Elections – humor
I entered my designated polling station at 9 am on Election Day, ready to perform my civic duty. A mighty, bombastic facade that hides a facility for assisted living. A group of fifteen or so people were waiting in the lobby outside the actual polling station, scattered about in no particular formation. Two sat in wheelchairs, two had walkers. It was unclear to me if this was where I was supposed to wait, who was first and last in line, and if there even was a line.
“Um…excuse me, is this where we vote? Who is last in line?”
People look at each other, some mumble unintelligibly. “Well…..we’re together….these people just came in….I think those two are last….”
Ok, I say, and go and stand behind “those two.”
A man in a white hat gives me a friendly look and says, “I actually came here before you.”
I go stand behind White Hat. Since these people aren’t really able to stand in line, it would make sense for us to have numbers, like at the pharmacy. I think. Apparently, one of the workers has telepathic powers and reads my mind. He disappears, and returns a few minutes later, clutching ripped up pieces of paper, with numbers scribbled on them. My husband and I receive a number nine, and we all feel safe enough to sit down on chairs without losing our turns.
More people arrive. “I have a number,” announces an empty-handed lady with red hair. “It’s on my voting notice.”
“That’s not the number of your turn,” my husband patiently explains. “That’s a different number.” I look at my own voting notice, which says number 492. I quickly hide it, just in case.
A smiling lady who works for the Election positions herself by the doors, and calls out a number. We all move one chair to the left. The lady to my left explains what’s going on in French, to her wheelchair-bound companion.
“I have a number. It’s on my voting notice,” calls out the red-haired lady.
It seems the quick-thinking worker with the ripped-up notebook paper only made ten numbers, and there are now twenty people waiting. This gives me an idea: After I vote, someone could use my number. Why not recycle?
White Hat goes in to vote.
An English-speaking young mother with three small, blond children walks in. “You want some candy? You can only have it if you sit down,” she says to one of the kids, who sits down, takes the candy bag, and promptly spills the contents. “Oh no!”
It’s our turn. We go in. We vote. We leave. It’s been forty minutes. Of which two were spent voting.
On the way out I meet a young woman who had left without voting, hoping to return later when there hopefully would be fewer people. “Is it any better now? How many people?”
“I’ll sell you my number nine,” I say, showing her my precious scrap of paper. “Ooh, how much?!” Her eyes widening. “Twenty shekels,” I blurt out. Another lady approaches us: “But I have a number eight! That’s a better number. You can have it for twenty five shekels!” At that point, Mr White Hat elbows his way between us, brandishing his number eight: “Take mine for thirty shekels! It’s the best!”
“Wait, how can you both have number eight?”
White Hat smiles mysteriously.
We all performed our civic duty.
We voted.
