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It was fifteen minutes until I made my first contact. A college girl, coming out of a store with two shopping bags on one arm and a girlfriend on the other. I saw my reflection in her sunglasses as I gave her the rap, a bit halting but more or less complete.
We only have 69 days left until the election, and right now is a critical time.
She nodded in the right places and shook her head in the right places, but I choked on the Ask –
We’re asking for a, uh, contribution of a… hundred dollars…
She flinched and her friend rolled her eyes. I balked –
Or, you know, whatever you can give…
She took out her parents’ credit card and signed the credit card form – twenty bucks. “I’ve just got to do something,” she said to her friend, who smiled at her like one would at a precocious child. She signed her name on the card form with a little loop at the end of her signature. The girls walked off to keep shopping.
I was relieved to have notched up some marks almost right off the bat, but looking back I know that I could have banked on that girl. If I’d known what I was doing, I could have gotten a hundred easy.
The other canvasser came up to me, excited, asking how much I made. Twenty dollars wasn’t much to be excited about, but it would be another hour before she would even get that. She was already making a little grimace with every person that passed by without response. I started checking myself against the mistakes she was making.
* * *
Mike switched in for me, and I went over to Alan’s side of the street. Alan, who told me he’d been doing this job ‘forever,’ was pretty blatantly feigning his enthusiasm at this point. He wasn’t even saying the standard call, choosing to mix it up for his own personal amusement.
Sir, you look like you could use a new president!
Some people laughed, but few were stopping. To the ones who shot back angry retorts at him, he rolled his eyes and would say, “I take it back, you deserve what you get!” Within a half an hour, with one person having stopped and given him a dollar, he was grumbling about how ‘they’ keep sending him to ‘dumpy places.’
I was getting the call out fine now, although the rhythm was surprisingly difficult to get down. This wasn’t like in the office, when Josh had me walk right toward him and stop two feet away; these people were moving, they had somewhere to go, and they did not mean to have any conversations en route. A person walking at full speed down the street covers ten feet in about three seconds, about twice the amount of time it takes to say
Hi, do you want to help beat George Bush?
without your words blending together and just becoming mangled white street noise. That leaves a second and a half for someone to react, which is more than enough for a person to forego the social graces entirely and simply pretend that no one had addressed them in the first place. It was like standing in a stream and tried to catch a fish with your hands.
Three guys came walking by and I played to my strengths among this crowd –
Hey boys, fine day today, fine enough to make you want to help beat George Bush, right?
“Not today, buddy!” They were passing me, laughing. I turned around, walking with them a little bit.
If not now, when?
Oh, I set myself up for that one – that response was a knee-jerk reflex, and it would take me forever to train myself not to say it, because the answer inevitably was:
“On November 2nd!”
The guys were laughing loud now, and – turned around to face them – I watched them go. Others were walking past them toward me, so I called again –
Hi, do you want to help elect John Kerry today?
“Hey, come on now!” It was Alan. I turned back around and shrugged – what?
“If you’re taking those people, who am I supposed to take?”
He shook his head in frustration – not only had he been stuck with a dumpy place, he also had a stupid novice here to screw things up for him. I apologized, but he wasted no time putting on a mighty fake smile and telling someone who walked to the right of me that they looked like they could use a new president.
When the person passed by without acknowledging that, yes, they could in fact use a new president, Alan looked back at me as if his reprimand hadn’t been interrupted. “And another thing, don’t trail people. It makes them mad, for one, and other people get nervous seeing you dart all over the place. Anyway you’re never gonna make anything that way.”
Chastened, I stayed put for the next half hour. Many of the people who came my way, I noticed, were coming from the subway entrance down the block. A few people stopped to talk to me – once or twice I even got through the whole rap. It wasn’t successful, though – I’d finish the rap, slightly out of breath, and they would demur, as politely and sympathetically as possible. I got some tens, a couple of singles from people who wouldn’t even wait for me to finish the rap – they just went right for their wallets, hardly even coming to a stop; someone asked if I had change for a twenty, and while on any other day afterward I would have smoothly shamed them into giving that and more, right then I just shook my head and said stupidly, ‘sorry.’ I took note of each name and dollar amount on a black and white ‘tick sheet’ at the bottom of the papers on my clipboard.
My feet were starting to ache after just a few hours, and I shifted on them in my little square of sidewalk – one step forward, past the phone booth, to move forward into the call; one step backward, into the view of the men’s clothing store window, to give me an extra half-second to stay with someone trying to pass.
