Best Week Ever, Chapter 1: Canvassing in Sin City

... The first part of a narrative wherein Fragile Industries travels to Las Vegas for the Get Out the Vote effort for Obama and has The Best Week of Her Life.

 

Canvassing in North Las Vegas (Friday, Sunday, Monday):

For my GOTV efforts, which will occupy me until election day (with a break Saturday morning for the Obama rally), I am assigned to a volunteer office on Craig Avenue, a vacant tax preparation workspace set in a sad little corner strip mall with the requisite nail salon, barber shop, liquor store and Subway sandwich outlet. There are slot machines in the liquor store. The office is staffed with 5 or 6 very hyper long-term volunteers who pound furiously at computers, dash in and out with handouts, clipboards and Google Maps to give out to the temporary volunteers like me. We sprawl across two sprung sofas, dozens of folding chairs, and one very snazzy Herman Miller Aeron chair (probably brought by a downscaled dot-commer recruit). A smell of burned coffee and cold pizza hangs in the air, as it does at every volunteer office. Perhaps along with posters and voter lists, offices are issued custom incense to burn in a back room for the uniform miasma.

We are sent out, two by two, in a Noah’s Ark effort to “knock up” (as the Brits say) voters previously identified by phone banks as undecided, Obama leaning, or Obama supported, who have not cast ballots by early voting. The lists are scrubbed nightly. These doors are the last holdouts according to campaign data. The early voting is over, it’s Tuesday or nothing. We have door hangers that, in addition to the Obama-Biden message, list the proper polling place for the voter, and brief instructions on voting procedure.

Once we reach our destination, we split our address list into “odds” and “evens,” to work opposite sides of the street. This works in neighborhoods of single-family homes with the usual address system.

However, on Monday, in a massive condo complex with an inscrutable numbering system for the approximately 500 units, it takes twice as long as it should to find the selected doors we are to knock on. Once found, many addresses turn out to have “Bank Sale” signs, or piled up newspapers and dead porch plants. The economic meltdown has claimed at least 20-30% of these voters. Hopefully, wherever they are, they know to return to their registered polling site in this neighborhood. Even when the unit appears occupied, few voters are home on midday weekdays. These are working folks. A special Nevada consideration are the day sleepers, who work night shifts at the 24/7 casinos.  Before I put the hanger on the doorknob on the "no answers," I write a message on the outward facing sign: "Hi, _______ (name of voter), don't forget to vote Tuesday [or "tomorrow" on Monday]!"  It takes a little longer, but I'm hoping the personalized message will distinguish my flyer from the Chinese restaurant competition on their doorknob.

So when I do the tallies at the end of the day, my “knocks” vs. “contact” breakdowns show an actual contact percentage of approximately 15%. That’s about average. At this stage, few of the contacts I do make are with the voter listed for the address. Most are not home, have moved, or are completely unknown to the person answering the door. This info will help scrub the next day’s list. Many claim to have already voted. The list is pretty reliable, so I question these folks further, not challenging their claim, just to be sure that they actually did vote early or by absentee ballot. There were several reports of voters being invited to “vote by phone” or online, obvious fraud schemes. I urge them to appear at the polling location on Tuesday to see if their “vote” was counted, and if not, to cast a proper ballot.

Several voters need rides, and I note these in my records. I check back with them the next day. All had been contacted by the Ride Team and given pickup times.

One disabled woman is so grateful for the scheduled ride, she asks me to pray with her. “Now it’s all in God’s hands,” she says. I sit next to her wheelchair under a calendar with pictures of Jesus and Martin Luther King. I realize halfway into her prayer, that she is speaking to the Lord not only to watch over the election, or herself, but to ease my heart. She thinks I am anxious and need some divine calm. She’s right. Moreover, the prayer does give me some perspective. It is a deep, cleansing breath in the middle of a hectic day.

