I got up. It was by-Our-Lady cold, a morning you’d want to let the cats pin you in bed.
My polling place is a couple of blocks west and a couple more south, in the local elementary school, a place I usually give a wide berth. (Jesus, the squealing and squalling from the playground: how can anyone live next door?) Once a year, I walk there to vote. This morning, the better part of valor, in the form of the Ace bandage still encasing my thigh, suggested that I drive. There were reports already filtering through Twitter of ninety-minute lines; I took my walking stick.
I don’t suppose I actually stood there longer than a quarter hour — partly timing, and partly the presence of early voting in my precinct — but it was long enough to witness one obligatory Asshole Voter, who apparently didn’t care if he voted by electronic or paper ballot so long as he stood through the shortest line. Full of bluster and agitation, he managed to misinterpret the poll workers’ directions and head to the electronic line (a long one). Retrenching, he lambasted my long-suffering neighbors — who wants to be trapped in a school gym for thirteen hours, for pity’s sake? — snarling, “I work for the GOVERNMENT and I know how to tell people where to go and what to do.”
I think pretty much everyone in there was prepared to tell him where to go and what to do, but he voted anyway, and left, for which relief much thanks.
There’s always one.