Young Republicans1
There are perhaps a dozen of us there during our first meeting. Most are Mexican, compatible with the La Habra demographic where the office sits in an older stucco building, above its parking garage. There are two owners, both of them white. One is young and wears a new suit; a $300 suit from JC Penny or Robinson's May; a suit that is costly and conservative enough to remain in the forgettable, rather than unforgettably bad, category. The older one wears an unforgettably bad suit. Not only is it an ill-fitting costume, but the sleeves of his jacket have the fake brass buttons that dangle badly, as though at any point they may come off. Across from me is one of the young Mexicans. She is wearing green tinted contact lenses and pretending not to see me.
Our job is simple. The political "marketing" company we are working for has obtained (purchased?) lists of registered Republicans in California, and we are to extol them, via telephone, to get to the polls and vote. Vote Right. We are given a carefully prepared call script to use during the phone call. Mine looks a bit scrunched up, as though a previous cold caller had made use of it during some campaign in the past.
Cold calls are a rough business, but what is worse is the setup: the call stations don't have telephones but rather headsets and a computer terminal, and when the young Republican punches the F8 key into the terminal keyboard it would automatically dial down the list, without pausing between calls to let the caller rest and recover from the previous call.
I can hear the girl with green contacts reading out her script:
"Hello?"
"Yes, my name is Leticia Lopez and I am calling on behalf of the Republican XYZ to encourage you to vote ..."
Her accent shines through brilliantly.
I've got my own calls to make, but out of the fifty or so that have been dialed for me already none seems to have been appreciated. When I'm not being shouted at for the failure of Proposition 187, Pete Wilson, or Slick Willie, the machine is dialing down the list silently, and I'm listening to Leticia giving a pitch that would make Rush Limbaugh proud.
There we are: young Republicans, marshalling the voters, asking them to get out because it's important. Eleven Mexicans and an African kid, behind computer terminals dialing out, because the $7.50 we get out of the deal each hour is much better than food service, retail, or any other jobs available for the moment.
The owners, true Republicans, are outside on the walkway, passing the time. The older one is smoking a cigar with a tinge of thoughtlessness in his facial expression. The young one still has his ambitions; he is on and off the telephone, and all his movements demonstrate an eagerness and vigor. I imagine that he's planning out the next convention in his mind: who he'll talk to, who is good to rub shoulders with, how to present himself, and which suit he's going to wear.
1There are some elements of this post in which I've filled in the blank for humor's sake.
11:27:30 PM 
|
