As Soon As He's Free

I’ve begun to settle into my new assignment as Constituent Services Specialist in the McAdams’ administration. What’s it like?

 It’s hugely fun and rewarding, but the best single word to describe it is “various.”

Various, because dealing with constituents is only part of what I do. Various, because constituents themselves are various, and so are their problems.

Let me describe the sort of incident that makes my job a real joy.

There was a man with the dawning realization that he had not received a bill for street improvements in a very long time. He was sure the assessment had not reached its end, but there was no bill, and his check register gave no hint of any payments for a very long time.

His voice was stressed, and his manner betrayed grave concern. Visions of a tax sale haunted his waking thoughts and destroyed his sleep.

 

I asked him for his address and promised to follow up.

It’s true the quality of our personnel at Salt Lake County is superb, they’re hard working people and very consciences. But it’s also true that when I call someone their caller ID flashes in bold blue letters, “BEN MCADAMS.”

My calls seldom have to ring twice

A few moments later a division director and an assistant division director were standing in front of my desk. It seems this man’s bills had been sent to the wrong address. A few moments after that I was calling to tell him that all penalties and interest charges had been erased.

 

For that man this day suddenly became Christmas, and I was Santa Claus. (“And I’m being paid to do this?” I thought.)

 

That was a wonderful moment, and something like it happens almost every day.

Then there are the calls that fall under the category of “Comic Relief.” A few days ago an elderly woman called to complain that a game of ping pong was being played too loudly at her senior center. 

 

Her request?

 

She wasn’t interested in having me quiet the ping pong game, or even end it. No, she wanted Ben to ask her husband why HE wasn’t ending the “damn ping pong game.” Why wasn’t HE doing what his wife requested?

“Yes maam, I’ll bring this up with the Mayor just as soon he’s free. “

 

And there you have my day, from the ridiculous to the sublime, and every last drop of it incredibly fun.

Everything To Celebrate

On the day of the inauguration Ben's new cabinet met for the first time. It was two in the afternoon and we'd spent the morning at an awesome ceremony - complete with honor guards, apostles and choirs.

Sitting around the long conference table were four distinct groups. First, there was the remnant of the old guard; those who had served with distinction during the previous administration. They were alone in being familiar with everything, except perhaps with the new mayor himself.

Second, there was a group of newly recruited experts. They had resumes listing elite universities that would have rejected me. And those were't the schools from which they'd graduated, those were the schools where they'd taught.

They were bright hyper-achievers, but most lacked familiarly with both the County, and with Ben.

Third, there was a much smaller group - the group to which I belonged. This group was so small that calling it a "group" is misleading. A better term would be "duet," since it included only Joel Freston and me.

We had been a part of Ben's campaign, and all we were familiar with was Ben himself. We were expert in absolutely nothing else. In fact, just a few hours earlier we learned that "County" wasn't spelled with a "K."

Finally, there was the group that included Nichole Dunn, our deputy mayor, Justin Miller, our associate deputy mayor, and Ben himself. They sat at the head of the table as if on the side of Mount Rushmore. At that singular moment in them resided all authority and all initiative.

When Ben spoke there was the advanced attention hard to find outside the company of air traffic controllers.

His comments were affable, reassuring and full of enthusiasm. But during their entirety most of the room didn't take a breath. It occurred to me Ben's audience was composed mostly of survivors and strangers. They hoped for the best, maybe even expected the best, but they couldn't be absolutely sure of anything.

Eventually Ben's welcome came to an end, and then there was nothing. Not a word. Only silence.

I couldn't stand it.

Something in me wouldn't allow this moment to deny who Ben was, and how fortunate we all were. So the glorified receptionist at the far end of the table spoke up.

"I think I speak for everyone here," I said, "I feel like a kid at Disneyland. We have everything to look forward to, and we're so very fortunate to be here. Thanks for including us Ben. We'll do everything we can to make you the very best mayor in the U.S.A."

The remark about Disneyland was puerile, maybe even fatuous, but it was intentional. I wanted this group of august people to know that even the least among them had nothing to fear, and everything to celebrate.

Ben is the mayor, yes, and that's good news. But the even better news is not "what" he is... it's "who" he is. And if some guy at the end of the table can rattle on about Disneyland fearlessly, then exactly what form of candor is not allowed? What kind of authentic response is off the table?

I don't know if I made my point, and in the end I probably succeeded only in looking ridiculous. Yet I know, inevitably, Ben will make my point far more convincingly than I ever could.

One With a Desk?

The night of the election was a moment of triumph blended with loss. Ben won, but now the campaign, and the community it created were over. Even as I stood by Ben at the Sheraton negotiating the waves of adulation I was haunted by what was ending.

We started in the spring more than a dozen points down, erased that deficit, and then won decisively. Now, my role was to wave "Bon Voyage," as the SS McAdams sailed off to become a new county government - no small project for a burgeoning body politic destined to become, in about eight years, over half the size of the city of Chicago.

At that moment, for me, the ride was over. My friend Joel sensed my mixed emotions. He suggested I might apply for a county volunteer board, and I reviewed the options. One advisory board dealing with bicycles had my interest.

I'd wait for Ben to settle in and make my application.

Then someone mentioned a few positions in the new government that Ben would have to fill. Maybe I should apply. I took a flier and submitted my resume, innocent of any salary expectations - with no position specified. Out of the blue a call came from a woman named Debbie asking to schedule an interview.

What I remember about that interview with Nichole
Dunn is speculation about the cost of a child's college education. No doubt there was more, but that's all that I recall. I spent the hour petrified she'd ask something about mill levies.

A week later I was at work when my phone exploded in my pocket. It was Ben.

"I'm calling to offer you a job," he said.

"Yes," I replied.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I'll take it." I blurted out.

He paused for a moment, thinking how to rearrange the script he'd designed for the call.

Ben proceeded with a description of the job title and salary level: the specifics of which hit my ear drum and then bounced off.

Finally he concluded, "Would there be a problem if we announced your acceptance?"

That sentence I heard.

"A problem? What kind of problem could there possibly be?"

I hung up and stood with a blank expression. Eventually a fellow crew member asked, "Who was that?"

"Our new mayor," I replied.

"What did he want?"

"He offered me a job," I said, incredulously.

"Really? One with a desk?"

"I think so."

With that I walked up to the office, sat down, and composed a two sentence e-mail giving my two weeks notice.

Something happened to me that happens to only .0000005% of the adult American population. At the age of 62 I began a new career more excited about tomorrow than at any other time in my wonderfully blessed life.