War And Services

Wendell is a black man in his mid 40s with a skin tone somewhere between Don Cheadle and Orlando Hudson. He is 6’1” and if I had to ballpark his weight, I’d say a real heavyweight champion, something like 280 lbs. Short hair with long sideburns and the kind of mustache you might see on Harry Reems circa 1972. Wendell came up in the late 1960s in the rough part of a big Midwestern city, like Woodlawn in South Chicago, Cass Corridor in Detroit or Over-the-Rhine in Cincinnati. Wendell’s family is especially proud to have voted for Obama last November and even more so the family elders to see a black man in office, the culmination of the 300 years of struggle and oppression that began when they were brought to Virginia in shackles. Today Wendell is wearing a tight-fitting polo shirt with thick stripes of beige and brown separated by thin white stripes that is tucked into black slacks that have missed the last two or three wash cycles.

“Hi, may I please speak with Mr. John Smith?”

Mr. John Smith is somewhere between 55 and 85 years old. A white Anglo-Saxon Protestant, Mr. Smith grew up in a household in a rural part of America that used to vote democrat every year until Johnson turned them off. He didn’t even care about politics until he was at a small liberal arts college in the Midwest earning some kind of business or finance degree when he met his college sweetheart and subsequent wife who came from a family that never voted democrat. Now he spends his days, as you’ll soon find out, living on a fixed income and griping about “that damned socialist” in the White House, the president that he didn’t vote for that’s trying to pass an “evil” universal healthcare bill and a “cap & tax” bill. Right now it’s around 4 o’clock Central Standard Time where Mr. Smith lives, so he’s just settling in to watch Glenn Beck

“You’ve got him.” Just our luck.

“My name is Wendell and I’m calling from Demoralizing Solicitation Gig on behalf of Wilderness Protection Society.”

Wendell is feeling good about himself today: he’s got his name up on the most valuable caller board with 12 points already and its only 2 o’clock. Those points were earned calling on behalf of liberal social service non-profits, something our hero does very well. He has good rapport with democrats and little old ladies whose granddaughters are starting to avail themselves of the same family planning options that they were able to use just after the era of coat hangers in a back alley. That and he’s been working for Demoralizing Solicitation Gig for the past eleven years, with twelve additional years of doing this work prior to that.

“How are you today sir?”

“I’m good. Didn’t I just send you people money?”

John Smith sends in his contribution of ten dollars every year after tax season, when he’s assessed how much he can give without overburdening his fixed income. He no longer has any real passion for the organization, but continues to give because it’s just something that he’s always done for as long as he can remember. That and I suspect there may be some kind of unresolved guilt.

“Yes, I have record that we received your very generous ten dollar gift a month and a half ago. Thanks again on behalf of the Wilderness Protection Society. We really couldn’t continue our efforts here in America and abroad without the help of kind folks like yourself.”

“Well that’s all I’ve got. I give to other groups, something about animals or wildlife or whatever it is. I get the mailings all the time. I give to one of you guys and you all start sending me mail. Besides, I’m retired and live on a fixed income.”

Not unexpected. The man has been fundraising for 23 years. He knows all the prepared responses for the resistance he will encounter from ornery older donors in Middle America.

“I certainly understand sir. We just wanted to extend our gratitude and let you know some of the things we have going on over here at the Society. We’re calling select members today to invite them to participate in a program we like to call the ‘Friends of the Wilderness Protection Society’. In the interest of continuing our conservation efforts around the world, we’re asking everyone to try to giving a little bit each month rather than a larger amount at a random time during the year.”

A normal sustainer pitch. A sustainer is exactly what it sounds like: non-profits try to get their members to contribute on a consistent monthly basis, ideally on a credit card or through their bank account “so the money can get to work right away,” as they like to say. I know you’re convinced, but our hero still has to convince Mr. Smith that he should really be helping all he can by giving “only a dollar a day, cancel at anytime.”

“Look, I just told you I live on a fixed income and I give to other charities. For God sakes, I just sent you ten dollars. It never stops with you people. I can’t do it.”

