Jeremy and I double-checked our information. Nate Spanos, 33, was an unaffiliated voter. Under New Hampshire’s primary rules he could vote in the Democratic primary, which meant that he would be one of the hundreds of thousands of voters the Sanders campaign hoped to talk to ahead of the primary. No hill, dale, nook, or cranny was left unturned, nor any leveled forest-turned-subdivision that went to Donald Trump was bypassed in that effort, which is why we were here, outside Salem, New Hampshire at the end of a cul-de-sac at the edge of a forest likely to be razed to make room for more ranch house duplexes like the one Nate inhabited.
Like the Massachusetts Salem, the New Hampshire Salem is less than an hour’s drive from Jeremy’s parents’ house outside Boston, where we deposited our toddler for the day. We had good feelings about Nate. Millenials like Bernie! So it was with great confidence that we approached his door.
We borrowed Jeremy’s mom’s minivan to get up here, and parked it on the side of the road. Even without the license plate, the van screamed Boston Area, or at least Not Granite State. The van was safe, not steely. If it were a mineral, it would be more like limestone or chalk, something that gave easily under the tires of the trucks and SUVs that plied the curvy streets and gravel driveways of outer Salem. We didn’t think too much about this as we fixed game smiles to our faces and held our campaign lit blatantly in our hands so that no one would confuse us for Jehovah’s Witnesses.
We knocked on Nate’s door. The house was new, with two parallel paths that ran straight to two front steps and front doors that were clones of one other, and each duplex had a single giant bay window with its curtains drawn. Jeremy and I did not talk as we listened for the sound of footsteps or dogs barking. It’s great if someone has a dog because then they can’t pretend to be not home while their dog barks incessantly. Whenever my sisters and I were home alone as kids and the Jehovah’s witnesses came to the door we always hid behind the couch or sometimes even directly behind the door, making sure not to breathe too loud or move a single sinew and cause the wooden floors to whine loud enough for the person to know that were were home. Not just home, but a mere two feet from them, crouching behind a door, frozen in position and barely inhaling or exhaling.
This is what I imagine people doing sometimes when we canvass their homes, and they have every right. Who are we to come to their home and keep them from making their dinner, watching Netflix, watching porn, or maybe making porn, snorting a line, knitting their first grandchild’s first blanket or whatever it is people in New Hampshire do on a weekend afternoon?
If I am frozen in position now it’s because it’s cold, and a blizzard is in the forecast. The temperature allows us to bear witness to our breathing as each exhale is suspended in the air. Nate didn’t leave us guessing for long. I noticed movement at the curtains. A hand quickly snapped them open, revealing a face that was mostly grin, some beard, and eyes that are squinted in something other than joy. No one is ever this happy to see strangers at their door, and I have seen this grin before.
We waved because if we didn’t we’d look like deer in the headlights.
“He looks too happy,” I whispered to Jeremy.
We heard bare feet stomping up to the door. The door flung open, revealing a short, stocky man in boxers and a white t-shirt, and the still smiling face. I realize this smile was borrowed from Jack Nicholson in the Shining, after he axes his way through the bathroom door, except here’s Nate, not Johnny.
This guy is brimming with energy, natural or chemically enhanced. It’s below freezing and Nate wasn’t wearing any shoes. He’s bouncing from one foot to the other.
“Who are you here for?” He said, except it came out as Who ah you here fah? Not unlike Jack Nicholson in The Departed, except higher pitched. Usually the first thing people ask is who we are, what do we want or what are we selling. But I didn’t mind Nate cutting to the chase. We didn’t have all day after all.
We show him our lit. “Bernie–”
“My boy’s gonna beat yah boy,” said Nate, bouncing.
“Who’s your boy?” Asked Jeremy, careful not to sound condescending.
“Trump. Trumpy’s gonna beat yah boy.” At this point Nate’s shoulders seemed to make a concerted effort to distance themselves from the rest of his torso, or perhaps his pecs were trying to throw off his shoulders. Either way the conflict puffed out Nate’s chest and he was now strutting around like an agitated rooster.
“Okay! Thanks for your time. Have a nice day!” I wheeled around. We had 33 other domiciles to visit and we did not need to let Nate hold us back. But it turned out that the next voter was Emaline Conner, 89, a registered Democrat who lived right next door, in the same duplex.
Her front door was three feet from Nate’s, separated only by a narrow strip of grass, making the space as impassible as a canyon. I did not want to give Nate an opportunity to yell at us to get off his lawn, so I made my way down the twenty-foot paved path to where it met the street and walked three feet to path that lead to Emaline’s door
“Don’t talk tah her. I’m her landlahd.” He had a point. If Ermaline were to vote for Bernie, she wouldn’t say it in front of her landlord, not this one. Besides, it was cold. I stuffed some campaign lit into her door to peruse or toss at her convenience.
“Ya don’t need ta leave nothin’ in tha door. I’m her landlahd,” he repeated, leaving his front step with a bounce and venturing closer to us.
“Ope! It’s already there. Have a good one!” We were not choosing flight over fight. We were just really busy, we told ourselves as we picked up our gait and headed to the van.
“Go back to Massachussetts,” he yelled, his volume increased as the distance between ourselves and the van decreased. “I’ll nevah vote fah yah boy. I don’t wanna give free health care to illegals.”
“It’s not technically free, and it would be for everyone, including you” said Jeremy over his shoulder. It was the only punch we could throw. I guess there are people who want to forsake health care for themselves and everyone they know because undocumented immigrants will get to use it too. It might be a Fox news talking point, but here in reality we call it cutting your nose to spite your face.
“I work hahd for my money,” is the last full sentence I heard him say as we slammed the door and bolted out of the cul-de-sac before we had a chance to put on our seatbelts.
“TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! HOOOOOWEEEEEE!” Nick crowed from his driveway. The rear view mirror offered us one last glimpse of him jumping from foot to foot. Meanwhile our van from Massachusetts nagged us with warning beeps as we scrambled to buckle up. Live free and die! it warned.
What confounded Jeremy the most was not that we had found a Trump supporter, but that he had been told to go back to Massachusetts by a guy who sounded like he could have been in The Departed.
“What a Masshole!”
Talking to Strangers 