The complex is blocks from Nellis Air Force Base. Jets scream overhead at regular intervals. I have to wait to knock on the doors until the racket was over. I learn this lesson when a rotund man wearing a very skimpy pair of briefs and nothing else to cover his freckles throws open his front door, apparently to pick up his newspaper. “Jesus Christ!” he exclaims, clutching his chest. I had knocked during a flyover and he hadn’t heard me, and my appearance must have been a shock. Despite my apologies, he slams the door. I can’t blame him. This is was the single even slightly hostile moment during all my canvassing.

Some surprises: One door opens and the smell of too many children wafts out. A thin white girl of about 17 tells me that my listed voter is her sister, who will be right back. Sure enough, after my next knock or two, I see a big-tired truck pull up in front of the previous address. An equally thin woman, maybe 22 at best, dismounts from the passenger side with an infant on her hip. A young man wearing a gimme cap, shades, and a motorcycle t-shirt climbs from behind the steering wheel. I see an NRA sticker on the truck. I smile, and introduce myself. The woman is a first time voter, identified on my list as an independent, but Obama-leaning. Given all the cultural signifiers I had observed, I am doubtful. She accepts the door hanger without much enthusiasm and looks at the voting location address. With the squirming baby on her hip, and the background of small children pouring out the door of her residence, she resembles a younger version of the iconic Dorthea Lange portrait from the Dust Bowl. She walks inside without a word while her male companion hunkers down on the front steps. I ask if he is registered to vote. He is not, and at first laconically, and then in a rush, tells me a familiar tale of homelessness and joblessness. The couple is staying at this address with her family while they search for work and a home after moving from Reno. She had re-registered, he hadn’t. He removes his sunglasses and gives me a piercing stare. “I thought I was a Republican, but McCain will fuck us over, man,” he says. “We need a break.” He then offers a cogent and accurate summary of the different tax and health plans of the candidates. Well, knock me down with a feather. He promises to drive the mother of his child to the polls the next day. The girl emerges from the condo unit and hands the baby to its father. She holds forth on her own, equally astute analysis of the issues. “I’m voting for three, I have to get there for Obama.” Once started, the discussion is hard to end. This couple had almost lost hope, but they had one last best chance, and know it. So much for cultural stereotypes.

Another day, another snapshot. It’s late in the day, the sun has just set and I’m on the last calls. An Asian woman answers the door in a run-down apartment complex utterly devoid of vegetation or color. Bare dirt plots surround the apartment blocks constructed in Correctional Unit Ugly. The name of the man I am supposed to contact belongs to her husband, I discover through a slight language barrier. She shakes her head when I ask if she would vote; she is not a citizen and seems bemused if not threatened by the election process. She refuses to state her husband’s affiliation or voting plans. I give her a flyer with the polling place for her husband. “Where is this?” she asks, suspiciously. I tell her that it is nearby, and if her husband needs more information, the flyer lists both a number to call or a website to check. “No map? Where is map? We need map!” My cynical self wantsd to snap, “Whaddya want, lady, egg in your beer?” But that will definitely get lost in translation and not promote the candidate. I just ask her to give the flyer to her husband and advise him to call if he had questions. She still tut-tuts as she closes the door.

At the other end of this dismal building, I warily approach a unit with the skinniest dog I’ve ever seen tied to a hose stanchion outside the open door. Empty Mickey Big Mouth cans are scattered around two dusty deck chairs overlooking a concrete block wall. The dog announces my arrival and a white guy with bloodshot blue eyes and receding red hair comes to the door. He offers me a malt liquor and calms his dog with a heaping bowl of chow. I decline the booze politely, but accept a deck chair. The dog devours her food as we sit and talk. “She’s a good girl. I don’t know why she don’t gain weight.“ He says he had already cast his ballot for Obama on the last day of early voting, which is possible, as the lists have not yet picked up that day’s returns. He notices that the flyer called for election day volunteers at the volunteer center just around the corner. “Hey, I can do this. I work late, but I can do the 6 a.m. shift.” In all my canvassing, I have never before landed a spontaneous volunteer. He fills out the information on my form, concentrating hard. I hope he makes it.