Fiction

Canvassers: A Short Story

Last year, I self-published a collection of short stories called Caregivers and Other Stories. Today, I want to start sharing it with everyone out there who loves literary fiction, especially dirty realism.

I. At Work

Some nights are easy. Some are not. Often, they are not. Unless you are like Aubrey, then you would have more of the better nights. But believe me. You will have plenty of bad nights. Ask Aiza, a kababayan born in America. Or Attorney Lester Noriega, the man who said fuck it to a six-figure corporate law job in Florida to be a screenwriter in Los Angeles. Or me.

We are called canvassers. In moments of shameless self-importance, some of us proclaim ourselves “activists”, “guardians of democracy” or “the modern day Paul Reveres”. We are the nuisance of the common shopper, of the after-five crowd, of the mothers and their children that had been so carefully trained not to speak with our kind at any time, for any reason. We brave locked doors and dogs and their sometimes dog-like owners, hoping that our scripted pitches will somehow find their way to a good heart willing to become monthly donors of ACLU or Planned Parenthood.

Tonight is definitely not a good night. The new iPad is out, and Aiza’s pitches are falling on deaf ears. I had given up for the night. Six hours in, Aiza and I have collected five dollars. It was from an old man.

“Beer money,” he said. And then he told God to bless us. Donnie will definitely be on our ass.

I call Attorney Noriega to see how he is doing, and he tells me to wait a minute. He muffles the speaker and then cusses somebody out on the other line.

“Fucking hillbillies,” he said, turning his attention to me.

“Get a job!” I hear a man yell on the other line.

After chatting with the Attorney, I think about the Santa Monica beach which is just across from where Aiza and I are, at the Third Street Promenade, and if maybe Aiza would want to take a dip with me. I ask her to smoke instead. She is a true pinay beauty, but her heart belongs to another woman. We get partnered a lot, but we rarely talk. The only thing we have in common is this last cigarette I did not know I had inside my backpack.

II. Moving Up

Obama is winning in the primaries. Change is upon the nation, supposedly.

I am also promoted today. My official title will now be Field Manager. There is a fifty-cent raise to the base pay, in addition to the commission. And then, I also get to work with my “own team”. This means I will never work with Aiza ever again because she was my Field Manager.

I earned this useless title after four nights of acquiring at least three $75/month memberships in a row. Seven people lost their jobs today though, including Tosca, this chick that did nothing during work hours but scribble the letter B in her journal over and over again.

I wonder how long I will last. The average worker spends a month or less at this job. I am now on my third.

For today’s assignment, I am given somebody to orient. His name is Fin. He is fresh out of college. Or maybe a college student. I cannot remember for sure, but I’m sure he hasn’t seen the world, judging by the fact that he believes in life and in the idea that it has something in store for him.

Aiza is partnered with a new chick named Marcela. While Fin is busy giving me more spiel about himself, I imagine Aiza and Marcela getting hot in a dingy toilet.

Fin and I get assigned outside a CVS on Westwood Boulevard. I show Fin the ropes, like how to approach a random shopper without freaking them out.

“Be casual,” I say. “Act like you are talking with a friend.”

Fin tries his luck. Once. Twice. Thrice. He fumbles on his poorly memorized pitch on all tries. Every one of his uninterested audience responds by politely excusing themselves and then walking rapidly toward their cars. Fin apologizes to me after every pitch, as if he is afraid I could get him fired. I could tell that he shitting his pants. He is nervous, he says. But he promises to stay positive. And he does stay positive the rest of the shift, but his positive attitude kills me.

I give Fin a week to last.

III. Aubrey

Aubrey was the one who oriented me on my first day and was my first field manager before I got reassigned with Aiza. She is a twenty-something no-name actress who has had a few mainstream movie cameos and indie film supporting roles. I know this from hunting her down on IMDb. At work, she tops the “Top Performers of the Week” list almost every week, except that one week when Aiza did.

Aubrey’s IMDb photo belies her true nature. In it, she looks seductive, vulnerable. Her blonde strands fall smoothly across her face as if a gentle breeze had blown past it. A strap of her dress is down on one shoulder and her lips are puckered slightly. But at the canvassers’ headquarters, she is a fiery feminist. She has clashed with Donnie, a closet sexist, on a few occasions, and she is not afraid of getting fired for her beliefs. On the streets, she is the voice of democracy itself. At least she believes she is. And I do think she is. Even though most of the people who had signed up with her on my orientation day were mostly middle-aged men who made not-so-subtle glances towards Aubrey’s tits.

