We stood in line outside the polling place – one of two in the county dedicated to early voting. The line wasn’t budging. We shifted from one foot to another, trying to remain cool and calm.
My husband isn’t one for standing around “doing nothing.”
I remind him, using my best ad-libbed impersonation of Rose Castarini, “Our civic duty is not Nothing. Te amo.”
He smiles and checks the weather on his phone.
Generally, he tries to avoid the likelihood of stagnation whenever possible. He harrumphs whether he’s caught in traffic or on line in the grocery store, and it irks him so much he will sus out (with technological precision) the exact time he would face the least amount of congestion for any given task.
At no time during the preceding nine days, he surmised, could we just breeze on into the municipal building and vote straight away, since everyone in the county would find themselves bottle-necking here or there if they wished to cast an early ballot.
He was placating me and my heightened sense of superstition.
We were traveling. What if we got into a horrifying collision with amnesia and couldn’t drag ourselves to the polls (or even remember where they were)?
What if there was some other emergency? One that took us far away from home. Or a pipe burst and one of us would have to take turns damming the household flood with our fingers so we could each cast a soggy vote on election day.
Better to be safe than sorry.
That’s also what we were thinking as we waited. Twelve minutes had elapsed since the people ahead of us advanced.
Be careful. Don’t look at anyone directly. And don’t say anything that would cause a scene. We don’t know whose voting for whom, though we furtively try to size each other up,
Without slogans emblazoned somewhere on our persons, we could be affiliated with anyone.
So we talk about the weather, and how hungry we are, and what restaurants are open on Wednesday. We wonder if we have anything to cook.
We are still seemingly anchored into place.
A man with a badge clipped to his shirt pocket walks among us to let us know we shouldn't worry. Anyone in line at 8 p.m. will still be able to cast their ballot tonight.
“We’re not usually this slow, but there’s a glitch with the printer. I’m certain it will be fixed soon.”
The news seemed comforting until I consulted my wristwatch and learned we had more than an hour until we reached that threshold. It didn’t cause any revolts. No one broke ranks, and the line remained placidly in a single file.
Finally, a person exited the building.
And then another.
Two more would leave before our line lurched forward.
When we got closer, I stepped over the threshold, uncomfortably close to the strangers ahead of us. They didn’t seem alarmed by my lack of boundaries. Maybe they understood it was just my desire to hurry things along.
And then a friend emerged from the voting room, looking a little dazed.
“I don’t know why they gave me two ballots,” he joked.
My husband follows his lead like a good sidekick: “I guess you’ll have to come back tomorrow and see if you win the lotto.”
The ballots are printing out like poo from a goose, now and we have to say our goodbyes.
As soon as I have my ballot in-hand, there is a new backup. This time at the vote tabulator.
The same guy who walked the line earlier was on the job now to get the bell to ring again.
“Won’t be long now.”
