On a cold winter evening, a crowd of John Kerry supporters bundled themselves in scarves and parkas before venturing to Old Chicago for a regularly scheduled happy hour. When I arrived, I stood briefly near the entrance, scanning the room for a raucous group of politicos clanking glasses and spilling beer. Instead, I was directed to a table where a sedate group of ten had gathered. A few beers were scattered around the table, but mostly people were drinking Coca-Colas and tea. As I was removing my mittens and making my acquaintances, a confused young man approached us and asked, “Is this the Willing to Fight meeting?”
“Umm, no,” someone offered pointedly. This was not the local arm of pro-war zealots that go by that name. “You’ll want to see that group of white guys over there.” Everyone chuckled as the young man walked away, but of course I didn’t see a black face among us. We, too, were a bunch of white guys. Our only claim to diversity was a gay couple, white, sitting primly, listening attentively. Also in our midst: two middle-aged couples, a strapping lawyer all the way in from Andover, and Mark, our fearless leader. Mark was a modern-day minuteman in a brown bomber jacket. Armed with a folder of statistics, he could rattle off Kerry’s record on NAFTA, job creation, or foreign policy at a moment’s notice. “There’s no way the Republicans can challenge John Kerry’s credentials on national security,” he said, reiterating the most obvious asset of the campaign. Mark acknowledged the contributions of other candidates but concluded that Kerry represents the Democrats’ best chance at the White House. The group agreed, listening as Mark laid out his argument. After a half hour, when our attention flagged, Mark promptly excused himself, having finished the job he set out to do. “Can we have the next one in Coon Rapids?” joked one of the women soberly.
Across town a week later, supporters of General Wesley Clark rented a basement room at Awada’s to convene their happy-hour festivities. I was greeted at the threshold with a jar full of Clark candy bars, live Brazilian music and a long table featuring a beautiful display of Wesley Clark swag. I quickly stashed a few stickers and buttons into my pockets. In just a few days, these would turn out to be collectibles!
Clark people were different than Kerry people. Their teeth were whiter. They wore business suits or turtleneck sweaters. When two state lawmakers showed up, the party really got underway. The head count peaked at just over twenty, with partygoers huddling into cliques with their friends. Old high school chums who had grown up to become lawyers or advertising executives swilled drinks and shook hands while exchanging vague testimonials on Clark’s electability. Later, David, the cheerful attorney who’d organized this soiree, announced the screening of a short film on General Clark’s life. All present formed a half-circle around the big-screen TV and politely applauded.
At Nye’s, Howard Dean supporters were gathered in a back room. Given Dean’s stunning declension in Iowa and New Hampshire, I expected to find a small gaggle drowning their sorrows in cheap beer and polka. Instead, I found a diverse group of about thirty. They all seemed to be disheveled after traveling the country on behalf of their candidate. Sure, there were long faces among them—they certainly drank more than the Kerry crowd—but overall, they were a motivated, inspired, and energized bunch. They engaged in robust political discussion and exchanged tips on canvassing technique.
Inevitably, the conversation went south. There were harsh words for Kerry, Edwards, Clark, and, ultimately, Bush. Even so, the smack-talk maintained a certain elevation, since these people were well versed on the records of all the candidates. Still, they acknowledged Dean had suffered a seemingly irreversible blow. “I’m really pissed off at our party!” said Dale, the young, curly-headed leader of this group. Holding a Corona in his left hand while pursing a lime between the fingers of his right, he gestured wildly. It was intolerable to him how party insiders had torpedoed his man. Conversation devolved into a lament about Dean’s dim political future. “It’s like rooting for the Vikings,” moaned one Dean supporter, consoling himself with another swallow of beer.—Christy DeSmith
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