The Hot Shot Democrat You've Never Heard Of

October 28

There is nothing in political campaigning I dread more than working the phone banks: cold-calling voters to encourage them to give money or time or simply their vote to my worthy candidate. It’s even worse when the calling involves talking up an event in which I will be one of the speakers, which is like a circus sideshow attraction also working as carnie barker, bidding strangers to step right up and come inside the tent. But that’s my job this morning.

Heinrich headquarters is a warren of rooms—a former public health clinic, I learn—in a so-so stretch of low-rises a block away from the venerable old Route 66. All here is in conventional campaign improvisational style: hand-lettered signs mark off bathrooms and communications rooms and rooms strictly for authorized personnel. Few of the “authorized” appear to be over 30.

I finally meet the candidate in the designated phone calling room. It’s immediately easy to see why Heinrich won his beauty contest (the slightest mention of it seems to annoy him) but he wears his good looks lightly. Low-key, unassuming, yet also deeply informed and of serious mien, he tells me how grateful he is that I’ve traveled all this way and is curious about what I do in real life—even as he revs up for his own phone work.

I’m supposed talk to Democrats—especially Hillary Clinton supporters—who have yet to donate the maximum to Heinrich, and who we hope will attend the fundraiser tonight in Santa Fe where I’m to speak with my friend Ambassador Joe Wilson—yes, that Wilson, husband to the CIA agent vindictively outed by the White House and Robert Novak. I’m to tell those on the line who I am, why they should give Martin their support to put him over the line, and then pitch the Santa Fe reception.

Of course it’s a humbling experience, even for an outsider. People out here are polite, but not about to be impressed or cajoled by a Princeton professor. I tell one woman that, along with supporting Clinton during the primaries, I wrote early on about how Bush may be the worst president in American history. Comes the tart reply: “Well, I’ve been saying that since before he was inaugurated.” Another ex-Clintonite is so bitter about the primary outcome, and so frightened by the inexperienced Barack Obama—“a menace,” she says—that she has quit the Democratic Party and is supporting John McCain. I don’t get the chance to give my instantly made-up paean to the virtues of ticket-splitting.

Some hear my accent and the first two words of my pitch, know right away what I’m up to, and hang up. (Who can blame them?) I finally get an enthusiast, but it turns out she’s in Pennsylvania and obviously can’t make the event. (Cell phones, the vital link in any modern campaign, also have their downside.)

The event starts at 6 in a fine home perched on a hill, with gorgeous views of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. On the road, I think about how nice it will be to see Joe in situ, then worry about what an Ivy League historian could possibly say to Santa Feans about the issues and Martin Heinrich that would not sound either poncey or like a generic cut-and-paste job, and try to compose a few lines in my head. I’ve done this sort of campaign living-room pitch numerous times; and each time I feel just as apprehensive as I do before the first lecture of the academic year.