But Mr. Smith still hasn’t hung up yet, which, according to management and fundraising theory, means you just haven’t tickled his money bone yet. Back off of the money and get back to the issues before making another ask. The job begins at “no,” right?

“And that’s ok sir. We are so appreciative of what you can and have given us. In fact, with your help we were able to purchase and preserve almost 500 acres of the Adirondack Mountains in New York. As you may have heard last month, much was done to strengthen the Mountain Conservation Act and put the scientists and environmentalists back in charge rather than leaving it up to bureaucrats in Washington. We’re just so thrilled to have a president and an administration on our side after 8 long years of wrong-way policies toward the environment.”

It would be fine if he were calling some forty-year-old yuppie in Marin or Sonoma County, but not Nebraska or Kansas.

“You mean that communist we’ve got in the White House? I’d like to get rid of Pelosi and Reid while we’re at it. The democrats want to tax us into oblivion. That guy’s an asshole.”

Refusing the sustainer he could handle. Ok, so maybe the guy’s a tightwad and doesn’t want to give up any bread. Fine. The economy sucks right now. Unemployment is high and social security probably ain’t payin’ much. But to rip on the president? To insult America’s promise to so many generations’ pain and suffering? To dismiss the 13^th and 15^th amendments as well as the Civil Rights struggle of the 60s? This wasn’t just an attack on Obama; it was an attack on Wendell’s grandmother.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. The president is a communist asshole and I think we’re through on the phone.” *click*

Wendell immediately put himself on pause and went to the bathroom. His hands were shaking and palms sweaty. In fact, his forehead was beading and he also had some nice little pit stains going. He wiped himself off with a few paper towels and took a little breather. He ambled back into the office and stopped off at the water cooler for a chat with one of his black co-workers where he explained his last call to a sympathetic ear.

“Would you believe the nerve of this guy? Isn’t it tough enough getting by in this country? And then you got some white motherfucker in Middle America on some racist bullshit. Ima go talk to this motherfucker right now.”

Wendell plopped back into his swivel chair in the back corner of the office, far out of the earshot of any manager. He began sweating and shaking again just looking at the name on the record on his screen. As the call timer approached fourteen minutes, he took himself off of pause and clicked the ‘hang-up’ button in the top right corner of the screen, which freed up the phone line and illuminated the ‘dial’ button once again.

“Hello?”

“Good afternoon John.”

“Who is this and what do you want? I’m watching Glenn Beck.”

“My name is Wendell. You might remember speaking with me on the phone ten minutes ago.”

“Right, well I already said no. Whaddya want?”

“Well John, I just want to let you know how incredibly rude you were on the phone with your tone and your insults. You really offended me by insulting the president. I want an apology.”

“You want an apology? You’re one of those idiots who voted for this asshole. You apologize to me. You apologize to me because you sound fat, because you’re one of those people who I’m going to have to pay for through your commie asshole president’s government run healthcare. By the way, get a real job and never call this number again” *click*

Wendell was beside himself. It took all his willpower not to hit someone or something. Now he was sweating profusely and breathing very hard, attracting the attention of nearby callers.

“Just a rough call” he said as he managed an uncomfortable smile and a wave. Again he clicked the ‘hang-up’ and ‘dial’ buttons in succession.

“Excuse me? I don’t think I heard you.”

“Damn it, I told you to never call here again.”

“You listen here, cracker-ass motherfucker. You’re lucky I don’t come through this phone and knock them teeth out.”

“You fucked with the wrong guy. I’ll have your job for this.” *click*

Wendell called him back a total of eight times that day before moving on to the next call. You’d think that an inordinate amount of time on the call timer would arouse suspicion on the part of the management, but you’d be mistaken.

Some day during the next week, I was sitting in the southwest corner of the room when I saw the center director Frodo Baggins tap Wendell on the shoulder during regular calling hours. Wendell followed Frodo into his office where they sat down and had a chat behind the glass window with blinds semi-drawn. Wendell went back to his desk, grabbed his bag and his book and walked out the door. Nobody stayed in touch with him.

Exeunt.