I’ve never been all that interested in politics. I vote, of course. I’m informed about the presidential candidates. (Admittedly, much more since meeting Matt.) But when Matt told me about volunteering for Senate campaigns in college and joining the Young Democrats, I couldn’t relate. None of my friends in college were political. Sure, Colleen (and a few other girls) dressed up as Monica Lewinsky for Halloween freshman year, wore blue dresses and carried plastic cigars around, but we never had serious conversations about impeachment, or anything else beyond Colleen’s acute and often repeated observation about the whole situation, where she’d shake her head and ask, “Wouldn’t you just die if your parents knew you gave the president a blow job?”
But in 2008, politics was all we talked about. At bars, we had heated discussions and spent hours imagining the horror if McCain won. My mild-mannered mother called Sarah Palin a dimwit, which was so out of character and shocking that she may as well have called her a cunt. Something had shifted in the country, and Matt was in the middle of it—not just an observer, but a part of this great big movement. At some point over the year, he began referring to the campaign as “We,” and it stung whenever he said it, like he was purposely trying to separate himself from me, pointing out that he was a part of something I wasn’t.
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I got laid off four days before the election—it was Halloween and Matt was already in Chicago. The fund-raising was done in mid-October—there was a lag time between when the money was raised and when it was finally ready to be spent—so Matt didn’t have anything else to do in New York and he’d gone to Chicago to help out there. (Which was good, because he would’ve gone crazy at home.) When I finally reached him that day, to tell him I’d lost my job, he was at campaign headquarters and it was so loud that it sounded like he was at a sporting event. He said everything right and was sympathetic and calming. But still, what I really wanted was for him to be there with me.
“I’m supposed to go out with the girls tonight,” I told him. “We were planning to dress up as Starbucks workers. Colleen got the costumes and everything.”
“I remember,” he said. “You should go out. Have a good night. Have some fun.”
“No, don’t you get it? I can’t dress up as a Starbucks worker on the day I got fired. I’ll probably be working there for real in a couple of weeks.”
“Beth, that won’t happen. I promise.”
“Well, I’m not dressing up.”
“I think that’s fair,” Matt said. “I’m sure none of the other girls will either.” But he was wrong. When I showed up at the bar, I was the only one in regular clothes. I spent my night getting drunk with three Starbucks workers and woke up the next morning on the couch, sharing a pillow with a half-eaten piece of pizza.
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On election day, I flew to Chicago to be with Matt. Grant Park was swarmed that night—waves of people just kept coming. The weather was unseasonably warm (we didn’t even need jackets), which somehow made it all feel a little eerie, a little surreal.
Matt was working at a cocktail party for the major donors, and he snuck me into the tent. I stood with a vodka and soda in a corner and watched everyone around me. I tried to concentrate on what I was experiencing—this is history, I kept thinking, this is important. But I was also feeling slightly sorry for my unemployed self, sipping my drink, wondering what I was going to do next.
When the election was called, all of the donors were rushed out of the tent to a roped-off area right in front of the stage to watch the speech. I was right in front, so close to the next president that it was disconcerting. But I was also aware that Oprah was standing a couple of rows behind me, and part of me wanted to move and wave her forward to take my spot, because it was clearly a huge mistake for me to be closer to the stage than she was.
During the speech, Matt and I both cried—everyone did. “This is it, Beth,” Matt said. “This is it.” I wanted to ask him what was it, but instead just held his hand. Back in the finance tent, all of the workers started drinking, tossing back vodkas and beer, and hugging, hard, throwing their arms around each other and burying their faces in necks. “We did it, man,” Matt said, whenever he hugged anyone. He kept gripping my shoulders and squeezing them like he couldn’t contain himself.
Obama came back to the tent to thank the donors for their help, and also took the time to thank all of the workers. He shook Matt’s hand and called him by name, which impressed me and made Matt start crying again. “Thank you, sir,” he said, about five times.
We went with a huge group of campaign staff to a bar, then another, and then another. I kept waiting for everyone to calm down, but if anything they got more energy as the night went on. Everyone was still screaming and crying and hugging and laughing when we finally left. At some point in the night, Matt turned to me. “I know you’re upset about your job,” he said. “But maybe this is for the best. Imagine I got a job in the administration—we could move to DC, start a whole new adventure.”