Jennifer Close - The Hopefuls

Ash and I sat by the windows with cups of tea and watched the rain come down. Matt was there, but was on his phone, reading articles about the election while watching coverage on TV. I remember feeling so antsy that day, just waiting, again. Waiting for the storm to get worse, waiting for the power to go out, waiting for it to be over.

The next day, we watched as Obama landed in New Jersey, as he and Chris Christie hugged, which Jimmy had already told us was the plan. “So smart,” Matt muttered. “This could be the thing that pushes Obama over the top, the thing that secures it.”

I watched the two men hug, watched it replay a million times, and I couldn’t help but think: If a televised hug could affect an election, weren’t we all just really screwed?

—

Matt and I had decided months earlier that we’d go to Chicago for election night. Most of our friends (including Jimmy and Ash) would be there, and it felt like we should be a part of it. We flew in early that afternoon, dropped our bags at the hotel, met a few people for dinner, and then headed to McCormick Place.

I don’t remember that much about the actual night — Jimmy arranged to get us into one of the donor rooms, and for most of the time I stood next to Star Jones and drank wine, feeling slightly ashamed that I was wishing for a better celebrity sighting when there was so much more at stake. After the election was called, we were ushered into a roped-off section and stood next to Rahm Emanuel as Obama spoke. It was a blur of cheers and confetti.

But what I do remember perfectly is the next day, when Jimmy took us to campaign headquarters. “The President is going to stop by,” he said, “and you should be there.”

That place was like nothing else I’d ever seen. It was a little bit like a frat house after a party and a little bit like the dorms on the last day of school — everyone was exhausted, hungover, ecstatic about winning, and sad as they started to realize it was all over.

The campaign office was mostly one big open room with desks and tables crowded so close together that you couldn’t tell one from the other. There were a few offices around the perimeter, but most people sat in the middle, using whatever they could for a work space. The whole place was dirty and lived in — empty pizza boxes on the floor, Tabasco bottles on desks, containers of Parmesan cheese and open bags of nuts strewn everywhere. It was clear that the staffers had been eating all of their meals in the office, that they’d probably even slept there every once in a while. The air was a little stale, the way it gets when there’s too many people crowded in one area for a long time.

Around each work space were different decorations — college flags hanging from the ceiling, state posters hung up with clips, American flags, and more Obama 2012 posters than you could count. Deflated balloons were tied to someone’s chair, leftover from a birthday celebration. Whiteboards and chalkboards were still filled with notes and schedules, signs made out of construction paper were taped on the wall, inside jokes and memories, I assumed: REMEMBER IOWA, WE’RE NOT BINDERS, and DON’T FORGET TO BREATHE.

The office was full of people, but no one was sitting at their desks. There was nothing more to be done. Exercise balls that had been used as chairs rolled around as everyone milled about, hugging each other, sometimes laughing or crying with relief, sometimes doing both at once. All around me, I heard people saying over and over again: Congratulations, we did it, and good-bye.

There was a young staffer who’d died during the campaign — unexpectedly and suddenly — and in the corner was a makeshift shrine to him. It had notes from his friends and co-workers, a bottle of his favorite liquor, and a big sign that said, DO IT FOR ALEX. I was tired that morning (we hadn’t slept much the night before), and although I’d never met him, I cried openly as I read the Post-its that people had put up there after he was gone, little random thoughts and notes addressed to him: “I miss you”; “I wish you were here to make binder jokes”; “You would have loved the event today.” Most of them were written by his co-workers, but there was also one from the President and another from the First Lady.

I don’t know how long I stood there crying, but I do remember Matt coming over and taking my elbow. “Come on,” he said quietly, leading me away, probably not wanting the whole office to see his wife weeping.

When the President came, everyone cheered, and I cried some more, but so did everyone else. He talked about how everyone in that room inspired him, how he had so much hope for the world seeing all of these young people who cared so much, how they all made him proud.

Next to me, Matt’s eyes filled with tears, and I realized that in the entire time I’d known him, the only two times I’d seen him cry were during the 2008 and 2012 elections.

—

I think about that day often — it was historic and amazing and I couldn’t believe I got to witness it, sure. But it was also the one time I got it, the only time I came close to understanding why Matt did this, why he’d joined the campaign in 2008, why he regretted not doing it again, why he was willing to give up his vacation days to contribute to it this time. Standing there, I could feel it — the energy, the draw, the desire to be part of this great big thing, this movement that was more than any one person, this feeling that you could start to change the world.

When I tried on my dress for the Inaugural Ball, all Matt could say was “It’s really shiny.” It was the kind of statement people try to pass off as a compliment: “That’s bold.” “Your shirt is unusual.” “I’ve never seen a skirt look like that.”

“It looks like something Vanna White wore on Wheel of Fortune, ” I said.

“It’s not that bad.” But a little smile flickered on his lips and I knew he secretly agreed with me.

“Actually,” I said, looking at myself in the mirror, “I’m pretty sure she wore this exact dress. What am I going to do? It looked so much better online.”

“Why don’t you just wear one of the other ones?” Matt said. I’d rented three different dresses from Rent the Runway, one for each of the balls we were going to — the Black Tie and Boots ball on Saturday (as guests of Jimmy and Ash, of course), the official Inaugural Ball on Monday, and the Staff Ball on Tuesday.

“I can’t do that!” I said. “We’re going to see all the same people at them.” Even Ash, who was almost nine months pregnant, had three different maternity gowns to wear. No one was messing around.

Matt just shrugged his shoulders, knowing that anything he suggested wasn’t going to calm me down as I stood bedazzled in front of him. After a flurry of text exchanges with Ash, I decided my best bet was to head to Friendship Heights, where there were a million stores and had to be at least one suitable dress. But when I got there, every department store looked like it had been ransacked, like a looting had taken place. Who was I kidding? It was the Saturday before the inauguration and every female in DC was desperate for a gown. I tried on one dress that was a size double zero and got stuck as I attempted to pull it over my head, sweating in the dressing room for almost twenty minutes while I swore silently and prayed it wouldn’t rip. There were a few other women there too, circling the store like hyenas, examining the leftover dresses, searching for anything salvageable. Somehow, among the scraps, I found one long black dress that wasn’t horrible. I knew I’d never wear it again, but I bought it immediately. It would have to do.