This afternoon, when my supervisor took me aside and said that she wanted me to help work the Gore line tonight, I was ecstatic. Here, I thought, was the perfect climax to my convention week. I would help clear the aisle down which Gore was going to walk to the podium. But I was also offered another assignment to consider: to perch myself way over the convention floor on the catwalk as an escort to the workers who would release the confetti and thousands of red, white, and blue balloons after the convention’s final closing gavel. I decided that being a Gore escort would probably be more fun. After all, it would put me smack in the middle of the floor for his speech. Man, did I make the wrong decision.
When the other Gore-line volunteers and I got down to the corridor where the vice president was going to be entering the hall, we were told that the Secret Service didn’t need as many of us as they had previously thought. A political decision had been made to give the cushy line guarding jobs to AFL-CIO volunteers.
So, my new job? To hold closed the black curtain that surrounded the vice president’s holding area, where he spent about two minutes before entering the hall to give his speech. Doesn’t sound so bad, except that I had to stand on the outside of the curtain and wasn’t allowed to peek my head through—not even a little bit. When I did, I was heartily reprimanded by a Secret Service agent who couldn’t give me a satisfying answer as to why the total secrecy was so critical. So, despite his orders, I managed to keep a little slit in the curtain open in a way that the agent didn’t notice. Through the opening, I was able to get a little peep show of the vice president waiting to give his speech from only five feet away—a perfect opportunity to get a glimpse of Gore’s state of mind and body just before the biggest speech of his life. Actually, the only part of his body that I was really able to see was the back of his head and the only observation I was really able to make about the Veep’s condition was that he’s balding.
By the time the Secret Service agent relieved me from clothespin duty, Gore was almost three-quarters of the way through his speech and I was left standing in the back corner of the floor, in front of an overzealous delegate who preferred to beat out his support for Gore on the little plastic “Tipper Rocks!” drum he had been given rather than clap his hands. And no matter how many times I turned around and gave him that “Stop beating your goddamn drum in my ear!” look, he persisted—and gave me a four-Advil headache in the process.
I was all too glad when Sen. Feinstein banged the convention’s closing gavel, bringing to an end four days that felt more like four weeks. Despite being one of the most fun weeks I’ve ever had, I am more than ready to return to the regular life of a 17-year-old in Washington. And as the glitter and balloons wafted down from the ceiling onto the festive floor, I jealously craned my neck toward whichever security volunteer had been savvy enough to take that assignment.