The store manager came outside. “Listen, you guys, I sympathize wit what you’re doing, but you’re doing it in front of my store like two days a week. Can you just kindly stay away from the entranceway?” Alan shrugged. We moved.
Five minutes later, I looked up and Alan was gone. Fine with me – I turned sideways and tried to pivot between both streams of traffic. The movement loosened me up, working both sides, and the next person that stopped listened all the way through the rap, even though she was obviously trying to get back to work. I hit all the rap’s points and she took the clipboard right when I handed it to her, signed the board and then signed over a check for fifty bucks. She thanked me ‘for doing this,’ and I thanked her for giving such support.
* * *
An elderly black woman pushing a stroller, swarmed by four kids orbiting around her and hanging from the stroller, was going slow enough that we had half a conversation before she even pulled the caravan to a halt next to me.
Hi m’am, do you want to help beat George Bush today?
“Oh you know I do! Got to get him out.”
That’s great! My name is Greg, I’m with the Democratic National Committee. We’re working to elect John Kerry and other Democrats to office this November.
“Well so am I, you know it! I’m helping out with a neighborhood group, we’re going round to talk to people, registering voters, all that stuff.”
“That’s great!” I said. “What is the response like?”
“Oh, people are really into it. Unbelievable. I’ve never seen it like this, the whole neighborhood is involved.” I wanted to hear more about it, but her kids were getting frantic and I thought they would soon steal her attention.
Well, m’am, it’s really great that you’re involved. We need people like you now more than ever, and we have to start looking ahead – there’s only 69 days left – to make sure that we devote all the resources we can to where it really counts – the swing states.
I was piecing together from all over the rap, not bothering to go through the motions. I also was not going to ask this grandmother with five children and a wobbly stroller for a hundred bucks.
We need all the support you’re able to give.
She could give me ten dollars. I notched it on my tick sheet.
* * *
For another hour, professional people in twos and threes, with sharp clothes and quick gaits, flooded the streets on their lunch hours. Most of them passed me by – I was reluctant to interrupt their conversations, to take part of their lunch hour away from them.
By one o’clock, I’d asked several hundreds of people if they wanted to help beat George Bush.
Half of them hadn’t even looked at me. I kept checking my tick sheet – all this hustle, and not even a hundred dollars total. I patted the cash in my pocket, every ten minutes or so.
Mike came over to see how we were doing – the girl was working on sixty bucks. I was not much better, but neither was Mike it turned out. “Some days this is just how it is,” he told us.
“Don’t worry about it, go get some lunch.”
I walked inside the coffee shop ten yards away. The counter girl nodded at the DNC logo on my shirt and handed me a sandwich for free – “keep it up out there,” she told me. The sandwich suddenly was definitely the best donation I’d gotten all day. The girl came in shortly behind me (she didn’t get a free sandwich, I noticed) and plopped down at the table next to me.
“I can’t figure out where they get those numbers they told us. $300-500 a week,” she said, “at this rate I won’t even get that much money.” She certainly wouldn’t, in fact if she didn’t raise over quota in the next two days, I knew she wouldn’t be hired on at all. Even then, just raising quota would not get her near that pay scale boasted in the Craigslist ads. I could already tell that anyone making $500 a week was doing some serious hustle.
* * *
I read the Village Voice while scarfing down the sandwich. It was already telling everyone how to get ready for the Republican National Convention; one section was a breakdown of the protests planned, another was a list of the hottest parties. A sidebar explained how tear gas works and what to do if it gets in your eyes.
* * *
I walked out of the coffeeshop feeling fed and fresh, and the aching in my feet had momentarily let up.
Hi, do you want to help beat George Bush?
I said it before I’d even reach the center of the sidewalk. The person passed. I pivoted and called again –
Hi, do you want to help elect John Kerry?
And again, and again. It was like I was having a conversation with the whole street; like I was at a party, offering to fetch people drinks. I got in the rhythm, amusing myself even more with each refrain like it was a running gag, and then just a minute later I saw a kid – just a kid – wearing a military uniform walking toward me. Punchline, I thought.
Hi, do you want to help beat George Bush?
He stopped right in front of me, all ears. I was so surprised I almost lost the rap. But skipping just half a beat I got back on track, and when I got to the Ask I was full speed and not about to flinch –
The best way you can contribute is with a hundred dollars, check or credit card. We need to make sure that we get as many resources as possible to where it matters most – the swing states.
He nodded and pulled out a credit card without hesitation – a military card, air force – and signed the form for $100. He walked away; I don’t remember him saying a word the whole time.
