Being There - Beer and Voting in Reno

WE WERE SOMEWHERE around Auburn on the edge of the mountains when the skepticism began to take hold. I remember saying something like, "I feel a bit unprepared; how are we going to convince anyone of anything?" I'd habitually shirked the political imbroglio, reasoning that leading others by lawless, indulgent example was my contribution to social evolution. But tonight we hurdled toward democracy, on the road to the "Biggest Little City in the World," ready to join a grassroots campaign bent on ushering resistant Reno voters to the polls.

Greasy fumes from spent In-N-Out wrappers thickened the air inside the car. With me were Avnet, T-Bone, and Nat the Sheila, our Australian CWC (Concerned World Citizen). We were hoping to engage our marks (i.e., undecided voters) with astute pluck – though at heart we were all more slacktivist than activist. "Definitely no liberal intelligentsia bullshit," T-Bone suggested – sometimes a wise policy in the questionable environs outside San Francisco.

Sponsoring the mission was the feisty, unsubtly monikered League of Pissed Off Voters, whose representatives we encountered at the Berkeley jumping-off point. Our company was mostly college-age (though a clan of graying boomers hovered like benevolent spirits) and giddy with anticipation. I knew that despite their outward cuddliness, these people were deeply, dangerously pissed off.

Under a watercolor sunset, 24-year-old ringleader Seiji Carpenter described the group's genesis: hip-hop activist William Upski Wimsatt's revelatory if confounding experience of forgetting to bring his Bay Guardian voter guide to the polls the previous year. Wimsatt formed the LPOV to draft and distribute similar voter guides, cheat sheets directing voters toward progressive political choices in cities nationwide. This weekend thousands of volunteers were mobilizing in 80 cities, Carpenter said, distributing voter guides and generally cheerleading the election process among the young and the marginalized.

Four hours later, after some bleary-eyed cruising along Reno's deserted midnight streets, we strutted through the Eldorado's gilded entrance and found our cohorts. It didn't take long to assess that, owing to the unwavering political focus of these astoundingly informed college kids, it would be our duty to spearhead the gambling activities.

Leaving T-Bone and Avnet in charge of six-deck blackjack, Nat and I wandered the casino floor. The Nevadans I spoke with hadn't heard of the LPOV, and most weren't eager to discuss politics with a San Francisco journalist and a potty-mouthed Aussie pixie.

Thankfully, I discovered some fellow Leaguers holding up the back bar. Todd and Jordan, a pair of self-professed "political junkies," made the whole affair seem impossibly cool and important. They explained the organization's postelection goals of forming voting blocs to galvanize progressive interests and electing a progressive president within the next 50 years. " 'Progressive,' " Todd prophesied, "will be based on national consensus." A few drinks with them kindled a warm sense of do-goodism in me, which I'm fairly certain stemmed from more than the Jameson.

The next morning we converged on the Plumbers' and Pipefitters' Union Hall, our home base. The turnout was astounding. Five hundred strong, the masses had flocked from across northern California and Nevada, motivated, activated, and caffeinated. The crowd felt unified and powerful, though I still couldn't predict what would happen once we hit the streets. We broke into teams – groups of 10 per targeted district – and received a short, intensive training in coaxing our marks. And then they let us loose.

Have you ever knocked on the pressboard door of a mobile home and talked politics with the stranger inside? Me neither, until that morning. My group was charged with a rather bleak neighborhood outside town called Cold Springs, where trailers sat on dirt lots beside sterile, labyrinthine subdivisions. Armed with lists of registered Democrats with spotty voting histories, we were to smile and speak kindly, offering a voter guide and urging our prodigal brethren to please, for the love of Pete, get out and vote.

I was encouraged by my first exchange, a halting conversation with a would-be voter, but soon I began to wonder if it'd been a fluke. People weren't home, their yards were patrolled by snarling three-legged dogs, or they wanted nothing to do with some naïf holding a clipboard. A cold wind hammered down from the snow-dusted mountains ringing Reno, and the walk between houses was long, leaving me plenty of time to question the efficacy of our mission, or at least mine. For an awkward, politically unsavvy type like me, it was an uncomfortable, sometimes unsavory business. I noticed I felt strangely fulfilled by any warm reception, and I did get a few. I also got a door slammed in my face.

It wasn't until we reconvened at the hall later that evening that I began to understand the full virtue of our solicitations. My comrades recounted glowing stories of chummy kibitzing with gracious folks of all stripes. Just as I was overwhelmed by our solidarity that morning, so were the Nevada Dems – isolated from the liberal Shangri-la of California – whom we, as a collective, reached that day. Like being at a political rally, the important thing was not to remain an individual but to become part of a like-minded crowd. And this crowd, a thousand rosy cheeks in the chilly night air, was pissed off and actually doing something about it. There's nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than Jonathan Zwickel in the depths of a political binge.

Trip planner

Next week's the final push, and the LPOV (www.indyvoter.org) is sponsoring a trip to Las Vegas to get out the vote. Turn America's playground blue. America Comes Together (www.actforvictory.org) and America Votes (www.americavotes.org) are national organizations that mobilize volunteers to get out the vote in swing states. They need help on Nov. 2, so vote early and link up with them in Oregon or Nevada.