Hello, and welcome to the forty-eighth installment of NotWriting.com, an open journal on how one writer spends his time when he really should be writing.
As always, I apologize for not posting here in quite a while. I've been busy working on my detective series, making the rounds of literary agents, and creating a new Orcutt weblog. But the other night I was interrupted in my work by something bizarre, and I wanted to share it with you.
It was around 6pm, and I was happily typing away when the phone rang with two quick rings. This means someone is calling from the lobby on the intercom, and I thought it was UPS or FedEx with a package. I was wrong.
As soon as I asked who it was, a fast-talking male voice (he clearly had experience as a disclaimer reader for car ads) started in:
"Hello this is blah-blah-blah from State Senator Jeff Klein's office, and we were interested in finding out who you planned on voting for on election day."
I almost said what first came to mind: "What the f--k?" But instead I just replied, "Not sure," and hung up.
The incident rankled me, but I let it go. I figured the guy would ring a few more apartments, get similar answers and go away. Apparently not, for ten minutes later the phone rang again. I picked up.
"Hello this is—"
Suddenly I became aware of the Oz-like nature of this moment: I, the omnipotent political pundit, cozily ensconced in my office, could thunder down my wisdom (and chastisement) upon this hapless volunteer via the echoing intercom in the lobby. I instantly fell in love with the image of barking back at this guy while my fellow tenants walked by and witnessed the chewing-out:
"YEAH," I said, "YOU JUST CALLED ME. YOU KNOW, THIS IS HIGHLY INTRUSIVE—AND JUVENILE. IF THE DEAR SENATOR WANTS TO KNOW IF HE'LL BE REELECTED, HE'S GOING TO HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL THE POLLS CLOSE ON ELECTION DAY—JUST LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE. YOU DON'T GET TO INTRUDE INTO PEOPLE'S HOMES AND ASK THEM WHO THEY'RE VOTING FOR; THIS ISN'T A FLEDGLING CENTRAL AMERICAN DEMOCRACY WITH PAPER BALLOTS; THIS IS THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA AND WE DON'T LIKE PEOPLE LIKE YOU."
"Okay, I get it," he said. "Now if—"
"NO, I DON'T THINK YOU DO GET IT," I said. "A PERSON'S VOTE IS PROBABLY THE MOST PRIVATE THING IN THEIR LIVES NEXT TO THEIR RELATIONSHIP WITH GOD AND ANY SEXUAL FANTASIES THEY MIGHT ENTERTAIN. WHY SHOULD WE TELL YOU ANYTHING? WHO ARE YOU GOING TO VOTE FOR? WHERE DO YOU LIVE?"
"Alright, alright," he said. "Look, I've got a lot of other people to call, so if you could just--"
"IF I COULD JUST WHAT? LET YOU BOTHER PEOPLE? I DON'T THINK SO. I THINK I'M GOING TO TIE UP THIS LINE UNTIL YOU LEAVE. AND IF YOU COME BACK, I'M PULLING OUT MY BOOKS ON CIVICS, AND THEN I'M CALLING THE POLICE. NOW GET OUT OF HERE!"
The lobby was silent. I waited until I heard the door open and click shut. But I waited, and I'm glad I did. The metal on the lobby radiator banged. He was still here, waiting for me to get off the line.
"I KNOW YOU'RE STILL DOWN THERE," I said, "AND I'M NOT GOING AWAY. HERE'S A LESSON FOR YOU: DON'T FUCK WITH AN UNEMPLOYED WRITER. NOT ONLY DO WE HAVE WAY TOO MUCH TIME ON OUR HANDS AND CAN OUT-STUBBORN YOU ANY DAY OF THE WEEK, BUT WE'RE ALSO MEAN. NOW GET THE F--K OUT OF HERE BEFORE I EXERCISE MY 2ND AMENDMENT RIGHT AND COME DOWN WITH MY 12-GAUGE AND PUT A POUND OF BUCKSHOT IN YOUR ASS."
This time the door opened and banged shut, and I could swear I heard running feet echoing in the courtyard.
Don't call me Chris Orcutt; call me the Great and Powerful Oz.
Have a nice day, and don't take any s--t from political pollsters.
