Count On Your Vote Not Counting (part 1)

Count On Your Vote Not Counting (part 1)
17th
December

Posted by Tom Senkus on Dec 17, 2008 in

Democracy: For the people, by the people.

Woah woah woah... woah. Before you think this will be a meandering "fuck the system, listen to punk rock" diatribe, I beg you to reconsider! No, this is a first-person account of that second part of democracy's slogan: by the people.

More like buy the people. In mid-October, with a terrible job market that screamed "would you like fries with that?", I found myself applying for an endless slew of occupations. Cooking was certainly out of the question, and retail had my fingers cringing from the feel of plastic bags and smiling. The one that stood out was "On-Call Elections Helper". Hourly wage: $11.83. Job description was pretty simple: assist elections process. Let's do the cha-cha to cash register... CHA-CHING!

Two weeks after applying, I answered to a gruff voice on my phone. "Are you still available for work?" I was. "Come on next Tuesday, 3pm, to fill out the paper work." The gruff voice was in no mood for humor, nor was it in for details, like who, what, WHERE... Before McGruffsky could hang up, I siphoned the details.

I would be working for the '08 Election.

November 4th--I arrived at noon to see a line stretched around the block with voters. A sense of patriotism and cynicism attacked my senses--"suckers! I get to cut all of you." A security guard whom I recognized from the library was pulling double-duty for the election.

"Who{m} are you here for?" he asked when I walked up to the security kiosk.

"Ummm, Lindsey... Carole... Kar...." I said, fumbling for names. Shit, I thought, I forgot the head of elections' name. Now, I'll be poor forever, sinking forever into a sea of poverty, eating a never-ending supply of ramen noodles and Tang until I d--

"Oh, you mean Linda B----?" he supplied.

"Yeah!," I exclaimed, "that's her." Bear in mind I was also pregamed a beer beforehand to make a monotonous job bearable. (One must always add in the Bukowski factor to new jobs). The security guard handed me a laminated badge that said "Elections Helper" and led me to another person, whom led me to another person, until finally I was standing outside of the door where I had filled out my W-2's a week prior.

An Asian guy, standing 4' 10'' and bespectacled, loitered awkwardly with me. He was standardly dressed and if I didn't know better, he'd be the inspiration for Hans Moleman from The Simpsons. We exchanged fleeting greetings before Linda beckoned us to her office.

"Here, sit down and read these." She presented a four-page copy of our tasks. The first three pages were for Technician, the last being Helper. My eyes scanned the documents and I was bewildered by the Technician's tasks--it was a maze of acronyms--ISBN, OV, VNF#123--W.T.F?! I finished the package with a sense of dread--I am going to screw up the election! Sheepishly, I asked which of the two tasks we would perform. "Oh, you'll just be the Helper portion." Ahh, sweet relief. The Helper section consisted of "assist the technician, ensure accuracy of information," and some other mumbo-jumbo about doing a good job. I was ready to do 12 hours of a good job.

Hans and I were given a quick orientation of the elections' operation and the ever-important breakroom/bathroom locations. The county employees looked hostile in the breakroom as I eyed their food in the overcrowded refrigerator. Hans wordlessly pulled out a plastic tub of cappucino chocolates and placed them in middle of the table, next to copies of Vogue and Us Weekly. "He's in!" said the scowl-y-est of county employees with a mouthful of his red-pepper antipasto plate.

Next, we were shown the garage that was all aflutter with activity. News camera crews were broadcasting from their vans parked outside, delivery vans shuttled giant boxes in and out by way of tough-looking, off-the-boat Russian immigrants, VIP's nudging each other--it was exciting! And on this election of elections!!!

Finally, we were led to the counting room. Hans and I hung up ours jackets and Linda punched in a security code`on an intimidating red door. We were led in and I was still kind of drunk...