I’ve only been here less than 48 hours but I feel like I’ve worked a week. I’ve checked for boxes of signs. I’ve counted how many rally placards have arrived. I’ve checked in volunteers. I’ve helped orient new volunteers. I’ve proofread and corrected briefs. I’ve unloaded a truck. I’ve stacked boxes. I’ve phoned volunteers. I’ve made signs. And gotten lost in the Fleet Center no less than a dozen times.

I’ve learned what it means to be a Visibility Whip. We are literally shaping visibility on the convention floor. Four days and over 100,000 signs later, you’ll know what I mean.

Before heading to the Fleet Center I stopped at a drugstore to buy an umbrella (because it was pouring down rain), a box of Band-Aids (in anticipation of blisters I would develop over the week) and hair mousse (to give my hair a bit of body in this humid climate). Big mistake.

Security Man: (shaking his head as he fingered my umbrella) Not allowed.

Me: Ugh. Are you serious? I’ve only owned it for an hour.

SM: Going in here (pointing to trash bin full of umbrellas).

Me: Shrug.

SM: (as he looks through my CVS bag) Or this (shake of head while isolating hair mousse I just purchased). No aerosols.

Me: Dude. That’s not an aerosol. That’s mousse. Like this. Sssshhhhhhhh.

SM: No hair products, ma’am. It’s going in here (pointing to real trash can).

Me: Can’t you at least put it there (pointing to trash can with all the umbrellas). Don’t totally throw it away.

SM: You’ll come back for it later?

Me: Totally. Thanks.

Later Bryan commented on how the security guard was flirting with me.

Flirting? What? You’re joking, right? I thought he just didn’t know the difference between aerosols and mousses…

I tried to sleep. Between the middle seat, exit row (hence no reclining), and the three infants seated in close proximity, it just wasn’t to happen. I arrived to Boston exhausted. And surprised. I looked out the window. Rain. Pouring, steady, can’t see 10 feet in front of you rain. I was dumbfounded. How could this be? I had not anticipated rain. No umbrella. No slicker. No long sleeves. Hm.

I arrived to my hotel. “Sorry, ma’am, your room won’t be ready for another 5 hours.” Oh. But all I want to do is sleep. Just a little sleep. That’s all.

I called Bryan. “Come on over to the Fleet Center. We could use some extra help.” So I did. And entered an entirely different world.

I called my parents with the double dose of good news – my official title at the DNC, and the “I still can’t believe it I passed the Foreign Service Written Exam” announcement. Only Mom was there; Dad was out building houses. I received the following email from him tonight:

How now should we address you?

We’ll be scanning the floor to see you in Boston. And, yes, that’s a great addition to your resume. Now, if you can help put Democrats back in control, maybe Madame Ambassador is a future possibility.

I just received a voice mail from the volunteer coordinator I’ll be reporting to at the Democratic National Convention. She left me details of my assignment: where I’ll be, times I’ll be needed, and my official title – Visibility Whip. Now that’s a job title to add to the resume.

I followed him for several blocks on the way to BART. The first thing I noticed about him was his slender hips. The second thing I noticed was his runway walk. With each step, each leg swiftly, confidently slicing in front of the other, his hips swayed. Swished. Back and forth. Swish, swish, swish. By the time we reached the BART station I realized I, too, was on the catwalk – swish, swish, swish – my ample hips in motion with his lithe ones.

I sat on the sidewalk, legs curled up in my arms, my head resting dejectedly on my knees. We had been at the park since 6:30 am and I was ready to go home. AIDS Walk San Francisco was done. The 1200 members on my team had walked, eaten, and left. We just had to pack the truck with the leftover supplies and we’d be gone too.

 

She tried to start the rented U-Haul truck. Nothing. Not a click, not a turn, not a strained effort towards ignition. She tried again. I glanced over and noticed the old fashioned knob to the left of the steering wheel, pulled out. “Uhm. Did you leave the lights on?” I inquired. She slapped her head. “Oh, my god. How could I be so stupid?” she announced as she gathered the papers to call the service center. I listened as she argued with the service guy. She never told him the lights were left on for 9 hours. He had her try to start the truck in neutral. That didn’t work. Nothing did. He said they’d be there within half an hour. Or so.

 

We decided to go ahead and load the truck, manually carrying everything from our spot in the park to the truck that was street parked. It was more work, but hopefully it would save time. As soon as we received a jump we’d be set to go. I hopped out onto the sidewalk. She slid across the seat, not wanting to open her door to oncoming traffic. She slammed the door then slapped her forehead again. “What?” I asked. “I just locked the keys in the car.” “No you didn’t. Please say you didn’t.” She did.

 

We called the service guy to make sure they sent a tow truck with a Slim Jim. “Lady, you locked the keys in the car, that’s your fault. My guy will jump you, but he’s not going to unlock your doors.” Click. With that, he hung up. Then the complaining began. The incessant, whydoIhavesuchbadluck Midwestern drone that lasted the rest of the afternoon.

