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Across the dark living room, one of Childs's favorite pictures is displayed on a worn coffee table. It shows Childs with her arms wrapped around Barack Obama, his hand on her back, her eyes glowing. They met at a rally attended by 37 supporters on a rainy day in 2007, when Childs responded to Obama's sluggishness on stage with an impromptu chant: "Fired up! Ready to go!" She repeated it, shouting louder each time, until Obama laughed and dipped his shoulders to the rhythm. The chant caught on. "Fired up!" people began saying at rallies. "Ready to go," Obama chanted back. He told audiences about Childs, "a spirited little lady," and invited her onstage at campaign appearances. By the day of his inauguration, when Childs led a busload of strangers bound for the Mall in her now-iconic chant, her transformation was complete. She was Edith Childs, fired up and ready to go.
But now, as Obama nears the 100-day milestone of his presidency, Childs suffers from constant exhaustion. In a conservative Southern state that bolstered Obama's candidacy by supporting him early in the Democratic primaries, she awakens at 2:30 a.m. with stress headaches and remains awake mulling all that's befallen Greenwood since Obama's swearing-in.
On Day 4 of his presidency, the Solutia textile plant laid off 101 workers. On Day 23, the food bank set a record for meals served. On Day 50, the hospital fired 200 employees and warned of further job cuts. On Day 71, the school superintendent called a staff meeting and told his principals: "We're losing 10 percent of our budget. That means some of us won't have jobs next year, and the rest should expect job changes and pay cuts." On Day 78, the town's newly elected Democratic mayor, whose campaign was inspired partly by his admiration for Obama, summarized Greenwood's accelerating fragility. "This is crippling us, and there's no sign of it turning around," Welborn Adams said.
On Day 88, the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics announced that South Carolina had set a record for its highest unemployment rate in state history, at 11.4 percent. Greenwood's unemployment is 13 percent -- more than twice what it was when Childs first started chanting.
"We have a lot of people who live in cold houses, with no jobs and no food," Childs says. [...]
Now Obama is president, and she still believes he will help rescue Greenwood County. But her enthusiasm has faded into a wary optimism. "He's only one man, and there's a lot to get done," she says, a predicament she knows all too well.
"I never used to get tired, but I'm running out of energy," she says. "It's stressful. Maybe one problem gets fixed, but it's not fixed for long, and while you've been doing that, four other people have called asking for help."
And their messages are waiting. [...]
Working on her daily to-do list one April morning, Childs visits an unemployed friend in Promised Land, a town of trailers 10 miles outside Greenwood, and then drops off a bag of food for a 92-year-old woman whose cupboard has emptied of everything but grits.
"Somebody probably needs something in every house we pass," Childs says as she drives. "A lot have problems too big to solve."
Just before 1 p.m., she pulls into Greenwood's normally deserted downtown for a few more errands and notices a large crowd gathered in front of the courthouse. More than 200 people are dressed in red, white and blue and are waving miniature American flags. Childs asks a friend for details and learns that it is a "tea party" to protest Obama's economic policies, one of about 1,000 similar events coordinated on Tax Day across the country.
"Of course it's going to be a lot of white Republicans, and mostly men," Childs says as she walks through the crowd and finds a spot alone at the rear of the plaza. "I want to see this, but I'm keeping my distance." [...]
After each speaker finishes, Childs retreats a few steps farther from the crowd. A part of her would like to go grab the bullhorn and tell these people to "keep their mouths shut and give Obama a little time," she says. But she woke up at 3 a.m. again this morning, and she can't go home for a nap until she pays $100 on a constituent's bill at the water company and stops by a city office to inquire about possible job openings for Hackett.
"Let them have their tea party," Childs says. "They're just looking for somebody to blame. My ears are full." [...]
Hackett grabs a copy of her résumé, printed on watermarked paper, and walks into the Sykes telemarketing center. A receptionist hands her a clipboard with an application, and Hackett sits in a blue chair in the waiting room to fill it out. Under references, she lists Childs and some prior bosses. Under salary preference, she writes "Negotiable."
After 25 minutes that conclude with her shaking a tired right hand, Hackett signs the application and delivers it to the receptionist, who promises to get in touch. Only after Hackett thanks her and turns for the exit does she notice the waiting room is now full. Six people sit with pens and clipboards, filling out the same application she just turned in. As she walks out, she forces a smile to hide what she already knows: She will never hear about the Sykes job again.
