When I arrived at the campaign headquarters the next day I didn’t need Clive’s training to figure out I was the centre of attention. The two metre tall sign with my name on it told me that. Inside the building, my name was everywhere. It was on the wall and on the stacks of brochures. Posters with my picture, tie and all, hung like wallpaper.
I had visited the campaign headquarters before but this was my first time to see it fully operational. After all the media coverage of the shooting I thought I was used to it by now. However, getting attention for being shot by a stranger was one thing, this was like a self-inflicted injury.
Within seconds of entering the building, I was hugged and kissed by a strong elderly woman who reeked of cigarette smoke and had a voice like tires on a gravel road.
“Mr. Candidate, Good morning.”
“Dot, how are you?” I responded while wondering how many of my ribs she cracked.
“How the hell do you think I am doing? I have been here since six a.m. getting the lists organized. I am too old for this nonsense,” she replied.
“Dot, you shouldn’t have to do the lists.”
“What? And leave it to one of these morons?” She gestured to the three other people in the room. “The lists are too important to leave in the hands of some rookie. Excuse me honey, I have work to do.”
That said, she walked toward the door as she lit a cigarette on the inside of the building before exiting to smoke on the sidewalk.
“Hey brother, how are you doing?” Dale greeted me with a hug.
“That Dot is a piece of work,” he said. “You haven’t been here for ten seconds and you already smell like an ashtray.
“You want me to get Al to talk to her?” I asked.
“Are you crazy? She has worked twelve-hour days since we started for nothing but coffee and three donuts. For what we pay her, she could smell like a burst colostomy bag and I would still kiss her every morning. People like Dot are golden, a dying breed compared to all these irresponsible, unreliable, lazy kids that like hanging around here spending too much time taking selfies and Snap Chatting pictures of the morning muffin delivery. God help us! They have no idea what it means to work. On top of that, we have to arrange all of the transportation because none of them can drive a car! ”
“Calm down pal. You are going to blow a gasket,” I said calmly.
Dale took a deep breath and smiled. He had been running on four hours sleep for seven days now and it was starting to show. He looked gaunt with wide dark circles under his eyes. There was also a sense of focus and happiness to him. Dale loved being chest deep in the sludge of political campaigns. Since our early days in high school when we helped to elect a local Dartmouth Councilor by handing out brochures at the ferry terminal, through the dozens of campaigns to elect MPs, MLAs, and party leaders, Dale had been addicted to the sustained adrenaline that comes with a political battle. His cardiologist’s advice aside, Dale found a source of energy and vitality in this work which made little sense to anyone but himself.
“Okay. Still, I prefer old-school. Give me two dinosaurs like Dot and a fax machine, and I will get you elected,” replied Dale.
“Fax machine? You are the dinosaur my friend,” I quipped.
“Enough small talk. Are you ready to knock on doors? You are no good to us hanging around here. Hopefully you have all the votes at this address.”
Our door-to-door campaign had been carefully mapped out and was ready to go. The goal was to knock on every door in the riding at least once. We would contact as many voters as we could. Most importantly, we would create detailed notes on how they were likely to vote. We would also do our best to ascertain how many other people of voting age lived at each residence and how they may vote as well. This data would be collected and entered in voter tracking software. Once captured, the data were constantly analyzed to maximize the team’s efforts and efficiency during the crucial get-out-the-vote phase.
Going door-to-door selling myself was not an activity I embraced. Still, such shameless huckstering is paramount to political success. I had no choice but to learn to like it.
The first few doors I knocked on, no one was home, or they chose not to open the door. Either way, it was an easy enough drill: knock, wait and leave the brochure.
After a number of no shows, I started to find people home. Fortunately for me everyone was polite and friendly. In the early days of the campaign I spent a lot of time talking to these lonely, chatty people. I found people’s interest in the issues helped build my confidence for this door to door grind.
As a door-knocking rookie, I accepted all offers to sit down and have tea and chat.
However, I soon realized I needed to move more quickly. Being new to the business, I spent too much time with people. Skilled politicians, on the other hand, connected with people quickly. In the beginning, I was more the awkward introvert who finally found someone to talk to. My early canvassing was terrible and inefficient. To make matters worse, the young campaign worker with me lacked the confidence to push me along.
Having worked as a public librarian I was conditioned to give people as much information as they wanted. The public library mantra of ‘more is better’ is contrary to the business of politics where politicians tell voters little.
After two days of campaigning in my down-home kitchen-party style, the volunteers were in revolt.
I defended myself, “but I want to connect with people…”
“With who? The people on your street? Because at this rate that is all the people you are going to get to talk to in thirty days…” they replied.
Needing action, they banded together and went to Al. The big man, busy with other problems, stated the situation very clearly and concisely to me.
“Troy, there are twelve thousand voters in this riding. If at the end of each day you do not talk to at least three hundred of them, or at least knock on their doors, I am going to kick your ass,” he said sternly.
I tried to argue that my strategy would build support by tapping into a wider social network. He just glared at me like he looked forward to kicking my ass.
With this short and uncomfortable meeting over, I picked up the pace. Al’s good old-fashioned conservative sensitivities: lack of patience, and blunt tone were just what the volunteers needed to encourage me to stick to the plan. Al’s management style may have verged on abusive but it certainly was effective.
I accepted the fact, in politics, style and speed mattered more than thought and logic.
Troy Myers 