Punked By An 85-Year-Old Man in PA

Yes, I got punked by a 85-year-old man while out canvassing last March for Connor Lamb. This doesn’t mean I used watercolors or oils and painted him or he painted me. It means I was going door-to-door to get people to build awareness of the candidates, election dates, and to get residents to vote.

It happened while canvassing for Lamb in Washington County, Pennsylvania, which we technically “lost” in terms of votes in that area. I knew we were struggling to win it, but we had to get every vote, even if it meant I went off my targeted list. Knocking on doors and having no one answer gets frustrating, so I stopped when I could to talk to anyone who would listen. The good news is that every vote counted no matter the county, and Lamb, a former Marine and Penn grad, won by around 700–1000 votes.

I was used to rejection as a canvasser, as a writer, as a basketball player, as a person who has been on a date that didn’t work out so well. Heck, we all were. Even Conor. On Sunday, early evening, days before the election, Conor was making calls from the phone bank desk out of Washington County with the rest of us. He introduced himself as the candidate. I watched him as I waited for my call to pickup. There was a pause. He then said, “I am sorry and thank you for your time.”

We looked at him.

“She said she was making dinner and didn’t have time to talk.”

We all laughed.

So there I was maybe 36 hours later during crunch time, day of the election or maybe the day before, running down a one-way block to my 71-year-old driver named Warren, who was parked at the end and waiting for me. I had been coming up empty with most people not home on my list, so I felt compelled to stop anyone on the street or randomly go to houses not on my list, which is not advised, but I’m a writer. This is what we do when we get bored, and desperate not for a story, but for a vote. Sometimes I end up with both. Other times, I fail.

An older gentleman with deep wrinkles in his face was dressed in a heavy gray sweatshirt and overalls along with a blue baseball cap. He walked slowly outside his house with one of those focused walks where a person’s feet look like they feel very heavy. I hollered across the street to him, “Hello! Did you vote today, sir?”

He didn’t hear me. I yelled again, louder. He looked up and winced. I yelled again. He waved me over. He was moving maybe an inch a minute. Time was ticking. Should I go or not?

He kept waving me over. And he seemed pissed about it — like I had to follow his order or else. I kept repeating and then added “I’m here on behalf of Conor Lamb” as he reeled me in.

“I never vote,” he said without any effort to hide his anger. “Never.”

“Oh come on,” I said. “That can’t be true. Never?”

“Never.”

He was furious at me.

“Why don’t you vote?”

“I only voted for one person in my life,” he said. “Come in and I’ll show you.”

He inched toward his house.

“I can’t go…I’m not supposed to go…”

He ignored me and focused on every inch. For some reason I inched behind him. Maybe it was out of guilt of how much we forget the elderly and that is why he was so crusty. Or maybe it was because I wanted to be the one who changed his mind. But going into his house? I then told myself, Time out. “If a 85-year-old guy tries to muscle or grab you, and you can’t handle yourself, you, as a former college athlete need to turn in your varsity letter because you are clearly too weak for Conor’s team.”

Granted this man probably was not registered. And if he wanted to vote, it would have taken me hours to get him to the poll and back. I tried to balk on the porch, but by then, the old many was so determined to show me who he voted for that he for sure would have started yelling at me if I did not go in.

After I entered the doorway, I looked at a tidy, lean living room that maybe had been dusted a decade ago. I have a dust and mold allergy, so I started holding my breath while I continued to smile. The old man waved me through the living room, and I found myself fully committed to the kitchen. I honestly thought of possible weapons as he inched across the kitchen to the table where he put his slow hand on a stack of photocopies.

“You want to know who I voted for in my life?”

Actually I just wanted him to vote for Conor Lamb.

I thought maybe it was JFK or Jimmy Carter or Reagan or who the hell knew?

“I voted for one and only one person,” he said.

The man handed me a photocopy of a page taken out of a very old yearbook. Instead of seeing a photo of a former president, I looked at the photo of a middle school boy.”

“That is me. Eighth grade class president. I was great.”

I burst out laughing.

He was dead serious and still angry at me or the government or I don’t know what.

Old man was cranky, and miserable, but not clueless. He clearly thought heck, if you think you’re going to hit me with the 200th flier about Conor Lamb that’s landed on my porch, I’m going to one-up you with my own.

I took the photocopy of this old man in eighth grade, which he appreciated, and I said thank you for his time and tucked it on top of my Conor Lamb fliers. I held my breath as I took four quick steps through the living room, said goodbye, and went on to my next house in Washington, PA.

If you are interested in canvassing, calling, rallying, driving canvassers, hosting, feeding staff, please reach out to your local campaign that moves you the most or one in a swing area. Fill out their online form with your contact info and they will reach out. Every door, call, effort counts. Travel to swing areas and bring friends.