The Accidental Voter

Ross Perot was my kind of man back in 1992. He was feisty, contrary to the slick coiffed politicians too smooth for their own good that I’d become accustomed to seeing on TV and billboards.  I was in my mid twenties and after spending a few years meandering around the country, trying on new experiences like new pairs of shoes, I’d managed to be in my hometown on that Election Day on a blue skied, blustery November morning. I hoped my original voter registration would qualify me to vote at the local elementary school.  The school was just down the same road from where I’d been thrown off the handlebars of my friend’s bicycle onto the gravely shoulder when I was around fourteen. 

But that’s another story.

Sure enough, the lady poll worker with her never-goes-out-of-style beehive salt and pepper hair scanned the list of names, as did I, and confirmed my legal right to vote.

The line was moving right along and soon enough it was my turn in the booth with the thick burgundy colored cloth curtain.  The curtain was supposed to magically release itself and allow the voter to slide it open after casting his or her final choice.  I’m always a little nervous with technical gadgetry, even as antiquated as this was.  So I was slow and careful pushing the levers that cast my vote for Ross Perot and a few other candidates I wasn’t nearly as sure about.  I waited for the curtain to click and release itself. And me.

Nothing happened.

I reached up to pull the curtain back but the metal hooks wouldn’t budge.  “Uh…excuse me, sir…over here…yoo-hoo…. can you…isn’t the curtain supposed to release itself after I pull that thingamajig? “ I stammered as I poked my head out from behind the curtain.  A white-haired gentleman with kind eyes walked over and calmly confirmed to me that indeed, unless the “mechanism” released itself automatically, my vote wouldn’t be recorded. I stood there in that uncomfortable place between confidence and uncertainty, and after more consultation with other workers and even a telephone call to central voting command, it was determined I could not leave the voting booth and have my vote count unless and until the mechanical curtain functioned as it was intended.

Bummer.

For over an hour, I stood inside the booth, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, my face starting to burn red from folks passing wondering glances at me.  I had to protect my vote.  I fantasized that my one vote could swing the election.  Was this a portent of a future voting experience clouded with trying to define the intricacies of just what a chad was, and further to what degree of connection qualified that chad as hanging?  I tried to diffuse my embarrassment with slightly witty comments to a few of the more chatty folks, despite the near snarling look on beehive lady poll worker’s face assigned to keep things flowing smoothly, and doing a fine job for sure.

I mean it wasn’t like I was whispering, “Vote for Perot” or anything like that.

Finally, a strapping young fellow with a serious look on his face, a heavy tool belt around his waist, and an even heavier toolbox by his side appeared before me.  He acted like he’d seen this kind of thing before, smiled politely and asked me to step aside.   He did something with a wrench and another tool to the mechanism above my head, and voila’, the magic curtain clicked.

I pulled back the drapery easy as pie.

I could go now, assured that my vote had been recorded and counted for all posterity and the state of Alabama. The line of mostly middle-aged men and women was starting to curl around through the hallways and near to the stream of kids making their way to the morning’s first class.  It was still quiet, even the kids were talking softly, maybe figuring they might get hushed too if they spoke out loud.  Now in the scheme of what folks worldwide have endured for the privilege of voting, my little delay pales in comparison, I readily concede.

And we all know that Ross Perot’s speck on the political scene has since disappeared.  But when I got into my car I couldn’t help the feeling that came over me.  It was the feeling that nothing else I would do that day or perhaps even in my near future was as important as spending that hour waiting to make sure my choice for the next President of the United States of America was counted, by God.

I peeled the label off the “I Voted” sticker and pressed it firmly onto my collar. 

©2005