 

We carried the last 15 or so boxes from our spot in the park to the sidewalk in front of the truck. As we were doing so, a man offered to help. Joe. She repeated the story to Joe. He commiserated. He carried boxes. He offered to call his AAA to have them come unlock the door. Not completely seriously, I asked him if he had a coat hanger. “As a matter of fact, I do. Let me get it out of my car.” He came back with a coat hanger and we began the quest to unlock the doors. I’ve done it before, but it was a long time ago. Either locks have improved since then or I’ve lost my touch.

 

Joe tried. She tried. I gave up. I sat on the sidewalk, away from them, legs curled up in my arms, my head resting dejectedly on my knees. Ants began to crawl up my bare legs. I was too exhausted to swat them away. I watched. A couple of tattooed skateboarding teens whizzed by. Whoosh. A couple with a baby stroller sauntered by. An older man, cigar in hand, with two twenty-somethings. A couple? Brother and sister? I couldn’t tell. The guy, in his cool blue Oakleys, looked down at me and winked. I countered with, “Hey, do you know how to break into a car?” 

 

He stopped. “I’ve broken into a few cars into my time.”

 

“Wanna have a go at that one?” and I pointed to the U-Haul. The two men looked at each other, contemplating my challenge. They shrugged. “Sure.”

 

My colleague immediately began her story. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. The two men simply took the coat hanger and went to work. They poked, prodded, jostled. They didn’t have any more luck than any of us had. Until. I saw them whispering, pointing, then reconfiguring the coat hanger. The younger guy pulled on the frame to the rearview mirror with all of his weight, slightly opening the door frame. I concentrated on his worn down flip flops, sliding backwards as the door opened so slightly, perhaps only a millimeter. The older guy, still holding his cigar, gently slid the coat hanger inside the door, down, down, down. He wiggled it very slightly this way. He gave it a gentle nudge. Then with a JERK! he pulled back and the door swung open.

 

I was amazed. We all offered profuse thanks; they laughed. They wouldn’t accept payment, just said they were glad to help and walked on to the park, ready to enjoy the rest of their day. As they rounded the corner the tow truck showed up to jump the battery. Life does have happy endings.

We parked. The address was 9th @Folsom. That’s exactly what he had written on the napkin the night we met at Cafe du Nord. I hadn’t thought anything of it when he gave it to me, but now that the night was here, I realized that covered a lot of area. I looked at Emily. “Are we going to be able to find this?” She had no doubts we would find it; she was interested in having him paint a picture for her; we got out of the car.

 

We crossed the street. We had seen several people hanging out on the sidewalk as we drove by; we assumed that must be the art gallery/opening/party we were meant to attend. See, Michael was an artist. The artist we met at Cafe du Nord. Who convinced us we must come to his first showing. That he couldn’t talk about his art; we just had to experience it. So I had kept the napkin he had scribbled on for two weeks now. And truthfully, had forgotten about the event, until Emily reminded me last night. “That’s right. That’s tomorrow. Of course I’m still going…” 

  

The sign over the door read New Langton Arts. We ducked in. Funky beats reached our ears from the next room. We noticed a rope across the stairway with the words “Gallery Now Closed” strung from it. Damn. We had missed the show. Which surprised me, because when I had asked Michael how long the event would last he took back the napkin and scribbled, “Bedtime.”

 

We wandered into the darkened room, a theater of sorts. The DJ was spinning. A group of probably a dozen people danced, twirled, moved, gyrated, in front of us. This was not simply dancing. This was carefree movement, not afraid of judgment, doing whatever your body felt like doing movement. The dude in the blue suit with the heavy glasses jerking this way and that. The gray haired woman, twirling, twitching her shoulders, pulling her body through the space. The teenager with the massive tattoo on her lower back, bopping back and forth. The blonde, kicking high, dropping to the floor, pulling out never seen before breakdancing moves. Two women twirled another, urging her white skirt higher and higher and higher into the air. We watched, mesmerized.

 

Emily turned to me, wide eyed. I stared at her for a moment. “Are we in the right place?” I asked. “I don’t know,” she replied. “I don’t see Michael anywhere….”

 

We watched the dancers some more.

 

“Look at them, Lori. Everyone is doing exactly what they want to. There’s no judgment here. Let’s dance.”

 

I looked at her. “I know. This is quite bizarro. I feel like I’ve entered a sci-fi movie. Are you sure you want to dance? I feel like, I don’t know, I feel like, we’ve entered a strange place, Emmy.”

 

“Do you feel like everyone’s tripping on something but you’re not?”

 

“Exactly! But it’s fun to watch.”

