Part I: I was a Paid Signature Gatherer: The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

Following is a four-part series sharing the story of my time in the Pacific Northwest as a paid signature gatherer for a variety of issues. I couldn’t have imagined when I started this job the highs and lows I would experience, the kind and incredibly interesting friends I would make and the strange and dramatic way it would all end.

Part I is free to all subscribers. Parts II, III and IV will be for paid subscribers.

Part II – Wednesday, Part III – Friday, Part IV – Sunday.

Part I

I was a paid signature gatherer.

I’m not proud of it. Or ashamed of it. But I was paid real money to get voters’ signatures on paper in order to get initiatives on the ballot. It was a job I had for a month and I took the job for two reasons: 1) I thought it would be noble and educational to be involved in the legislative process at the grassroots level, talking to the voters, influencing our legislators and inspiring change, and 2) As a young person finding my way, I needed to make enough money fast to make a fresh start somewhere new. If I worked hard, I knew I would achieve this goal.

I read about the job in the classifieds of the Seattle Times and after a short interview to which I wore a suit from a thrift store, pantyhose and pumps, was offered the job. I accepted and embarked upon perhaps the most adventurous month of my life to that point.

I was hired in Seattle to canvass the city for registered voters who were willing to sign petitions to get issues on the ballot. The specific issues I was working on were term limits, property tax and health care reform. I remember my employers, a shady married couple from a southern state who were contracted to gather the signatures necessary to get the issues on the Washington ballot in November, telling me it didn’t really matter how I felt about the issues. They told me, “It’s important to get this issue on the ballot and then let the voters decide. This gives them the chance, the opportunity, to say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ ”

So I hit the pavement. I got up every morning, took King County Metro Transit from the University District to downtown Seattle and worked to fill my signature sheets. At 25 cents or 75 cents or even $1.25 a signature, depending on the issue, there was money to be made. I spent my days wherever the people were – Pioneer Square, Pike’s Place Market, the Space Needle - and I filled my signature sheets. One after another. 

“Excuse me, are you registered to vote in the state of Washington?” If the answer was “yes,” they would, more than likely, sign my sheets.

I was good at my job. So good, in fact, that after a week of canvassing, my employers called me into their headquarters - an office in an industrial area with no signage or furniture, a few cardboard boxes, and carpet and windows that were much too clean - and told me I had “real potential.” Then they told me some big issues were coming up in Oregon and Ohio. They needed their best people to join them. They referred to us as “the cream of the crop.”

I’m not a snob and I don’t mean to pass judgment, but when I got on that chartered bus with my duffle bag, headed for Portland, I hardly felt like I, or any of my fellow travelers in this enterprise, was the cream of the crop. For heaven's sake, more than a few of us were actually homeless. But we were all in this thing together, with the same goal and living the same experience, no matter where our lives had been or where they would eventually go.

It was on that two-plus hour bus ride to Oregon that we bonded. Standing out in this motley crew were James from Des Moines, Eric from Oakland, Bobbi from Atlanta and Calvin from Gary, Indiana. For the next three weeks, these would be my dearest friends in the world. I would come to know them, like them and care about them in ways that still warm my heart decades later. 

At first the rules were simple. We would be lodged at the Motel 6 in Tigard, eventually moving on, more than 250 miles south, to a Super 8 in Medford. Everyone got their own room as long as they met their signature “quota.” Fall below the quota and you had to share a room (with whom I’m still not sure). Fall really far below the quota and you had to pay for your half of your shared room.

Issues we were working on: Indian gaming, tobacco tax and collective bargaining. And, depending on the initiative, we would be paid anywhere from 75 cents to $1.50 per signature. The take had gone up.

We did our homework, researching where the biggest crowds would be each day. I worked crowds at gun shows and gem shows and drag races. When there were no special events, I chatted up the folks entering the Walmart in Talent and the Fred Meyer in Medford. My biggest problem was that I had too much fun visiting with people and, in this job, you needed to move fast. I wasn’t being paid to make friends. Get their signature and move on. My hard work paid off. I never had to share a room.

Read Part II on Wednesday

You can reach me at dunningsm@gmail.com