred by the refusal of one voter to wake up and see what was going on around her. I dialed again furiously.

My next call/target was Yolanda Robinson. The ringing stopped and I heard some fumbling with the receiver along with a good deal of background noise. I was afraid I might have awoken another slumbering American. Finally there was a noncommittal "hello?"

"Hello, is Yolanda Robinson in please?"

"This is Yolanda."

"Hi, Yolanda, my name is Patrick and I'm a volunteer with the Kerry campaign calling to remind you of the very important election coming up on November second — "

"Oh, I know," Yolanda cut me off, her voice suddenly filled with an enthusiasm I had come to believe could not be conveyed along telephone lines. "I know this is important."

"Good, I'm glad to hear that. I want to remind you that your absentee ballot is in the mail and to be sure to fill it out and send it in by Election Day."
"Oh, I plan to. I thank you for the reminder, though."

"You're welcome," now was my chance to pounce, "I hope that we can count on your vote for John Kerry on Election Day."

"Hmm." Yolanda suddenly seemed to be chewing something both figuratively and literally. Finally, she continued, "That's a tough one — I don't know. Why don't you call me back tomorrow." My heart raced. Yolanda was it, an undecided voter! But before I could utter a word the blare of the television and the chewing sound in my ear was cut off by her hanging up. I slumped in my chair. I had an undecided voter on the line and I lost her! Call her back tomorrow! What did she think, I had nothing better to do with my time than calling her back?

I jotted down her number on a scrap of paper and shoved it in my pocket. I had no idea if I would have the same list tomorrow or what exactly happened to the lists after I was done and had indicated responses beside their names, and I didn't really care. I would call Yolanda back tomorrow. So far, she was my only hope.

It turned out it was time for the evening shift of paid solicitors to come in and use the phones, so our time there was over. George and Kevin were still talking a few chairs down from me, only now they were talking about classic West Wing episodes. In a little over three hours I had made 73 phone calls, actually talked to 8 people and recruited 1 to volunteer doing exactly what I was doing. Hardly a victory for democracy, and unfortunately I had not yet convinced anyone to vote my way. It didn't matter, because as George Bush had said repeatedly in the first debate, democracy is "hard work," and I would be back for at least two hours tomorrow.

As luck and a complete lack of organization would have it, the space was unavailable when I showed up the following day. Joyce was there with princess, to tell me the news and was extremely apologetic. She said that she was embarrassed at how poorly organized things were and that this type of thing just shouldn't happen, but added that her daughter, who was a "born-again fundamentalist Christian working for the Bush campaign," had told her that things were extremely disorganized over there as well. This, she explained, made her feel better. I wasn't sure how it made me feel, but I accepted her apology and told her not to worry about it — it wasn't her fault.

Before I left, Joyce gave me a tip about another phone bank taking place that evening at the Machinists' Union Hall in south Seattle near Boeing Field. I thought about it for a second, evening calls, fewer answering machines, more employed people answering their telephones during dinner. It sounded like it might yield better results, plus the idea of going to a union hall appealed to me in a romantic, populist politics way. And, most importantly, I had to call Yolanda back today. Sure I guess I could call her from home, but doing it outside an officially sanctioned Democratic phone bank seemed to me be crossing a creepy line. Instead of getting out the vote, I would be stalking it. I got directions to the union hall.

It turned out the Democrats' organization wasn't all that was lacking — their directions sucked too. To be fair the union hall was ridiculously hard to find. At least it was for someone like me who has never even been close to being in a union. The setting was good, though. Crisscrossing in a grid pattern deep into industrial Seattle as I looked for the place, I felt more and more like an old time Democrat with each passing warehouse and loading dock. Flashes of welding and the soft glow of foundries lit the darkness through open shop doors, and a feeling of excited anticipation began to glow within me knowing I was going to do important work here in the place where real work was done far from the downtown warrens of the paper pushers.

After caving in and asking directions from a Boeing security guard, I crossed a bridge I never knew existed over the Duwamish River and an incongruous mix of small factories and mothballed yachts on its banks — a sort of industrial riviera. The Machinists' Hall was just down the road from a small enclave of Mexican restaurants and groceries and a bar called "the County Line," which, as far as I knew, was nowhere near any county line.