* * *
That was my only big score for the rest of the day. By 4 o’clock, I’d made $225. And I was exhausted. But the day was not even close to finished.
We only have 69 days left until the election, and right now is a critical time.
She nodded in the right places and shook her head in the right places, but I choked on the Ask –
We’re asking for a, uh, contribution of a… hundred dollars…
She flinched and her friend rolled her eyes. I balked –
Or, you know, whatever you can give…
She took out her parents’ credit card and signed the credit card form – twenty bucks. “I’ve just got to do something,” she said to her friend, who smiled at her like one would at a precocious child. She signed her name on the card form with a little loop at the end of her signature. The girls walked off to keep shopping.
I was relieved to have notched up some marks almost right off the bat, but looking back I know that I could have banked on that girl. If I’d known what I was doing, I could have gotten a hundred easy.
The other canvasser came up to me, excited, asking how much I made. Twenty dollars wasn’t much to be excited about, but it would be another hour before she would even get that. She was already making a little grimace with every person that passed by without response. I started checking myself against the mistakes she was making.
* * *
Mike switched in for me, and I went over to Alan’s side of the street. Alan, who told me he’d been doing this job ‘forever,’ was pretty blatantly feigning his enthusiasm at this point. He wasn’t even saying the standard call, choosing to mix it up for his own personal amusement.
Sir, you look like you could use a new president!
Some people laughed, but few were stopping. To the ones who shot back angry retorts at him, he rolled his eyes and would say, “I take it back, you deserve what you get!” Within a half an hour, with one person having stopped and given him a dollar, he was grumbling about how ‘they’ keep sending him to ‘dumpy places.’
I was getting the call out fine now, although the rhythm was surprisingly difficult to get down. This wasn’t like in the office, when Josh had me walk right toward him and stop two feet away; these people were moving, they had somewhere to go, and they did not mean to have any conversations en route. A person walking at full speed down the street covers ten feet in about three seconds, about twice the amount of time it takes to say
Hi, do you want to help beat George Bush?
without your words blending together and just becoming mangled white street noise. That leaves a second and a half for someone to react, which is more than enough for a person to forego the social graces entirely and simply pretend that no one had addressed them in the first place. It was like standing in a stream and tried to catch a fish with your hands.
Three guys came walking by and I played to my strengths among this crowd –
Hey boys, fine day today, fine enough to make you want to help beat George Bush, right?
“Not today, buddy!” They were passing me, laughing. I turned around, walking with them a little bit.
If not now, when?
Oh, I set myself up for that one – that response was a knee-jerk reflex, and it would take me forever to train myself not to say it, because the answer inevitably was:
“On November 2nd!”
The guys were laughing loud now, and – turned around to face them – I watched them go. Others were walking past them toward me, so I called again –
Hi, do you want to help elect John Kerry today?
“Hey, come on now!” It was Alan. I turned back around and shrugged – what?
“If you’re taking those people, who am I supposed to take?”
He shook his head in frustration – not only had he been stuck with a dumpy place, he also had a stupid novice here to screw things up for him. I apologized, but he wasted no time putting on a mighty fake smile and telling someone who walked to the right of me that they looked like they could use a new president.
When the person passed by without acknowledging that, yes, they could in fact use a new president, Alan looked back at me as if his reprimand hadn’t been interrupted. “And another thing, don’t trail people. It makes them mad, for one, and other people get nervous seeing you dart all over the place. Anyway you’re never gonna make anything that way.”
Chastened, I stayed put for the next half hour. Many of the people who came my way, I noticed, were coming from the subway entrance down the block. A few people stopped to talk to me – once or twice I even got through the whole rap. It wasn’t successful, though – I’d finish the rap, slightly out of breath, and they would demur, as politely and sympathetically as possible. I got some tens, a couple of singles from people who wouldn’t even wait for me to finish the rap – they just went right for their wallets, hardly even coming to a stop; someone asked if I had change for a twenty, and while on any other day afterward I would have smoothly shamed them into giving that and more, right then I just shook my head and said stupidly, ‘sorry.’ I took note of each name and dollar amount on a black and white ‘tick sheet’ at the bottom of the papers on my clipboard.
My feet were starting to ache after just a few hours, and I shifted on them in my little square of sidewalk – one step forward, past the phone booth, to move forward into the call; one step backward, into the view of the men’s clothing store window, to give me an extra half-second to stay with someone trying to pass.
The store manager came outside. “Listen, you guys, I sympathize wit what you’re doing, but you’re doing it in front of my store like two days a week. Can you just kindly stay away from the entranceway?” Alan shrugged. We moved.
