That didn’t seem to faze him. “Okay. Just thought you should have a heads-up, because the boss is going to see you tonight and he’s planning on asking you to join us full-time. You can be the one to tell him no,” he said, still smirking.
Well, shit.
That night, as Tewes had warned, Senator Obama pulled me aside at a small campaign rally I had helped organize. “Kal! I hear you’ve been breaking some records getting supporter cards.”
“Senator, if this is about the kid who asked me to suck his caucus, he promised he’ll show up on January third. Besides, getting those supporter cards was a huge team effort. The credit goes to all of your amazing staffers. They spent days building the events.”
“Aren’t they great?” Obama said. “You know, in my daily briefing book there’s a list of who’s on the road for me, so I see it all. Beyond being a surrogate, you’re a talented organizer yourself. My staff all over Iowa has said what a big help you’ve been to them this week. You’re a real asset to the campaign. I want to hire you.”
Even with the heads-up Tewes had given me, I was wholly unprepared for this. I thought Obama was just going to soft pitch me the $2,000-a-month job offer. Or maybe he’d forget to ask altogether. But here he was, telling me that he knew about the actual work we were doing and felt that I—some guy who just rolled in for a few days—was actually good at community organizing and could be helpful to his campaign. The way he spoke about this struck a chord. Obama’s pitch to me wasn’t based on my being a recognizable actor to college kids of a certain age. Or because of Indian American money. He wanted to hire me somewhat independently of any attention I might bring even as a surrogate.
“Senator, I’m really honored. I’m sure this is going to sound silly compared to the hard work everyone here is doing, but I can’t leave my job on House.”
Obama was quick with the rebuttal. “It doesn’t sound silly at all, that’s a good job. A good show. But aren’t all the screenwriters on strike?”
Man, this dude really did know a lot. A few weeks prior, on November 5, 2007, business as usual in Hollywood came to a grinding halt when the Writers Guild of America went on strike in a labor dispute with producers and studios. The strike meant no new scripts for House.
“Senator, the writers are on strike, but we’re still shooting episodes they already wrote,” I said.
We looked at each other.
“Well, I hope their dispute gets resolved quickly,” he said. “But if it doesn’t, and if you run out of scripts, I’d love to have you out here.”
I told Senator Obama that I’d compromise. While I couldn’t take a formal job, I’d unofficially sign on in a semiregular, voluntary role. I would fly back to Iowa every time I had days off from filming: weekends, midweek, whatever. In a system I worked out with Tewes, I’d work as an organizer and support Obama’s youth vote efforts but decline a salary so that I could continue to truthfully be a surrogate as well. Once we did run out of scripts on House in a few weeks, I joined the campaign in this unpaid pseudo-staffer role on a full-time basis. Think of it as a Captain Moneybags situation except my new boss was running for president, hired lots of women, and also wasn’t obsessed over whether Joseph Gordon-Levitt was “fucking Asian.” In exchange, Obama for America would cover the cost of my flights and pay for my luxurious housing at the Quality Inn in downtown Des Moines, effective immediately. It was unofficially official: I was working for the Barack Obama campaign.
1?Kerry was not in attendance. A cousin spoke on his behalf.
2?Just a refresher, a campaign surrogate is someone who speaks on a candidate’s behalf. In this case, we were the first nonpolitical surrogates, meaning we came from a world outside of politics.
3?Author Sasha Issenberg talks about this very thing in his book The Victory Lab.
4?He ultimately decided not to go.
5?He did.
6?Speaking of Colby, it was a few more years before I learned that he wasn’t actually an emergency driver at all. He’d never even been inside an eighteen-wheeler. He was just a random young volunteer who happened to look old for his age. The campaign staff didn’t want us to back out of the event because we felt unsafe on the icy road, so they made up that backstory to put us at ease. On the East Coast, we call this “hustle.” I guess since we didn’t die, it was fine.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN TWO MINI HACKS IF YOU EVER MOVE INTO THE QUALITY INN IN DOWNTOWN DES MOINES
You may have heard of actors living in hotels for prolonged periods of time. Marilyn Monroe at the luxurious Beverly Hills Hotel. John Travolta at the Pink Beach Club in the Caribbean. I don’t know what tips Marilyn or John would offer about their extended stays, but if you should find yourself taking up residence at the Quality Inn in lovely downtown Des Moines （where the clothes hangers are attached to the rod so that you don’t steal them）， I have two pieces of advice for you:
Tip #1: Insist on a Room with a Mini Fridge. If your employer （the Obama Campaign, for instance） is not in a position to splurge on this type of deluxe accomodation, you’ll end up leaving drinks on your window ledge to keep them cold. You’ll have to pack the snow around the edges of the cans, and you’ll need to set little reminders to bring them inside every now and then, or they’ll freeze totally solid. If that happens, you’ll convince yourself that a “beer slushy” is even more refreshing than a normal beer. （It’s really not.） Get the deluxe room.
Tip #2: Use the Convenience Store Microwave. Let’s hypothetically say that after a few sensible beers （and less-sensible shots） with your new campaign coworkers, you get the munchies and buy a delicious refrigerated burrito from the Kum & Go convenience store you guys drunkenly stumbled into. You get back to your room also holding a bag full of lottery tickets and a mesh camo hunting cap with a bright yellow cartoon ear of corn on it that you also drunkenly bought because you thought, Oh shit, this hat is tite as hell! and suddenly remember, Not only do I not have a mini fridge, I don’t even have a microwave! You’ll end up turning the thermostat to its highest setting, and you’ll place the burrito on top of the heater. This is just sad, you drunk ass. The heater will NOT successfully cook it. You will slowly peel off layers of clothing and end up sweating in your boxers for thirty minutes before realizing the inside of the burrito is still ice-cold. As you attempt to unwrap the cold burrito to see whether any of it can be salvaged, it will spill all over the carpet and you’ll spend fifteen minutes picking rice out of your belly button. You will also briefly consider ironing the burrito before talking yourself out of it, “because it’s not a panini.” You’ll fall asleep hungry. Also, you won’t win the lottery. The hat is really cool though. Use the microwave at the Kum & Go.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN RESPECT, EMPOWER, INCLUDE
（The Underdog, Part Two）
Respect, Empower, Include. Scrawled with markers and paint on butcher paper by our young staff, this phrase was found on banners in each Obama field office. It was a mantra of Paul Tewes, intended to remind each of us of our mission: Respectfully talk with everyone, whatever their political views or affiliation. Empower people to caucus and vote for the candidate of their choice. Include as many people as possible in our movement for change—there is room for everyone. We can’t win if we aren’t in this together.