I turned into the parking lot and into the middle of what looked very much like a football game tailgate party. Rather large men, many with mustaches and the occasional mullet, sat drinking beer in folding lawn furniture that looked like it might not be up to the task in front of an encampment of recreational vehicles. I wondered if there was a strike going on that I didn't know about. Their eyes seemed to focus on me in a collective semi-interested stare as I got out of my car and walked toward the entrance. Did I look like, a scab, management, college boy? The truth is I think there was just nothing else to look at in the parking lot.

Inside, the first floor was divided into several gymnasium-size rooms. In one I could see about fifty people sitting at four or five long tables concentrating silently on something in front of them. In another the Red Sox — Yankees game was projected onto a huge screen pulled down from the ceiling. In the last room I found a group of about thirty women sitting in front of telephone strung out along a long counter that wrapped around the outside of the room. At a giant conference table in the middle sat an attractive woman with dirty blond hair in a stylishly disheveled, choppy cut wearing the kind of black, plastic-rimmed old lady glasses that only attractive young women can wear. She seemed to consider me for a long, cold moment before either of us spoke. Finally, I said, "Hi, I'm Patrick."

"You're here for the Women for Kerry phone bank?" It was amazing just how quickly she was able to make me feel like a complete idiot.

"Well, no — I was, um, told . . . I'm just here for Kerry."

She seemed a bit annoyed that I wasn't a woman, and for the first time in my life so was I. "Do you have a cell phone?"

"Yes."

"Can you use it? All our phones are being used."

I didn't relish the thought of doing an already nearly impossible task with the added obstacle of crappy cell phone reception, so I was relieved when I pulled the phone out of my pocket and saw that I had no service. This, and the County Line tavern down the street made me wonder exactly where the hell I was. The young woman just looked more annoyed. As luck would have it, at that moment one of the Women for Kerry had to leave to either go home and tend to her family or get a double bourbon at the County Line. There was now a phone for me.

The young woman handed me a script and a list. "You probably don't want to say you're with Women for Kerry." I agreed, I didn't. "We are only calling the women on the list, but I guess you can call everyone." I took my seat in front of the vacant phone. Tonight's calls were going to voters who had elected to receive absentee ballots. In addition to asking for their support for the Kerry Edwards ticket, we were to remind them of the proper procedure for filling out their ballots, including the very important, but apparently frequently overlooked step of signing the outside of the envelope. This was all fine, but I had my own mission — I had to call Yolanda.

When I was pretty sure no one was watching, I pulled Yolanda's number out of my pocket and dialed. The ring at the other end of the line sounded strangely distant, and I sat there listening to it like a faint heartbeat for what seemed like forever. Finally, I had to concede that there was no one home at Yolanda's. This was not good.

Starting again from scratch, I turned to my new list. For my first fifteen or so calls, I appeared to have struck a vein of ardent Kerry supporters. They were all very polite and assured me that they would be voting Democrat, and as I tried to remind them how to fill out their ballots correctly it became clear that they knew the procedure better than I did. After all, why shouldn't they? I had never voted. This was all great fun and the mutual love expressed made the calls something close to political phone sex, but I was getting no closer to my real objective.

It was then that I dialed the number for Judith Chesterwick. "Hello?" said the fluttery voice of an elderly woman.

"Hello, is Judith Chesterwick in please?"

"Who?"

"Judith Chesterwick. I'm calling for Mrs. Judith Chesterwick."

"There is no such person resident here.

"Oh, I'm sorry." I read the phone number off my list to her and asked if I had dialed that number.

"Yes, that's the number, but there is no Judith Chesterwick resident here."

"Oh, I see. I'm sorry —"

"I don't know why you would think there was a Judith Chesterwick residing here." She seemed determined to work "reside" into all its forms.

"We must have the wrong number on our list, ma'am."

"I don't know why you would have this number on your list for Judith Chesterwick. I've been at this residence for 48 years and there has never been a Judith Chesterwick here. What kind of list do you have?"

"It's list of registered absentee voters."

"Oh, I see. There used to be some Chesterwicks over in Bellevue. That was years ago, though, maybe fifty years ago. I don't know if they're still there . . ." Jesus Christ, lady. Suddenly I wanted to shoot myself. "But they never lived here, that's for sure."

"I see, I'm really sorry to bother you ma'am. Are you a registered voter by chance?" I decided to try to salvage the call.

