Ash Wednesday
February 26, 2020 at 7:48 AM in the morning
Cattleman's Square
San Antonio, Texas
I visited the Bernie Office in a neighborhood called
Southtown, south of downtown San Antonio. The campaign had rented a failed
coffeehouse called the White Elephant. The Espresso machine shining in the
light remained on the counter, probably still connected to water. The director
for San Antonio, Kate, sat at the counter, the only paid employee in the
office. She wanted me to go out and walk houses, canvassing, but I wanted to
make phone calls.
She introduced me to Kevin, the phone trainer, and he gave
me a headset and showed me how to dial into the system and log onto the web
page for the script. Three volunteers worked the phones. I loved feeling the
connection that one feels when sitting in the office working.
Kevin worked with me patiently. The dialer kept dialing
until a voter answered. The caller's details appeared on my screen, including
the script which had to be followed word for word. I went through the entire
script on the first pass. The voter had a strong lean towards Bernie. I clicked
a button for that value.
I walked through a plan to vote early, giving the address of
the site to visit nearby. We picked a date to vote early and a time of day, the
afternoon. We tried to think of three voters to bring along to the polls, the
more the merrier. I stumbled when the script asked specifically for the first
names of the three voters. The voter couldn't think of three people who would
vote for Bernie. "Could you make up three names"?
The voter had been so patient but now wished me a good day and
goodbye. Kate came over to visit me. "You did fine but try not to
improvise. It might sound odd to be asked to make up three names". I
agreed and resolved to fix my mind on the script.
Without needing to dial, I felt efficient. One call popped
up after another. One caller insisted to know how I got the phone number.
"You've made a big mistake. Give me your name right now. I said give me
your name right now". The offended voice went on and on and on and I felt
lost. "Scroll down. Click the Bot button. That is an AI bot that will go
on endlessly. It's intended to slow down your progress and make you say
something stupid and actionable". Thank you, Kevin, I was caught like a
boar entranced by a barking dog.
Later, I called a man who was sitting in a dental chair,
constantly being interrupted by a dentist with questions. Dentists don't ask
for particulars of insurance, and this dentist wanted details usually handled
by the office manager. It must be hard to write one of these scripts,
interactive and plausible if not factual.
Kevin stayed with me, listening in and stepping in to help
me find the right button. He taught me when to bail when a person answered and
gave me a hard time. He saw my completed call number mount. "Looks like
you have a shot at the centurion club". I resolved to make one hundred
calls before calling it a day. At sixty calls, I asked to take a break. Kate
gave me a bottle of water and I picked through the snacks, granola bars and
corn chips from H.E.B. The Mexican Street Corn chips might be the best triangle
corn chip I've tasted in my life and I snacked on two bags.
I was amazed at the complexity of the script and the system.
I had to make very sure I identified the caller positively. The outcomes tab
wanted to know. At the Bloomberg office, I had to ask many questions about how
to code the calls. I made all my calls unsupervised.
Kevin stayed with me for my one hundred calls and went over
the fine points of each one. I was surprised to learn that he didn't collect a
salary. He had started specializing in phone banking during the first Obama
campaign. As an inner circle volunteer, he had a schedule of ten hours a day
until the day of the Texas primary, now less than a week away.
The coffeehouse occupied an odd jumble of buildings. I
walked around the complex, noticing boarded up entrances declaring, "Keep
Out"! I came to the corner of Carolina and Presa Streets, and noticed a
sign painted in bold strokes. The quirky sign declared Gallery Mondini - Ruiz,
paintings and antiques. I tried the door. It opened.
I walked in the find the interior stuffed by paintings in
the same mode as the sign, flowing and expressive, paintings of people and
paintings of buildings and paintings of milagros, flaming hearts of Jesus. A
man came down an aisle between the jumbles of painting and said, “He’s here. Up
ahead. Franco is sitting with clients”. He started to whack on the back of a
painting as wide as a sofa with a hammer.
I turned a corner and found a man my age sitting in a Louis
XV style couch across from two women who were conversing with him, sitting upon
a love seat of the same style.
“Hello, good day”, said the man, holding court.
“Thank you, you must be the painter, Franco”?
“Yes, I am. Would you like a coffee”?
“Thank you, that would be nice”.
He pointed at a box of groceries set between the couches.
“There. There’s your coffee. I drink a lot of it and use the cans for paint”.
“How generous. I’m not sure I can accept an entire coffee
can of coffee”.
He laughed. “Not only are you stylishly dressed, you have
manners”.
“This. Stylish? I throw this corduroy blazer over every kind
of shirt”.
“I should try that. I barely dress for guests these days.
Follow me. I want to give you my card”.
He led me into another room. I felt safe enough. Even though
the room contained his bed. He had aggregated an assemblage of oddities made of
old cabinets, dressers and etageres.
“Behold my latest
sculpture. Inside of the drawers, you’ll find boxes and inside of the boxes
you’ll find more boxes, smaller and smaller until no room remains”.
“Are you building a wunderkammer”?
“Wunderkammer! That’s exactly the word! I am building a
wunderkammer, a cabinet of wonders
He pulled open a drawer. He pulled out an ancient cigar box.
Inside it, he pulled out a vintage cigarette case with a Masonic design
embossed upon it. He picked out the Jack of Diamonds from a deck once used on
the Casino Queen riverboat. “There you are, my card”. His contact information
had been cut into the playing card”.
The card read FRANCO MONDINI-RUIZ.
“Thank you”.
“You’re welcome. Now promise me you won’t frame it. People
in France end up framing my card and forget to buy my art”.
I thought about listing it on eBay. “I promise to never
frame it”.
“Good”.
We returned to the main room where his guests were discussing
a portrait.
“Franco, I love it. You have to promise to leave the face
alone. It matches my son’s skin tones exactly”.
“Done. But I want to work with the rest tonight. Fine”.
“What do you think of it”, the client asked?
I had my reply ready. “It reminds me of David Byrne of the
Talking Heads wearing the uniform of a Starfleet Commander, standing before a
field of Phantasmagoria”.
“Sincerely”?
“Sincerely”.
“Franco, maybe let’s let the paint dry for a few days. Then we’ll
see”.
I excused myself because I wanted to return next door and
make a few more calls before leaving the San Antonio Berne office for the
evening.
“Come on back, friend”, wished Franco.
Maybe I will, but I’m pretty sure the Gallery Mondini-Ruiz
will be an entirely different place for my next visit.
No comments:
Post a Comment