But today, she surprised the team by saying that she is quitting. This is a rare moment. Very few people in the company have the privilege of leaving voluntarily. She tells us she found a new gig with a local studio. She does not tell us where this studio is or if she has any films in production. We only assume that she is heading for something big, from the way she talked about her new gig. Even Donnie appears genuinely sad, but he does not press her to stay. After all, he knows exactly what this job is supposed to be: a way station for frustrated actors and nameless writers.

While driving to a Trader Joe’s in West Hollywood, Fin confirms that, indeed, Aubrey did find herself a new career. A starring role, in fact. He says he saw it once while idling in front of the computer, contemplating whether to send a message to an ex.

“If you’re interested in Aubrey’s movie, look it up online,” Fin says.

Fin hands over his phone to show a video. He is not lying. The first scene opens with Aubrey sprawled in bed, wearing a red, satin nightgown, looking more seductive than her IMDb photo. She is rubbing one leg slowly against the other. Then, she shakes her head gently, causing her blonde-streaked hair to ripple slightly. Moments later, a guy with a hard-on comes into the picture and starts talking dirty.

IV. Aiza

We try to pack ourselves into Marcela’s van — me, Fin, Aiza, and several other canvassers assigned to nearby routes in Culver City. There are maybe 12 of us, so I am not able to squeeze in. Seeing this, Aiza tells Marcela that she will drive instead and decides to take me with her.

As we enter the 405, Aiza begins to tell her story. This is the first and only time Aiza revealed anything about herself. And I can tell, from the way she glanced at me at one point, that Aiza was amused by the surprised look I gave her as I marveled at her sudden openness.

She and her girlfriend came from Arlington, Texas, where she was born, where she grew up with her parents who had exiled themselves to America after the Marcos regime went down in the EDSA Revolution, and where she got thrown out of the family for loving the wrong sex. Not surprisingly, she is one of the most vocal people among the anti-religion crowd at the canvassers’ headquarters.

Aiza also tells me that she lives in a boarding house with her girlfriend. She emphasizes the girlfriend in her statement as if she is seeing through the sleaze of my intentions. One day, she says, she and her girlfriend would just bail on America and head out to Amsterdam to live in peace.

When I used to canvass with Aiza, we would spend our break time sparsely trading words while we shared the bread she kept inside her trunk. She always had bread in her trunk. Sometimes, I would bring a can of tuna or some peanut butter, but she would stick with her plain, white bread. She would eat her meal methodically. She would rapidly chew five times before she swallowed. Then, she would take a swig of bottled water. Some nights, we would see a hobo walking around, and Aiza would invite the hobo to sit with us while munching on our bread. We would split the bread with the hobo.

I had always wondered if she talked more outside of work. If she had tasted dinakdakan or igado. If she thought Boracay was overrated. If she listened to Parokya ni Edgar. And if she’d be interested to hear some of my poems.

I consider asking Aiza about all of these things today, but I don’t. I realize that I am content in letting Aiza carry on with her story, in letting it be vastly different from the one that my ex, Karissa, would tell.

When we arrive at Culver City, Aiza gives me this odd look. Like for an instant, we are friends. Then she says goodbye.

I do not see Aiza during the next shift. Never quit, never fired, at least according to Donnie. Perhaps, one day I will run into her again, peanut butter or tuna can in my hand, and she will eat with me with a hobo on our side while we munch on some bread from her trunk.

V. Attorney Lester Noriega

He does his writing at night, especially on weekends. He tells me about the piles of rejections on his desk. He talks about said letters with pride, as necessary steps to success.

Before we part ways to go to our assigned canvassing locations, I ask him about his latest project, and he gives an answer so vague only he can understand. I do not press him for further details.

Instead, I consider telling the Attorney about my poems, the ones I used to reserve only for Karissa, the ones she found so honest and poignant before she realized I was full of shit, the ones I recited to her over shots of pure Jägermeister and several rounds of fucking. But I don’t. Time is golden.

The Attorney is on death row, a shift away from getting the ax. Donnie reminded him during the start-of-shift briefing that he needed to keep up or else. Seeing the Attorney get harassed is surreal — the Attorney in his business casual getting schooled by a boss in purple Mohawk and ripped jeans. The Attorney is low on cash and contemplates waiting tables.

“The tips are good from what I’ve heard,” I say. I think about sending him to the diner where I used to work, but I decide not to.

“This is the price of pursuing my dreams,” he says. “And I am willing to pay for it.”

I pretend to understand the meaning of what he said.

