yustyoking

 

 

            Quote of the Day: “Freedom is not free, as we all know.”

            Even if you never believe anything else I write, you’ll believe this: Towne Day! A crowd of 3,000 in shorts, T-shirts and tennis shoes—families with children, weirdos and teens—fill Riverdale Park. It’s a gorgeous, sunny day.

            It’s also May 21, Armed Forces Day. I have other places I should be, even other countries. Instead, I’ve been bamboozled by the Anna Bola campaign into participating in this IMPORTANT CAMPAIGN EVENT.

            At the Democratic tent, ward bosses, precinct captains, donut eaters and enthusiastic middle-aged women vie for attention as the crowds swirl by in a euphoric daze. One of the ladies helpfully shows me the events program, pointing out the list of 30 GOV’T. AGENCIES & NGO’s and 60 corporate sponsors.

            Freebee City, every tent is handing out woven cloth shopping bags (Made In China) with the organization’s logo and insignia. Every one. Helium-filled balloons, corporate pens, pencils, crayons, train whistles, fans, people are going nuts gathering goodie bags.

            Taking a nice ballpoint pen from a local vendor, I make up my mind to skip all the rest, until I come to a bridge table on the grass that steals my heart: The C.I.A.

            No shit.

            The C.I.A. is there recruiting, situated right next to the little white tent housing the Army Proving Ground Ordinance Demolitions Program.

            “Hi!” I say, removing my sunglasses. I’m wearing an Anna Bola For Attorney General T, so it’s not like the carrot-topped young lady behind the card table has to guess my identity.

            “Hi!” she says, smiling. “Another campaign promoting law enforcement.”

            “Nice to see you guys out and about,” I tell her, blushing. “I’d kill for a C.I.A. tote bag and some of your gear.”

            “Start with a lanyard,” she says, opening a blue bag and popping one inside. She gives me a fancy ballpoint pen, a pad of C.I.A. stationery (size, small), a C.I.A. pencil (“Central Intelligence Agency, www.cia.gov”) and a strange plastic blue object. “It’s a CD cleaner. You know, for kids to clean their musical CD’s.”

            “Um, okay,” I smile. Each item embossed “C.I.A.,” this is very cool stuff!

            “How’s your campaign going?” she asks.

            “Great! Hey, uh, want to, uh, sign Anna’s petition to get on the ballot? She needs 500 signatures. Right now, we have 320.”

            The young lady laughs and shakes her head, “no.”

            “Aha! Right,” I blurt out. “Of course. No can sign. You’re C.I.A.”

            I take the stash back to our tent and carefully stow it with the Anna possessions: the bag of water bottles, the yard signs, the foldout map showing our state, Maryland, divided into voting districts.

            A pile of fliers in hand, I go back to the entrance to the park and start handing them out, chanting

                                        “Hola! Anna Bola,

                                         Democratic candidate.

                                         One of a kind for A.G.

                                         She’s herself alone!

                                         Take no substitutes,

                                         Get the real Attorney General.”

            My competition are school children: High school girls wearing next to nothing shorts and campaign T’s in a rainbow of colors. Grade school kids wearing enormous red T-shirts that go down to their knees, handing out cardboard fans on popsicle sticks, “VOTE CALLOWAY FOR A.G.” They are my opposition. Around us circle a dozen other people of various ages hawking the abilities of people running for Town Council, for Sheriff, for the State Senate.

            As the sun reaches its zenith, we all begin to melt.

            One hour, two hours, a high school lass channeling a sundrenched Kelly Ripa has the field covered, hands down, everybody loves her, the popsicle fans jump from her fingers. This is one sweet kid, even I want to jump her bones.

            Calloway hisself shows up, the only human in the park dressed in a business suit. Walking up the drive, surrounded by his staff, he spots me and pauses to take a mental snapshot, nods in recognition, and trudges on. Later, I hear him orating onstage: “Freedom is not free, as we all know…”

            One of Calloway’s henchmen comes marching back down the road, a passel of 6^th-graders in tow. The youngsters are lugging a 4 ft. by 5 ft. blue yard sign, proclaiming “Calloway for Attorney General.” They head for the main road. This is closely followed by the arrival of the same Pirates of the Caribbean hag (bandana, earrings, bangles) who so graciously showed me the list of corporate and non-corporate donors.

