Party Crasher

Doorbelling is basically the opposite of crashing a
party.

It’s the middle of the day and you’re knocking on the doors of total
strangers, most of whom have no interest in talking to you. And you’re
hot, and tired, and more than likely hung over, and you’re in
fucking Bellevue, and who the hell wants to be there on a sleepy
Sunday afternoon?

You do—that is, if you’re with Mass Transit Now, and if it’s
three weeks before the election, and if you need Eastside votes to
ensure your proposal to build 36 new miles of light rail (and 100,000
new hours of express bus service!) has a chance in hell. If all that
pertains to you, you’ll be slogging through the leafy suburb where
anti–light rail developer Kemper Freeman lives, handing
out flyers to people who may or may not give a damn, making your pitch
to whoever’s around to answer the door.

This particular Sunday, that means, basically, no one—aside
from a couple of harried-yet-excessively-made-up moms, a group of
teenagers disembarking from their mother’s massive SUV, assorted help,
and a 12-year-old too young to vote but old enough to give us a
“fuck you” glare. Most of the few people who answer the door are
receptive, if curt. “I’m still thinking about it,” one says.
“Probably,” another answers when prodded to tell us whether we can
count on her support. And, in the day’s most frightening encounter, a
bathrobe-clad woman with a towel on her head bangs loudly on her
window, mouthing what I assume to be something like “GO BACK TO SEATTLE
YOU FUCKING HIPPIES.”

Otherwise, it’s one closed door after another. No one even
offers us a drink.

And Kemper? His house, which we fail to find after stumbling down
one hilly cul-de-sac after another, has been sold. The teenagers
in the SUV were nice enough to tell us that.

Want The Stranger to leave our politics at the door at
your house party? E-mail the date, place, time, and party details to
partycrasher@thestranger.com.