Campaign Diary 2007

Tuesday

11:30 A.M.

I’m sitting at a lunch counter cafe in down town Nasua New Hampshire, nursing my tenth cup of coffee while waiting for Jeb Bush to arrive. The short order cook is busy in the back flipping over egg’s and bacon on the hot grill and Sally, the lone waitress in this joint is carrying plates in both hands delivering it to the two steel workers sitting next to the entrance. Immediately they begin to gobble down their luscious beautiful breakfast while I sat there and watched, and tried to keep excess salivia from drooling out of my mouth.

Sally, an old coot of a girl, is getting angrier at me by the minute because of my flagrant abuse of the free coffee refill policy. She has already sensed the scorch marks of poverty that radiate from my being and she knows that no matter how good the service or how big the smile, that there will be no substantial tip forth coming. In her eye’s I am no longer worthy of the courtesy of being asked for a refill. I must humiliate myself by getting up and getting it myself which is a signal to everyone else that I have no money. In their eye’s I’m not a hard working journalist, I’m seen as a no good dead beat bum.

Sitting back down with my cup of steaming java, I shake sugar out of a clogged sugar jar and glance over at the other patrons sharing the counter space with me. I’m reminded by their cold stares that I’m a stranger here, and if not for the Constitution, I would probably be cast out and stoned to death in the public square. Reaching over for a roll in the bread basket I hear a loud smack as the waitress detoured my hand with a fly swatter and scolded me by barking out, " the rolls ain’t free ".

01:30 P.M.

Bush people call and explain that Jeb ate some bad brisket and has been vomiting all morning. They apologize for any inconvenience and promise to send a autographed picture. Immediately following the call the owner comes over and tells me to leave.

04:00 P.M.

I just picked up my expense envelope and the no good sonofabitch editor gave me 100 dollars and a book of happy meal certificates to cover 10 days of hotels and meals. I’ve also been informed that my bus ticket is one way. No story, no ticket.

Wednesday

09:30 A.M.

Went to Bush office and tried to Obtain press credentials. Bush people said they never heard of the National Lampoon and called security and had me escorted out of the building.

11:00 A.M.

Showed up at a pro Bush rally at a local high school and slipped in a side entrance. Inside, I actually got close enough to see Bush waving and shaking the hands with the teeming throngs of cheering teenagers who were attending the staged, serve it up to the press rally. Thinking I had pulled off a coup I tried to get closer. Upon my first step I Felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up and saw four pairs of dark sunglasses. One of them asked me for my non existent press credentials while the other one rifled through my back pack, briefly pausing as he came across my used undies which had been fermenting in my bag for a week. Following a brief verbal exchange where I tried to plead my case, I was ejected from the event.

Thursday

02:30 P.M.

It’s as cold as f_ck outside, and since I didn’t bring a coat or sweater I spent most of my time looking for someplace warm to sit and write. I Used the last of my happy meal certificates and accidently dropped my burger on the floor where it was stepped on and rendered uneatable. Sinking deeply into despair I ate my fries and a burger that was left from the previous occupant of my booth. By accepting this assignment with the Toast I knew that I had reached the rim of the toilet as far as my career was concerned, but I had to remember that no matter who I worked for, I was still a journalist and I had a responsibility to do the story.

02:20 P.M.

Ejected from the Mc Donalds.

4:00 P.M.

Trying to maintain my integrity as a journalist I decided to canvas the neighborhood to get peoples opinions on the up coming primaries. First door I knock on this old man comes from around back brandishing a shot gun and tells me to get the hell off of his property. Having no desire to pull buck shot out of my ass I departed the vicinity.

On my second attempt I knock on the door and as I’m standing there, I look down and this mutt looks up at me, opens his mouth, and throws up on my foot. The owner comes out and throws me out of the house for making her dog barf.

On my third try I knock and the door pushes open. I stick my head inside and there is a couple having sex on the floor. The surprised copulators looks up and the man looks down at the girl and say’s " Who is this ? Is this the guy you’ve been doing on the side !" Immediately I depart the vicinity, but not fast enough. The angry man comes running out of the house pulling his pants up shouting something and the guy with the shotgun comes running out and let’s me have it with a load of rock salt. The pellets bore into my hind end as the adrenaline rush reached my feet as I ran all the way back to the center of town and into the sanctuary of McDonald’s.

6:35 P.M.

Once again, ejected from McDonald’s.

9:35 P.M.

Desperation had set in. I was hungry and in need of shelter and some kind of support from my paper. During a brief telephone conversation with one of my editors I got support. I was told that if I did not get the story, that my return bus ticket was not guaranteed, no story, no return trip. When I asked them to wire me enough money for a hotel room they told me that they had taken care of it and to check my e-mail.

Thinking that maybe I had these guys figured wrong, I found the nearest electrical outlet which happened to be located in a Laundromat and plugged in my lap top and phoned in on the pay phone and went on line. The e-mail was a list of homeless shelters.

Friday September 15

11:10 A.M.

Thoughts of finishing this story are long gone. My story now is that of survival. I checked into a hotel last night, and the hotel manager is outside the door pounding and shouting about the maxed out credit card I gave him. I have no money no where to go except out a window that is a three story drop to the ground. My story is coming apart at the seams.

06:35 P.M.

I’m sitting on a toilet in the restroom of the downtown Grey Hound bus station pounding out these garbled notes into my faltering lap top, to use in my court battle against the Washington Toast. There is a guy pounding on the door of my stall telling me to hurry up cause he’s got to go, and a few moments ago a hand reached under from the stall next to me and tried to steal my back pack. I’m pretty sure I broke the guys hand when I stepped on it with my foot and he let out a loud scream as he ran away.

I have no where else to turn. I must now pop the disk and find a pawn shop that will give me enough money for my lap top to buy a ticket out of here. And for all of you at the Toast, I promise you, I’m going to torch your office, if and when I find it considering, you never gave me an address.

www.washingtontoast.com

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