The line of 20 would-be voters stretched out into the rain; by their expressions, most hoped the guy handing out Democrat sample ballots in the parking lot would catch pneumonia.
Rolling out of bed minutes before I stood in line, I dumped wet food into the cat's bowl, I trudged down the street just as our forecasted day of showers began. I expected a problem plus many more beyond mine, so I thought the poll workers could deal with this scenario at first ballot.
The poll workers gave into us at 6:30 a.m. and immediately wished the throng still stood outside (when I left 25 minutes later, the line had expanded across the church's courtyard). In short: Something complicated the process for every other voter in my precinct. My flaw - new address, same precinct. Hello, provisional ballot status. I half-heartedly hoped someone would challenge my address so I could walk them across the parking lot and invite them in for the continental breakfast (toast, yogurt and cranberry juice).
But I was going provisional; sweet talking doesn't work on poll workers, especially those with wedding rings. I voted that way in '02 on a tiny punch card behind a heavy curtain. I had no problem taking up that little metal poker again. It was getting to the ballot that posed the problem.
A small stack of paperwork later, I found my curtain-free booth, punched the screen with my thumb three dozen times, grabbed an "I voted" sticker, which by 9 a.m. already began to peel away from my shirt pocket at its edges.
At least I got to jump in the shower when I got home, removing the taint of bureaucracy and glitch-filled technology standing in the path of my civic duty.
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