"Yes."

"Good, I'm a volunteer with the Kerry campaign and the Washington State Democrats."

"Oh, is that right?"

"Yes, ma'am, and we're calling tonight to urge people to get out and vote in this very important election and also to ask for your support for John Kerry for president."

"Yes?"

"Can we count on your vote for John Kerry on November second?" I was truly at the top of my game now, running like a midway barker.

"Well," there was an ominous pause, "I don't know."

"You're not sure, ma'am?" This was it, my second crack at an undecided voter! I couldn't screw it up.

"I don't know."

"O.K., I understand, it's a big decision. Is there any particular issue that is causing you to have trouble making up your mind? Do you have concerns or questions about Kerry's position on the war in Iraq, his plan to combat terrorism and protect our nation or make healthcare coverage and prescription drugs more affordable?" Hell, I could do this — I'd been reading the papers and watching campaign ads and TV "news" shows for months. I was practically a pundit or at least a wonk. "I'd be happy to talk with you about any of these issues, and see if I can help you with your decision." This was everything I had.
But again came, "I don't know."

"Well, I understand. It's a difficult . . ." there was a click on the other end as she hung up on me, and I continued talking for a second or two, my words coming out in that descending tone like an uncoiled spring that is unavoidable when speaking into a dead phone. That was it. She had plenty of time to talk about the goddamned Chesterwicks of Bellevue, but when I tried to steer the conversation toward the most important political decision in a generation it was suddenly as if Walker Texas Ranger was on and she had to go!

I put the receiver down slowly like a pistol that had accidentally gone off. The two women on either side of me were staring at me receivers in hands. It was true, I'd gone a little bit off script. I shrugged and explained, "she doesn't know." Neither of them said anything, but just went back to their lists.

The rest of my calls were completely uneventful — answering machines and party faithful — and I was glad when 9:00 finally rolled around and it was deemed too late to continue calling. I assured the coordinator, who, now that I had actually stuck it out to the end of the evening, was considerably warmer, that I would be back the next night, but I didn't mean it. What was the point?
My windshield wipers beat like a metronome on the drive home as the news announcer spoke of "statistical dead heats" and "margins of error" in "battleground states."

When I got home my wife was home from work and from her volunteer job and heating some leftover soup on the stove. "So how did it go tonight?"

"I quit."

"Why?"

"It doesn't matter. No matter how many people I call, it just doesn't seem to make a difference. I can't make anyone change their mind."

She looked down stirring the soup and then looked back up at me. "Well, what exactly did you expect?" she said, not at all unkindly, but still not exactly salve for my political wounds.

"I thought I would have an impact, make a change, feel some sort of empowerment or something . . ."

"Hmm. Maybe you did."

"I don't think so."

"That's just the way it goes sometimes." She carried a steaming bowl of soup out of the kitchen. I stood in front of the stove idly stirring what remained in the pot.

Maybe she was right. Maybe this was how it felt to be an American in the twenty-first century. Perhaps the truest act of citizenship does feel like banging your head against a wall. My frustration might be something like that felt by the 50,999,897 citizens who voted for Al Gore in 2000 — over half a million more than voted for the man who assumed the presidency — or those millions who desperately wanted Kerry to win this time around (more than had ever wanted a loser before), but deep down knew that he wouldn't. This, not pulling yourself up by your bootstraps and marrying a ketchup mogul, might very well be the quintessential American experience.

Suddenly, I felt a part of something I had never been a part of before. And I decided that, like every good citizen of this great country who trudged to the polls each year whether or not it looked like their cause would ultimately prevail — patriotic Americans who let their voices be heard even when they were simply shouting into the wind — I, like them, would not give up. I would go back. I would keep calling. I would dial until my fingers bled and they had to pry the receiver out of my cold, dead hands! And, eventually I would fill out my citizenship application.

As you read this, we know that ultimately my phone calls made no difference in the course of world events, but the impact on me has been clear. I want you to know that, despite being unable to stop the tide of red that stained the electoral map like a wound, my citizenship application is no longer languishing under the pile of unread magazines. It has migrated to the just as neglected but infinitely more urgent stack of unpaid bills, arranged neatly on the corner of my desk like a squadron of F-16's poised to take off from a carrier deck. And, my fellow Americans, make no mistake, someday soon that envelope is going to fly.