My volunteer shift in the press office was scheduled for 9:30 p.m. on Friday night, directly after the scheduled completion of the debate. Until that point, I spent almost the entirety of the day on Thursday and Friday in the Student Life office, watching debate-related broadcasts on TV. On Friday I fielded calls from the Student Life editors who were credentialed to be in the Athletic Complex, where the debate took place. As far as I was concerned, they were calling from Mars. The AC seemed eons away.
But at 9:00 p.m. on Friday, I left watching the debate with my friends to walk to the AC. Campus was dead, as students were in their rooms or at one of the debate broadcast locations. As I walked in the fog along the parking lot fence, some people from a television station sitting in a van suddenly erupted into laughter, likely in response to a comment made by one of the candidates. A passing policeman and I shared a chuckle at their expense.
As I neared the canine-guarded gate to the AC, I became nervous that I was at the wrong place. I was hardly important enough to pass this checkpoint, which guarded our president and perhaps future president. But, my life philosophy is if you say things with confidence, people will take you seriously. So I walked up to a man in a blue uniform and showed him my credential.
“I’m a volunteer with the press office. I’m scheduled to work at 9:30,” I said. “And I’m just a bus driver,” he replied.
So much for appearing professional. The bus driver referred me to a Secret Service agent, who was very helpful, though probably out of pity instead of respect. The agent pointed me toward the covered walkway leading toward the AC. I walked down it alone, trying to look professional in front of the Secret Service agents, who were stationed roughly every 10 feet along the path. All I could think of was that I should have worn different shoes. My heels clicked against the pavement, and I could feel all of the agents staring at me and thinking, ‘Doesn’t she know she’s late for the debate?’
At the end of Secret Service path, I had the pleasure of spreading my arms and legs and being scanned by another agent while my purse took a ride through an X-ray machine. My watch set off the scanner, making me tense up and probably seem suspicious, but in the end I was cleared to enter the AC.
After asking several people for the location of the press office, I managed to find Elizabeth Lukas, the volunteer coordinator for students, who escorted me into Spin Alley. The candidates speak in the debate hall, but the way in which their performances will be remembered is determined by the politicians and media in Spin Alley. It is, essentially, the less-publicized, but in many ways more exciting, half of the debate equation.
My assigned task was to stand at a computer by the door and wait for an e-mail of the updated debate transcript. This consisted of holding the mouse over the refresh button and clicking it every 10 seconds. Luckily, the mindlessness of this task freed my attention so it could be instead occupied with soaking in the surroundings. Over half of the room was occupied by rows of tables, at which different news groups were stationed with their ears glued to their phones and their eyes glued to their computer screens.
The other side of the room was bordered by booths constructed by metal poles and blue fabric. These would soon be occupied by political commentators and politicians such as Dick Gephart and Hillary Clinton.
But not yet. At 9:20, it was the calm before the storm. Reporters sat on the edge of their seats, hanging on to each word spoken in the debate hall, anticipating Charlie Gibson’s final goodnight, and signaling the beginning of the spin. Kerry and Bush signs began to peek into the air. Campaign representatives were passing out hats and flyers with the names of the candidates engraved in bold letters. I wanted one, but I had to stay at my post and continue to press the refresh button.
And then, the debate was over. The signs shot up in the air. Reporters flocked to the politicians, who stood under signs bearing their name as they prepared to comment. Microphones and cameras were everywhere. The lights in the booths were illuminated.
When the final transcript came through, my job was complete and I was free to wander Spin Alley and observe the action. I walked past Madeline Albright, stood behind Hillary Clinton, and watched Ed Helms from the Daily Show interview former Senator Bob Kerrey. I should have been an outsider, but somehow I became integrated in the action of the night. The awkwardness I felt when I was scanned by the Secret Service agent had escaped me, and I schmoozed with members of the media like I belonged there.
The transcript that I printed was hardly the totality of the history made on Friday, as was my volunteer task hardly the substance of my night. One person I talked with said that he sacrificed his chance to be in the debate hall in order to spend the night in Spin Alley. A pretty astute observation on his point. History is as much interpretation as event, and at 9:30 the debate was only half-complete. It took only a few hours in Spin Alley to fill in between the lines of that transcript.