No, that doesn’t stand for Game Of Thrones Viewer. It’s not an exhortation to television, either. GOTV means “Get Out The Vote”. This year, for the first time since Obama’s initial presidential bid, I did just that. On Sunday I canvassed for Mikie Sherrill in Verona, NJ.I’d been getting increasingly-urgent emails from Swing Left and Last Weekend and umpteen other GOTV organizations and I decided I needed to get off my ass and canvass. I thought I might knock doors for Tom Malinowski or Max Rose but found myself on an unknown porch in Montclair Sunday around 11:45 AM, being handed a packet of materials:
In the packet was a list of addresses in Verona along Bloomfield Avenue and adjacent side streets. I was one of the volunteers with a car, so I asked for something away from the immediate vicinity. It could’ve been Livingston, where Mikie was holding a 3 PM rally, but I wanted to be heading home by then. First, I’d need an orientation from Stuart.
Stuart brought me over to a sunny patch on the front lawn and gave me the particulars. Much of what he said came from the Church of The Bleeding Obvious. When he got to this line…
“Everyone has cameras nowadays, you know, those video doorbells…”
“I know. I have one.”
“Yeah, so don’t do anything disrespectful, like pee on someone’s lawn…”
Really, Stuart?
I placed a hand on his shoulder, interrupting him.
“Have I mentioned I’m 56 years old?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m saying too much…”
I pried myself from free from Stuart and headed off to my first address. Ten minutes later I was parked in a lot adjacent to an empty building that’d just been sold. There was a Port-A-San in the lot so I took a leak (how did Stuart know I had to pee?).
My first address was an apartment building and I didn’t hold out much hope of contacting anyone. But I pushed the buzzer and waited. I pushed it again and waited again. Nothing. Under “Second Pass” I created a new box - NOT HOME - and ticked it. The same at the next half-a-dozen addresses, spread over three apartment houses. It was a nice day, around 60 degrees, sunny, no wind. Who was home?
I got on to the side streets and had better luck. One guy enthusiastically answered the door, explaining that someone else had been there on Mikie’s behalf. I read the name on the list.
“That’s our son. He’s in Ohio at college.”
“Do you know if he did a mail-in ballot?”
“My wife keeps track of that stuff…”
“And he’s not coming back from Ohio by Tuesday, right?’
“No.”
I wrote “Mail-in Ballot” next to his son’s name. Technically, I shouldn’t have. Stuart wouldn’t have approved.
“You have to speak with the person face-to-face. You can’t accept the word of someone else. Then you ask if they have a plan to get to the polling place and what time of day they’ll be voting.”
I thanked the man with the son in college. Before he closed the door, he added…
“Don’t go across the street. They’ll bite your head off.”
I went across the street anyway. It was white-trashy, with car parts and bedframes and lumber strewn over the driveway and yard. Stepping over more junk on the stoop, I noticed sheets of newspaper over which a small pumpkin and various bones were spread, all spray-painted black. A dog began to bark and I figured knocking was redundant. I wondered who was inside and whether they were armed or crazy or both. Would they eat my liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti?
An average-looking middle-aged woman appeared at the door, turning to quiet the dog.
“Yes?”
“I’m getting out the vote for Mikie Sherrill.” I asked to speak to the name on the list.
“No one by that name lives here.”
I wanted to ask “What’s with the spray-painted pumpkin and bones? Halloween was four days ago…” but I thanked her and left.
I tried to find #22, another address down the block, but no one has clearly-visible house numbers. On the porch of the house that had to be #22 lazed a shirtless wreck of a man.
Big Milwaukee tumor, bald head, drool dripping down his chin as he went into a nod. Jesus. It’s just after Noon on a Sunday. What the fuck had this guy been up to? I took a step onto the porch.
“Is this number twenty-two”?
He lifted his head and looked around, startled.
“Jesus. You people have been here, like, a hundred times.”
He’s must’ve seen my button.
“Sorry.” I asked for the name on the sheet.
“I don’t know about that…”
He grabbed a cigarette, shoved it in his mouth and lit it in one motion. I thanked him and got out of there.
More addresses were around the corner so I left my car parked and hoofed it over, wondering how door-to-door sales people earned a living and if any ever got murdered.
A young black man paced on the lawn of the next house, talking into his phone about a football game. I’d worn my “Mikie Sherrill” button prominently, so people didn’t think I was sneak-creeping through their neighborhood. When he saw me he nodded “Hello”, telling his caller to hang on.
“Can I help you?”
I introduced myself and shook his hand, mentioning the name on my list.
“That’s my mom. Let me get her.”
He stepped inside and I followed him to the stoop and waited. A few moment later, his mother came to the door.
“I’m getting out the vote for Mikie Sherrill. Can we count on you this Tuesday?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you know where your polling place is and what time of day you’ll go?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Thanks!” What a sense of accomplishment. I talked to the voter, face-to-face, confirmed their support and spoke to her about time and place.
It was a mixed bag after that. Two gung-ho “Let’s win this thing!” supporters, a bunch “Not Home” and one woman who shook her head “No” before slamming the door in my face. In total I knocked on twenty-four doors and spoke to five people. At 2:45 I packed it in and headed to my car for the quick drive to Montclair.
I turned over my packet and wished everyone luck. On the way home I stopped at Holsten’s, famous for the final scene in the final Sopranos episode, and had lunch.
I thought about my long history of voting. Since my eligibility in 1980 I’ve voted in every election I’ve had right to. I vote Democratic. My dislike of Republicans goes back to the first one I was cognizant of, Nixon. I have trusted or believed a Republican since. The current crop is the absolute worst. Greedy, lying bastards who care more about tax cuts for their wealthy donors than they do about the rest of us. Placing party before country every time.
As of this writing, there are no real results in. Sweet T. and I voted before 7 AM. It’s a rainy day and the weather will supposedly impact turnout. I’m getting emails begging for my help phone-banking and haven’t decided if I can. I know I must do more but I DID get out there and knock doors. And I’ve given money. At this point, let’s all pray the American people take this chance to reject Trumpism and set us back on the right course.
Stay tuned.
Job Story #26: The Acid King, Pt. 2
Job Story #26features Part 2 of my interview with author Jesse P. Pollack, about his new book The Acid King, which revisits an infamous early 80's Long Island murder that set off a nationwide "Satanic Panic".