By the end of the night, he tells me he got one person to sign on to a $10/month membership. It is not enough to save his job. Donnie calls the Attorney’s attention to a corner. But that doesn’t seem to bother him. Instead, he tells Donnie to wait. The Attorney is busy talking to me about this conversation he had with a man from Florida, his old neighbor. He says they were drinking when the man suggested he take up screenwriting.

“I have nothing else to lose,” he says.

“Pancreatic Cancer,” he adds.

The doctors gave him a year to live.

I tell him I’m sorry to hear what he said. And then, I wonder if life is really like this — if we only give our lives a chance just before we lose them.

VI. The Wrong House

I get assigned with Fin in this neighborhood in Downtown Los Angeles, which is up on a hill. Donnie tells us we shouldn’t have problems in these parts since the people are mostly liberal. The streets are serene, uninfected by the soot and potholes of the city proper. I send Fin away to canvass the other side of the street just to get rid of him.

Two hours in, not one house had opened up to me, although I had seen people peak discreetly from their windows before disappearing.

I take a smoke break at around six pm, four hours into the shift. I meet Fin at a corner. Fin tells me he didn’t have much luck either. Just a couple of “interested” people who said they needed to research more on the Internet.

Fin and I get back to work again and this time I decide to take him along with me. After passing a couple more houses without having anybody answer our knocking, we happen upon this one house. The windows are wide open. There is a family inside apparently celebrating something. They are unaware that Fin and I are watching. They are busy talking while sitting around a table with fine China and silken cloth. A roasted chicken is sitting proudly on the tabletop along with other foods I cannot quite make out.

Fin rings the doorbell. We wait. I ring the doorbell a second time. And then, a third and a fourth. After that, we catch the attention of one of the men sitting at the dining table. Fin is desperate right now, but he tries to hide it. He is on his third day of having no sign-ups.

Fin bursts into his speech immediately after the man opens the door. The man is nice and polite. He listens to Fin’s rambling, nodding occasionally to show us he is still listening, or at least pretending to.

When Fin finishes his pitch, two women come to the door to ask what is going on. The man looks at us.

“Sorry guys, but I think you’re in the wrong house,” he says. Then he points to a sticker on the door.

It says, “McCain-Palin 2008.”

VII. The Castle

I am standing outside this really weird house. The design is ancient but the house itself looks new. It is as if the architect had been warped from another time and somehow got a gig designing this house. The house has a medieval theme to it. And, to get to the front door, I realize I have to ascend this really steep staircase.

After fifteen minutes of panting my way through maybe a thousand steps, I come to the front door. I am sweating my balls off. Just then, a dignified-looking middle-aged man in a suit opens the door.

“Who are you?” he says.

I tell him I work with the ACLU and that I am here to ask for his support in fighting for gay marriage. He pauses, smirks, and tells me to come inside.

Inside, the house is also medieval in its ambiance, but with a hint of modernity. He tells me to sit in the living room, right in front of a tiny replica of Plato’s bust. I stare at it as the man sets himself down.

“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light,” he says.

I stare at him.

“Plato,” he says. “It’s a quote from Plato.”

I nod.

“We live in very dark times, son,” he says.

I nod some more.

He pauses, and then asks, “Do you really believe in what you’re doing?”

“Of course, sir,” I say.

He calls out a name and several seconds later another man appears from one of the hallways.

“Clay, would you please give this man a check? 500 dollars to the ACLU. And when you’re done, maybe you’d like to come to listen to what um…what was your name again?”

“Samuel, sir,” I say.

“Oh…well pleased to meet you, Sam, I’m Ronan. And this is Clay, my partner.”

Then, Ronan glances back at Clay and nods.

“Nice to meet you, Sam,” Clay says with a smile. “Hold on, I will be right back.”

While waiting, Ronan tells me he will be signing up for a $200/month platinum membership. And that he will convince Clay to do the same. I tell the man he is giving too much. But inside, I am about to combust.

I am set for the week.

VIII. Dogs

Another day, another neighborhood. It seems that lately, Donnie has been putting me and my one-man team of Fin only in the residential routes. I don’t know if this is a good thing. I don’t mind. The residential routes make me feel a little more important. Like I am, indeed, Paul Revere, riding across town with my pitch that serves as a warning to the American people of the oncoming army of federal laws out to slaughter their liberties.

The only thing I don’t like about canvassing the neighborhoods is the dogs. I never had a dog, but I had been indifferent to them until I ran into this job. Now, I hate dogs. And even more so, their yuppie, dog-walking owners that had time for jogging and Pilates. You never really realize how fucked up people can be until they are in a position where you are asking them for money, and they don’t want you to, and they are tugging a salivating Pinscher around.

