A pipewrench in the cogs of Democracy.

The apprenticeship committee seems to think they have a free supply of slave labor at hand. Us plumbers in training may be eager to lend our services for a valiant cause, but most of the assignments we've received through the years have been of question. There always seems to be some underhanded deal behind the scenes, some personal gain for an unkown string-puller somewhere, some hidden agenda that the likes of us "lower than whale shit" peons aren't to question. This year's "community service" was no different.

They told us we'd be running a phone bank for a local politician whose name we've all seen plastered throughout the county for years. His incumbent status made our efforts feel futile; this guy's been entrenched in his office like a tick between the rolls of fat on a dog's neck for years. In no way did he need our help. That was not the worst part of the task set before us, however. Once again it was the age-old story of the ends not justifying the means. "Phone bank", you see, is a pretty little euphemism for "glorified telemarketers who call during dinner hours". Nobody likes receiving those calls in the evening while trying to enjoy a meal or unwind on a recliner after a long day's work. In fact, if some stranger were to harass me via telephone in the name of some politician I'd probably be even less likely to vote for him. That's why I didn't feel so bad about dialing my own number over and over again on the provided touch-tone phone and pretending the recite the speech the political organizers had handed out to us. "Hello, my name is (blank) and I'm calling on behalf of (so-and-so) to ask you to come out and vote on November Fourth..." Sometimes I'd mix it up by cutting the lines short and shaking my head, a forced frown on my face. It was more convincing if I acted like people hung up on me once in awhile.

When the Higher Ups weren't looking I'd sit back in the cushioned swivel chairs of the campaign headquarters and peruse the list of names and numbers. There were pages upon pages of county residents, I couldn't believe the effort involved. It made me wonder how the information was gathered. Another third-party records salesman perhaps? I recognized some last names common to the region and wondered if they were of any relation to the people I knew. A Pungello from Washingtonville, a Barber from Middletown, a long list of Roses. Then there was a girl I used to know in the Biblical sense from time to time post-party during my drunken rabble-rouser days. Funnily enough, her number was one of the few not listed next to its corresponding name. I took it as a sign not to bother calling her toll-free to catch up and apologize for the blunders of youth. She was one of the few who was older than me anyway, and therefore inherently wiser. I'm sure she's since forgiven me; at least that's what I tell myself.

Naturally there were the funny names. I can't remember all but one of them, thankfully the best one. I'm assuming the man was of Indian descent, maybe Pakistani. The most logical explanation for the poor choice in surname would be a foreign origin. I hoped for his sake that he immigrated here after completing high school in his own country of birth. If not, I'm sure he suffered a world of pain in the form of locker room mockery. "Hey there, Ramdass. Feeling a little sore this morning?" I highlighted his name on my list and passed it along to the other apprentices. A violent chuckle usually came after reading the man's name, or sometimes just a sympathetic snort. By the time the sheet of paper got back to me it had been adorned with an accompanying cartoon devoted to the irony of Mr. Ramdass's name. I'll leave that illustration to your imagination, though; I opt for the written word to express myself. Everyone works best in his own particular medium.

Oddly enough, I think I was the only one of my apprental brethren to refuse to actually call anyone. It's not that I have a problem with authority, it's that I don't believe in advocating for a political campaign that I know very little about simply because my union has told me to do so. As far as I know that politician won his silly election regardless. And me? I got to miss a night of plumbing class, washed three slices of free pizza down with half a liter of equally free Coke, and got these five paragraphs out of the deal. Milk 'em for what you can, brothers.