Five minutes later, I looked up and Alan was gone. Fine with me – I turned sideways and tried to pivot between both streams of traffic. The movement loosened me up, working both sides, and the next person that stopped listened all the way through the rap, even though she was obviously trying to get back to work. I hit all the rap’s points and she took the clipboard right when I handed it to her, signed the board and then signed over a check for fifty bucks. She thanked me ‘for doing this,’ and I thanked her for giving such support.
* * *
An elderly black woman pushing a stroller, swarmed by four kids orbiting around her and hanging from the stroller, was going slow enough that we had half a conversation before she even pulled the caravan to a halt next to me.
Hi m’am, do you want to help beat George Bush today?
“Oh you know I do! Got to get him out.”
That’s great! My name is Greg, I’m with the Democratic National Committee. We’re working to elect John Kerry and other Democrats to office this November.
“Well so am I, you know it! I’m helping out with a neighborhood group, we’re going round to talk to people, registering voters, all that stuff.”
“That’s great!” I said. “What is the response like?”
“Oh, people are really into it. Unbelievable. I’ve never seen it like this, the whole neighborhood is involved.” I wanted to hear more about it, but her kids were getting frantic and I thought they would soon steal her attention.
Well, m’am, it’s really great that you’re involved. We need people like you now more than ever, and we have to start looking ahead – there’s only 69 days left – to make sure that we devote all the resources we can to where it really counts – the swing states.
I was piecing together from all over the rap, not bothering to go through the motions. I also was not going to ask this grandmother with five children and a wobbly stroller for a hundred bucks.
We need all the support you’re able to give.
She could give me ten dollars. I notched it on my tick sheet.
* * *
For another hour, professional people in twos and threes, with sharp clothes and quick gaits, flooded the streets on their lunch hours. Most of them passed me by – I was reluctant to interrupt their conversations, to take part of their lunch hour away from them.
By one o’clock, I’d asked several hundreds of people if they wanted to help beat George Bush.
Half of them hadn’t even looked at me. I kept checking my tick sheet – all this hustle, and not even a hundred dollars total. I patted the cash in my pocket, every ten minutes or so.
Mike came over to see how we were doing – the girl was working on sixty bucks. I was not much better, but neither was Mike it turned out. “Some days this is just how it is,” he told us.
“Don’t worry about it, go get some lunch.”
I walked inside the coffee shop ten yards away. The counter girl nodded at the DNC logo on my shirt and handed me a sandwich for free – “keep it up out there,” she told me. The sandwich suddenly was definitely the best donation I’d gotten all day. The girl came in shortly behind me (she didn’t get a free sandwich, I noticed) and plopped down at the table next to me.
“I can’t figure out where they get those numbers they told us. $300-500 a week,” she said, “at this rate I won’t even get that much money.” She certainly wouldn’t, in fact if she didn’t raise over quota in the next two days, I knew she wouldn’t be hired on at all. Even then, just raising quota would not get her near that pay scale boasted in the Craigslist ads. I could already tell that anyone making $500 a week was doing some serious hustle.
* * *
I read the Village Voice while scarfing down the sandwich. It was already telling everyone how to get ready for the Republican National Convention; one section was a breakdown of the protests planned, another was a list of the hottest parties. A sidebar explained how tear gas works and what to do if it gets in your eyes.
* * *
I walked out of the coffeeshop feeling fed and fresh, and the aching in my feet had momentarily let up.
Hi, do you want to help beat George Bush?
I said it before I’d even reach the center of the sidewalk. The person passed. I pivoted and called again –
Hi, do you want to help elect John Kerry?
And again, and again. It was like I was having a conversation with the whole street; like I was at a party, offering to fetch people drinks. I got in the rhythm, amusing myself even more with each refrain like it was a running gag, and then just a minute later I saw a kid – just a kid – wearing a military uniform walking toward me. Punchline, I thought.
Hi, do you want to help beat George Bush?
He stopped right in front of me, all ears. I was so surprised I almost lost the rap. But skipping just half a beat I got back on track, and when I got to the Ask I was full speed and not about to flinch –
The best way you can contribute is with a hundred dollars, check or credit card. We need to make sure that we get as many resources as possible to where it matters most – the swing states.
He nodded and pulled out a credit card without hesitation – a military card, air force – and signed the form for $100. He walked away; I don’t remember him saying a word the whole time.
* * *
That was my only big score for the rest of the day. By 4 o’clock, I’d made $225. And I was exhausted. But the day was not even close to finished.
posted by Greg Bloom at 5/09/2005 01:50:00 AM
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