The first work that I picked up after moving to LA was as a canvasser for the Democratic Party of Santa Monica. The job consisted of walking around neighborhoods, knocking on the doors of registered Democrats and begging them for money. Prior to the actual deed of knocking on doors, I was required to attend a two-hour meeting at a local coffee shop. I joined other canvassers discussing current political news, and refreshing themselves on the updated “rap”—a prepared speech that the canvassers learned by heart. If an edit was made to the rap, perhaps to instruct canvassers to say "nationally" rather than "throughout California," canvassers were expected to memorize the change on the spot. They were to repeat the newest rendition, one after another, in front of the canvasser manager, Don.
Don was bald and clean cut, clad in a Hawaiian shirt in November, which was my first problem with him. He spoke slowly and articulately, and although cordial, I disliked him almost immediately. He was the architect of the rap as well as meddlesome, but without the good intentions that make other meddlesome people tolerable. He muscled his way into conversations and then crammed in tidbits of information picked up from some obscure article that day. Aside from Don, the rest of the group was composed of women; two cheerful young girls named Kristin and Emily, and an older woman named Katherine. Kristin and Emily weren't as offensive to me as Don, but I didn’t consider them people that I might befriend. I think they felt the exact same way about me. Katherine, though, was different. She was my favorite. She was at least seventy years old, wore thick glasses, leather pants and a purple sweater that left one wondering how someone had managed to make wool shiny. Her skin was cold and gray, which was an injustice considering her wit and vigor. After telling her that I had gotten lost due to my shoddy computer directions, she commented, "There's no pride in cartography anymore because of those pricks at Mapquest." She was fantastic.
Don asked Katherine to be the first to rehearse her rap technique. He would play the part of a busy man hosting a holiday party. "I'm gonna get real annoyed, like you're a huge nuisance," he said.
It took about five minutes for Katherine to complete the rap and she performed beautifully. She artfully dodged Don's ridiculous questions as he portrayed what he called his "Busy Asshole" character. She tolerated him as he turned his head and screamed towards an imaginary family member, "Hey, Felix, easy on the brandy!" While her ad-libs were brilliant, she knew the standard rap by rote. I know because I read along with the typed copy that she offered me from her purse. She knew it word for word and, had she been asking me for money, I would have given her all of it. Don, however, felt that she needed to say her name with more emphasis. He also wanted her to be firmer when saying, "Campaign for a Democratic Majority."
"Say it like you're proud of what you're doing, like you're proud of yourself," insisted Don.
Don made her try it all over, stopping her, this time, right after she announced her name. He thought it too lifeless and, again, implored her to sound cavalier and proud. I thought to myself how ridiculous this was. I had always hated selling small things like this because it was a given that you would have to deal with a blowhard like Don. He would talk at length about the importance of some minor detail like introducing yourself as a real achiever; and that simply was not true. Perhaps, as a captain of industry attempting to sell millions of dollars in denim to a textile factory CEO, I would trouble myself with the inflections in my voice upon first saying my name. I would also bring scotch and Cuban cigars to our meeting, and I would tell some of my best racist jokes. After a couple of hours I would lean back and kick my feet up on the desk. Exhaling a long wisp of smoke I would say, "So, what do you say, Peterson? Let's close this baby and hit the bay on my schooner." This is a situation requiring a certain sense of salesmanship and charisma.
But what were doing was canvassing; selling Democrats the idea that their kids would be learning "Why God Hates Gays 101" at public school if they didn't give us fifty bucks, right now. What we were selling was simply the opportunity for lazy intellectuals to feel good about things for a bit; drugs for the resigned revolutionary.
Cord Jefferson
Alka-Seltzer Maps