Anyway, I am alone in this neighborhood. Fin called off because he said he caught stomach flu. I arrive at a house where I can see this dog through the screen door. It is one of these cute dogs, the type that gets a million hits on YouTube. I am disgusted.

A middle-aged man is holding a fake bone high up above his head and is telling the dog to go get it. The dog is barking and wagging its tail and, for whatever reason, I imagine Fin’s face on the dog. The dog is a “good boy” because he takes the bone right on cue and finishes with a rollover. He is rewarded with a tickle and a snack.

After watching this nonsense, the man sees me standing by the front door. Suddenly, he gets all tensed up and opens the door angrily. I try to shake his hand. I am Paul Revere. I am Paul Revere, I say to myself. But he never shakes my hand.

I begin my pitch but he holds up his hand two words before I finish the first sentence. He reaches into his back pocket and then hands me a dollar.

I take it. I take whatever I can get. I am a good boy like that.

IX. Somehow Make a Living

More people are cut. At the headquarters, the only people I recognize are Fin and this dude from Flatbush, Brooklyn. I am six months into this job. For someone who at one point couldn’t even name the Speaker of the House and who just stumbled into this job because nobody else outside the fast food industry would hire a fool like me, I think I am holding my own quite well.

But my head is due to be cut anytime soon. I know it. This is not paranoia. Ever since I started having more of the residential routes, I have had more days of not getting any sign-ups. I don’t know if it’s because residential areas are harder to canvass or if it’s because California had already made up its mind.

Prop 8 passed; gay people can’t marry. Obama is president.

In any case, I request Donnie to assign me and Fin to the streets. Fin is doing better than me, but not so spectacularly to earn the title of Field Manager. Donnie gives us the Chinese Theatre down by Hollywood Boulevard.

After battling for a parking spot, Fin and I plant ourselves on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Batman is close by having a photo shoot with this family of tourists. After a few minutes, the family walks away while glossing over their photos with Batman on their phones. Batman tries to extend a hand for a tip, but the family pays him no attention.

“Fucking cheap tourists,” Batman says.

I feel for Batman so I ask him if he wanted to smoke with me. He nods. I tell Fin I’ll be right back. Batman and I head out to a parking lot, away from the people. When I offer my cigarette, Batman waves his hand and reaches into his pocket for a sandwich bag. He looks at it, smells it, and then fishes out some weed. Then, he splits the weed and starts rolling two sticks.

Soon, I get high with Batman. I don’t notice two hours pass. Fin has already left me three missed calls. Batman, too, realizes that he had wasted so much time and bolts off.

A couple sees him and catches him for a picture. Batman flexes his muscle in a way only the Dark Knight can. He gets five bucks for his troubles.

I stand next to Batman, hoping that his luck would rub off. I manage to get one $10/month sustaining membership from a dude in dreadlocks several minutes later. One more of this and I would make the daily quota.

Batman glances at me and says, “We’ve got to make a living somehow.”

X. Fin

A changing of the guard is taking place at the Third Street Promenade. The people with the plump fur coats, the ones with the shopping bags, the ones with the latest contraptions from the Apple store are handing over the reins of the Promenade to the hobos and their grocery carts. Somehow, I take comfort in this new company.

Fin is making his pitch to a group of college girls while I sit on a bench, spacing out. He has defied my expectations. He has lasted three months and a week. And so far, he still has a guaranteed job for another week. He gives me a thumbs up and a wink. He is about to have his third sign-up for the day.

The shift will be done in half an hour, and I feel like a terminal patient on a heart monitor who knows the exact minute he will flat line.

Once Fin and I head back to the headquarters for the end-of-shift meeting, I’m sure Donnie will find a way to sugarcoat his way into telling me that I’m fired, just like he did with the Attorney and all the other ones he had fired. Rules are rules. Fall below the minimum daily quota for five days straight and you’re cut.

After that, the rest of the night can go in one of two ways. One scenario is that I will smoke until I am too nauseated while thinking about which dead-end job to take next, and whether Eddie, my ex-manager at the fast food joint where I used to work, would consider taking me back.

The other scenario is that I will pass out for the night with not a care about a damned thing, wake up the next morning, and replay the voice of the man from the weird house.

“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.”

And then, without so much a thought, I will stuff my backpack with everything I own — perhaps add a bag of bread, a can of tuna, and a bottle of peanut butter in between the layers of my garments and my reams of unpublished poems — and head out to God knows where.

Amsterdam feels like a good place to start.

The End