Cold Call

After graduating high school, I landed an internship working on Derek Kilmer’s campaign. He was the former US House Representative in Washington’s 6th district. I’d taken an interest in politics and law after taking AP U.S. Government my senior year. My teacher for that course (one who I’d previously had for three other classes) used to teach Kilmer when he was in high school and referred me to him. I network better when I don't know I'm doing it. 

Anyway, what was unique about that internship was the year: 2020. The campaign was fully online. Instead of knocking on doors, the other interns and I only did cold-calls to constituents across the district. My official title was “Field Intern,” but the only “field” I traversed was back and forth in my parent’s basement, cold-calling everyone in the county.

I refuse to drop the “cold.” The truth is that receiving unsolicited calls are annoying. Of course, I have more patience and sympathy for the people calling me since I was in their position, but they’re pushy and always arrive in the middle of something.

Receiving unsolicited calls from people about politics is infuriating. From May of 2020 to election day in November, I dialed over 1,500 numbers.

My job was to call constituents and gather data for the campaign as well as spreading the word. The country was divided, and still is now, but 2020 opened the ravine wider. Interrupting people’s day to ask them questions meant running the risk of angering them. So whenever I called a random number, I never knew what I was going to get—although most went straight to voicemail. One time, I got to talk to this kind Hawaiian man who moved here and began his own restaurant. Another time, a guy yelled at me, asking where his stimulus check was. 

Out of all the stories I could tell you, I’m just going to tell you one, and it was the very first person to pick up:
 
“Hello,” says a young man. He already sounds annoyed. I read off the script, praying my voice wouldn't crack.
“Hi there,” I reply, all happy and corporate. “My name is Anthony, I’m here (digitally) for Representative Derek Kilmer of Washington’s sixth district, can we count on your support for his re-election campaign.
“With who?” he asks, so I have to repeat my spiel. The word “sixth” is hard to say—especially right before “district.” After rereading the script, I hear nothing. I check my phone. Call’s still going. I hold it up to my ear again.

“Fuck you.”

And the way he said it, man. With such vitriol yet gentleness, as though he were deeply insulted by what I had said. As if we had been friends for a decade and I had betrayed him.

In any case, I was left speechless. I checked my phone again—he was still on the line.
“W-well,” I stuttered, absolutely confounded. “I’m sorry to hear that.” There was nothing in the script for this, nowhere does it tell you what to say in case of a fuck you. Before I could think to say anything else, he hung up, and that was the last I’d ever hear from that dude. After that call, I called the rest of the numbers assigned to me, and then went about my day. I wonder if we’ve ever crossed paths since and didn’t know.  

That cold call was like splashing cold water on your face in the morning: it doesn’t feel great, it doesn’t feel bad, but it sure as hell wakes you up. What I can say for certain is that first call made the rest of them significantly easier.