 

“I really want to dance. But I really don’t want to at the same time. You know in the movies, when everyone is going about their business, and then someone attempts something they shouldn’t, and the soundtrack sounds like everyone going silent and a record being scratched?”

 

I stared at her, urging her to continue with my stare.

 

“I think that’s what would happen if we went and danced. The music would stop. The dancing would stop. Everyone would stop and stare. Screeeeeeeeeeetch.”

 

I laughed wholeheartedly. “Emmy….” I started to say she was being silly. But then I realized she wasn’t. “Let’s do it. Let’s dance.” As the words left my mouth, the people left the dance floor. Only one brave soul remained. The man in the blue suit. He jerked. He gyrated. He was in the spotlight. He was everyone’s private dancer.

 

I turned to Emmy. At the same time we said, “No. Not now.”

 

“Emily, I think we’re in the wrong place.”

 

She laughed. “Let’s ask someone.” As we headed for the lobby, I noticed people sitting in the back row of chairs. “Psst. Emmy. There’s Michael. Right there. We’re in the right place.”

 

She looked long and hard. “No, he looks too stretched out. He wasn’t that long, Lori.” I stared again. “Hey, he’s getting up. Let’s wait here for a moment.”

 

He walked by. Very loudly I whispered, “Michael!”  He didn’t respond. I thought maybe he hadn’t heard me. “MICHAEL!” He turned to me. “I’m not Michael, but it’s a nice name…”

 

We went to the lobby. Emmy asked the ticket takers/bouncers/information desk if there had been an art show earlier. No, there had been a performance earlier, here’s a brochure, but no art show.

 

We took the brochures and left. “We WERE in the wrong place!” I exclaimed. We walked a few more steps and found Michael’s studio. Before entering I turned to Emmy, “I love going out with you. It’s always an adventure…”

“Hey, what are you doing the last week of July?” he asked me.

I thought. “Not sure. What’s up?”

“Come to Boston. Be a volunteer with me and Maggie at the Democratic National Convention.”

“Seriously? Okay, yeah, I’ll think about it.” And within hours I had booked a ticket to Boston.

It’s going to be extremely hard work, it’s going to be exciting, it’s going to be fun, it’s going to be unforgettable.

And Maggie needs more volunteers. Check it out here. Then meet us here.

There are some people who, when they’re around, you can’t help but feeling life is good, all is right with the world, there’s nothing better than this.

That’s the way it is with Cedric.

See, we met many, many years ago. But he was too self-absorbed to be my friend at that time. I dated his brother’s best friend all through high school. He, however, went to a different high school, the “exclusive” high school in our small town in North Carolina, RJReynolds, otherwise known as Society Hill.

We met again in San Francisco. We had happened to go to the same university. And had happened to both end up in the Bay Area. And had happened to end up on the same alumni mailing list. There was a notice that Cedric was coordinating a rave dance event South of Market and his contact information. I wasn’t really into raves, but I was just married, new-ish to the city, and craving connection.

I called. And left the following message. “Uhm. Hi, Cedric. This is Lori. Lori Simos. Lori McLeese Simos. I just saw your name in our Bay Area Alumni newsletter and that you’re coordinating an event and I’d like to help. Or something. I think we know each other. Aren’t you Chris’ brother? Well, hope you’re doing okay. Give me a call when you can.”

He returned my call promptly and we haven’t been apart since. Not “haven’t been apart” in the we see each other every day, do everything together, hang out in the same social circles “haven’t been apart.” More of a “you know me so well, I can tell you anything and not fear being judged, you are always there when I need you even if I don’t know I need you” kind of way.

We had planned to meet for dinner. I was running late. Not surprisingly. But wanted to be on time. Wanted not to disappoint. I arrived at the restaurant 5 minutes after our meeting time. He wasn’t there. I sat outside to read, relishing the cool breeze, loving the coolness against the perspiration I had worked up on my way up the hill. Words, words, words. My muscles relaxing. I felt my phone vibrate. I recognized the number, I thought. “Hi.” “Hello, dear. I thought that was you. Look to your right.”

I glanced up, dropped my phone, ran and threw myself at him. He swung me through the air. “Lori, Lori, Lori…” We hugged tighter. We kissed. We hugged. We screamed. We relished each other’s company. “I am so glad to see you. Have I ever told you how glad I am that you are a part of my life? Let me tell you now.” We laughed then laughed even more at the people’s reactions in the restaurant. Who was this couple? Who couldn’t stop laughing? Who couldn’t stop smiling? Who couldn’t stop talking over each other, trying to find out what was new, what was old, what was important? At one point he grew silent, looked at me in all seriousness and asked, “Do you realize what this is?” I thought. I didn’t. Or did I? No, I didn’t. “What? What is it, Cedric?” “This is our ten year anniversary. It was ten years ago that you called me.”

After many hours of talking, of discussing, of arguing, I left. Left, knowing that if everyone else in the world deserts me, I still have Cedric.