Voting is a private act. Behind the drawn curtain you are undisturbed. Tranquil. Just you and the ballot, together in your four-sided sanctuary.
Until it gets crashed into by a clumsy 12-year-old point guard named Colby during a high pick-and-roll.
Democracy, indeed, takes work. But it’s not just “outreach” and “education.” It means facing a challenge no civics class or library card can prepare you for: being assaulted by ten sweaty sixth graders and one germy Spalding.
When I arrived at the Garfield Middle School gymnasium after a long day at Brandt, Clark & Moore, I had no idea. Disturbed by a sign Scotch-taped to a plastic folding table reading “Entry $2,” I threatened to call up the Department of Justice to report a poll tax. But my anxiety was misplaced.
“It’s $2 to see the Gophers take on their rivals, the Concord Cavaliers!” a woman behind the table said cheerfully. I holstered my Pixel 9 Pro.
Inside, it was a full house. A madhouse. The blood-curdling shrieks from my fellow voters made me think this was a belated haunted house. My head spun.
My jello legs got me to check-in, where I fumbled for my driver’s license.
Bounce bounce bounce, squeak squeak BOUNCE.
Next thing I knew, my ID and Tom Ford frames both got knocked to the ground and trampled thanks to a steal and fast break by Brayden. When I bent down to pick them up, he was running back on defense, stopping to dab in my face.
God truly does reserve his toughest battles for his strongest soldiers.
Shattered glasses in hand, I went to obtain a ballot at center court. There, an exasperated older man named Bill described his experience handing them out.
“These kids, they… they keep using me as a pick,” he explained, looking not at me, but through me. It was tough to take in.
I expressed my sympathies, then found a booth in the northeast corner of the court beside the news cameras and the Gatorade. Moms were edgy about wires being tripping hazards. Cameramen were anxious about spills. I hastily drew the curtain.
Bounce squeak squeak, bounce bounce CLANG.
I looked up, like Detective Harry Temple in Speed when he knows the bomb beside him is about to detonate. Sure enough, the orange menace shot into the booth from overhead and into my trembling hand, probably bruising a knuckle and definitely smudging my Apple Watch.
Voter intimidation! There was no doubt. Yet I resolved not to waste precious time mentioning it to one of the three poll workers named Barb. I had to get out of the trenches. And fast.
First, a new ballot, given the inadvertent ink mark. Bill, the poor guy—he flinched when I came up to him.
I couldn’t return to that booth, not with the escalating threat of mom-on-cameraman combat. So I chose another, which was beside Brayden, who was reenacting his dab with the help of Corduroy. I averted my eyes.
Inside, I made my selection, peeked out of the curtain, re-tied my Oxfords, counted down from five, got to one, choked down two Ibuprofen, practiced some Reiki, counted down from ten, got to one, then hurried toward the ballot-counting machine, enduring a sharp elbow to the kidney, a slimy mouthguard to the ear, and some slanderous name-calling that I shall not repeat here.
Yet problems remained. I had set two moving screens, livid Cavalier parents protested. They stood up to scream, obstructing the view of anti-fraud poll watchers. More yelling ensued.
It was a nail-biter, after all: a tie game with ten seconds left in a tossup state where polls closed in ten minutes.
Bounce clang bounce, squeak clang WHISTLE.
A foul call gave Garfield two shots. Some in the crowd clutched Gopher-embroidered apparel for good luck. I clutched my ballot, out of fear.
I wiped my brow and stepped up to the machine with a sense of resolve, hardened by the tribulations of such trying circumstances. Incredibly, no technical difficulties. No wayward balls. No kids making weird sounds to get me to look at them just so they could say, “What are you looking at?” I pumped my fist. After putting his team in the lead, Jaxson did the same.
He sank the second, too. Final score: 51-49.
I took an “I Voted” sticker and slapped it on. The anti-participation trophy faction in the stands booed this profusely. I didn’t care.
I triumphantly swung my keys around my finger as I took one final look around the gymnasium. Many were awed by my heroic execution under pressure. Children pointed with mouths agape. Women clasped their hands over their hearts. Even the gruffest of men gave nods of approval.
Well, I’m pretty sure. I had to squint.