            “Look at them,” I say, pointing at the Calloway gang rapidly disappearing from view. “Pure, unadulterated penis envy. ‘My yard sign is bigger than your yard sign.’ Pitiful.”

            “I understand that Calloway has unlimited funds for his campaign,” she says.

            Huh? What do I know? Nothing. “Is Calloway independently wealthy?”

I ask.

            “No,” she replies. “What I hear, it’s mafia money, out of Baltimore.”

            “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” I say. “I don’t even want to hear that! Even if it’s true, that’s a matter for the authorities to take care of. This campaign isn’t going in for slanderous accusations and mudslinging. That just sullies the campaign for all contenders. Let’s keep our noses clean and take the high road.”

            “I’m just telling you what I heard.”

            “And I’m asking you not to say such things. For our benefit. For the good of the Anna Bola campaign. Let’s not go negative.”    

           She leaves, looking unhappy. I know, I know, all that juicy gossip and I’m no fun at all.

           Dogs everywhere, school kids, concession stands are selling doggie treats, bottled water, popcorn and Tex-Mex cuisine.

           After three hours, Anna comes by and orders me to accompany her to the taco stand for lunch. “I’m buying,” she insists, but only has a $20 bill and wants to get on line at the salad bar.

           “I’ll pay for myself.”

          “No, no, no. Take the $20 and give me a ten.”

          “Go get your salad! I have money!”

           The Latinos behind the counter look surprised that I’m only ordering a $4 taco, everyone else is going for the $7 fajitas, which is a more substantial plate of meat. When I stay with the taco, they heap the entire plate with chopped meat, tomato, cheese, guacamole, sour cream and lettuce. And a taco shell.

          “You no go hungry,” the burly Mexican smiles, revealing a fine, gold molar.

           I don’t mind paying, but I expected to eat my lunch with Anna and, you know, talk politics and bond a little.

            She gone.

            When I return to the tent, Eric, our campaign manager, sends me back to the front of the park.

             Yes, I attract the voters, but this is boring work. Boring. That’s why mostly school kids are doing it. Finally, at 2:15, Eric comes and tells me to pack it in. When I get back to the tent, my crew is already homeward-bound.

            This is why I don’t work as an extra in the movies. We have family friends who rave about it: “The work is a lark. Play-acting! They always make sure you’re comfortable and that you have enough to eat. Most of the time, you’re sitting around on your duff and, best of all, they pay you by the hour! What’s not to like?”

             I need more attention than that. I’ve paid my dues, I’ve been Mr. Nobody. I don’t do crowd scenes.

             Someone has rifled my C.I.A. bag, leaving me the printed lit, the lanyard and the bag. All the other stuff, they’ve stolen. Oh, in compensation, they’ve left me a yellow plastic Frisbee from Palmtree Banking Corp. Even my red lanyard and wooden train whistle from the Metro Authority are gone. I go back to the Metro tent and get a new wood whistle and cloth lanyard. At the C.I.A. table, carrot top looks at me and says, “You’re back!”

         What a memory!

          C.I.A.

          They remember everything.

          “My friends… my coworkers… cleaned me out. They took all your wonderful gadgets. They left me the lanyard and the bag.”

           Of course, it’s late, all they have left are pencils and notepads. “Take as many as you want,” they say, but hey, I’m feeling abused and it ain’t the same, no how. I thank them and leave the goddam park. I manage to keep my cool, but I’m not doing this campaign event bullshit anymore. Let them find another volunteer. Even data entry, typing names, addresses and voter preferences into the office Mac, is more stimulating than this.

           At the office, grateful to have a volunteer, they thank me too much. Today, no one thanked me at all.

           Believe me.

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