Jamie pulls up. He waves. Suddenly I feel a little self-conscious as I get in the car. Maybe it’s post-embarrassment syndrome from barging into his house with snot and tears all over my face.
“Any luck with the toast?” I ask him.
“Not yet. Been so busy with other stuff, I haven’t had a chance to draft anything.”
“Yeah.” I flush. “Me crashing your hangout with your friends definitely didn’t help.”
“Crash away,” Jamie says. “My friends loved you.”
“Even with our conflicting snack philosophies?”
“Can you believe it? Only thing is, next time you’ll have to play Catan with us.”
“I’ve never tried that game, but I’m up for it.”
I know Jamie complains about how loud and messy his house can get, but I love that about his place. All the different corkboards up with plans for the bat mitzvah resting against the kitchen counter. Rolls of washi tape on the table. The sofa filled with friends and Goldfish crackers. His house isn’t chaotic. It’s perfect.
The campaign office is busier than usual today. In addition to the ladies in batik scarves and the usual handful of college folks, there’s two moms wearing babies in carriers, and a bunch of people my parents’ age reading pamphlets and glancing around nervously.
“Newbies,” Jamie whispers.
“Totally.” I smile.
You’d think Gabe would be doing cartwheels at all the fresh new faces to pontificate to, but instead, he’s sucking down an iced coffee and he looks . . . agitated.
He rattles off the usual speech about canvassing, and lets them know Hannah will help troubleshoot the Door to Door app. I wait for him to conclude with his patented “rah rah rah, Rossum is awesome” portion of the speech, but he’s more solemn today.
“Folks,” he says, setting down his coffee. “I cannot stress to you how important it is to make these final days count.” He clasps his hands. “We need to get as many doors in as we can. We must make sure every registered Democrat votes. We need every Independent in our district to get their butts in the voting booth too. This is a fight to the finish, people—we have to show the other side”—he raises his hands—“that we have claws!”
Everyone blinks at this. An older woman raises her hand.
“My app is showing more houses assigned than usual.”
“Darn right.” Gabe nods. “We need to hit as many doors as possible.”
“How many doors exactly?” asks someone.
“It’s not too many. Each of you has about two hundred homes.”
The crowd collectively gasps. One of the women with the baby carriers raises her hand.
“I’m sorry, but that is a lot of houses,” she says. “I was planning for a two-hour commitment.”
“I have to take my son to soccer practice,” a man says.
“My mom has physical therapy at four,” another chimes in.
“My baby will need to go down for a nap by noon. . . .”
The crowd murmurs quietly.
“You people are unbelievable!” Gabe shouts. His face reddens. “Your baby can nap after the election! Yes. It’s a lot of work. But we need Rossum to win! Is that what you all want? Or only if it’s convenient for you?”
He stalks off and slams the VIP supply closet shut behind him.
I glance at Jamie. What just happened?
Hannah clears her throat and hurries to the front of the room.
“Hey, y’all.” She smiles brightly. “We’re just so super excited to be in the home stretch for Rossum! Let’s aim for one hundred doors, and if you can’t do that, just do as many as you can. Whatever you accomplish today is amazing. We’ll sync the data we collect from the app when you return.” She glances at the supply closet. “And Gabe and I both want you to know we appreciate you volunteering your time, and we know how valuable it is. Don’t forget to grab water bottles on your way out. It’s a hot one today! We’ll have pizza waiting for you as a thank-you when you return.”
The crowd relaxes a bit. Everyone starts filing out of the room.
“Hannah to the rescue,” I say.
“That could have gone really badly,” Jamie agrees.
We walk over to the VIP supply closet. Jamie taps the door and peeks in. Gabe is pacing the cramped area and looking down at his phone. His forehead is coated with sweat.
“You okay, Gabe?” Jamie says.
“That was kind of rough out there,” I add.
“Too tough?” He looks up at us. “I should go out there and say something.” He moves to hurry out, but Jamie reaches out and stops him.
“Hannah took care of it,” he says. “What is with you? Your face is red. Do I need to take you to urgent care?”
“No.” Gabe wipes his sweaty forehead with his arm. “The VIP room doesn’t get good ventilation, that’s all. It’s just. This campaign. We’re in the last gasps—fundraising isn’t going as well as we hoped. I reached out to every Atlanta celebrity, and only two responded with donations. I just don’t get it.”
“A lot of people showed up today,” I tell him.
“Twenty-four people is nothing,” Gabe snaps. “We need quadruple times quadruple that if we want to actually hit every door.” He massages his temples. “I don’t know what to do. Every angle feels futile. There’s no traction with ads. People glaze over. Ditto yard signs. What we need is for something to go viral. Do you know that two of our folks got Fifi’d while canvassing? I pitched it to every local station, no one picked it up! They said they covered it a few weeks ago. So what? I’m handing you content, people!”
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “That sucks. That people got Fifi’d.”
“Fifi’s messaging is the problem.” Gabe paces the room. “It’s all, pardon the pun, dog whistles—anti-Semitic stuff no one except for people in the know would get. Does any ordinary person know the 88 on her cup stands for Heil Hitler? Or the okay sign she’s doing while holding her teacup is another anti-Semitic nod? Now, if it had a swastika, everyone would be all over it.”
“Gabe.” I look at him. “Are you saying you wish it had a swastika?”
“Look.” He lowers his voice. “I know it’s not PC. But it would help move the needle for Rossum to win. I’m just being honest.”
“You’re honestly being the worst,” Jamie interrupts.
“No need to be condescending, Big J.” Gabe frowns at him.
“You’re asking for a swastika on a teacup. Do you hear yourself?”
“This isn’t about me. I’m trying to get Rossum this election.”
“But sooner or later this election will be over,” Jamie says. “And when it’s behind you, you’ll still have to be you. Make sure you’ll be able to live with yourself when it’s done.”
Jamie turns and walks out. I glance at Gabe.
“He’s right,” I tell him before I follow Jamie to the car.
“You okay?” I ask him when we get back inside.
I thought he’d be freaking out. But Jamie is grinning.
“I’m great,” he replies. “Can you believe I got him to shut up for a second?”