I realize that blogs are supposed to be updated more often.
I could request some sort of dispensation based on the number of hours worked, or my general energy level after 13 hour days, but really I just haven't felt the motivation to write.
The writer's strike meant that the debate Monday was canceled, which meant a free day, which meant we got a bonus stop on the way through. Two small events to build. More like one tiny event, and one so small (in the numbers sense) that it can't even be called building from a field perspective. Not that that made either less important, or less exciting.
There was a lot of hustle and bustle to get the high school interns to the library. Four schools. Conversations with 30 parents, permission slips, text message coordination, and rides to arrange. I bought a 36" pizza to feed them while they waited in line outside the library.
"Hey, when's Barack coming back," the pizza guy asked me.
"He's here right now."
"What, he's here? Where?"
"Across the street at the library."
"Hey, tell him if he comes here, I'll give him a free slice of pizza."
They let staff in first. We stood in the library hallway. Almost all of us were in our red shirts, the ones from the debate. I'm not entirely sure why, since we were completely closed off from the rest of the building, but we were all using our inside voices. When they started us moving, we went down the stairs, and into another room. It was stuffy, and there were thick black curtains on both sides, and doors at both ends.
For some reason, half of the group was still using inside voices. Members of the advance team were swirling around. "When the Senator comes in, we're not gonna mob him, ok?" Until he said it, I wouldn't have thought of it. Maybe it happened somewhere else. Who knows. There were Secret Service guys at both doors.
It was stuffy, and the high school students I brought, who were still standing outside, kept texting me to tell me that their fingers were gonna fall off. It ain't Iowa or New Hampshire, but it turns out that it does get kinda chilly here.
Every time the door opened, we all turned, and every time it was someone else from advance, or political, or communications. Then it opened and Barack came in. This time I wasn't at the end of a 20 hour day. I think he's not much different in physical size from me, and if you could lope at a walking pace, that's how he came in. Smooth and easy. "Hey hey, what's going on?" I'll be honest, I'm pretty sure he said something like, "so here're my people," but I was kind of too awestruck to really record it cleanly. The important part is that he was a real person. He called Luis up so he could personally wish him a happy birthday. He grinned. When he talked to us, he talked to us with just the right mix of humanity and invulnerability. "I know you guys are working hard. I know you're eating pizza every night. I know you need sleep, and you're not getting it. And I also know what a great job you're doing. Trust me. I see it. We're up against opponents who have a lot of strength, but there's no substitute for enthusiasm. I know how hard you're all working, and I make you this promise. I'll do my part. You keep it up here. I really believe we're gonna win this. Now come on. Let's take some pictures. We've got work to do."
We went up, a region at a time, and took a photo. He should our hands again. There was an episode of The West Wing where Alan Alda can't shake hands any more, because his is so chapped and torn up from all the shaking. Barack shook my hand softly, but not limply or weakly. Just enough press to let me know he was there, and I'm sure carefully constructed to save his hand.
He threw his fist in the air as he headed out to the auditorium. "Fired Up?"
"Ready to Go!"
And then it was time to get back to work.
