Count On Your Vote Not Counting (part 3-the end)

Count On Your Vote Not Counting (part 3-the end)
19th
December

Posted by Tom Senkus on Dec 19, 2008 in

Salvation may be a pop song, but nothing will save your vote. All meticulouity meanders this way of mendaciousness, absolutinanimisity! So, besides Terrell Owens being your new Water and Soil Commissioner, the job was pure monotony. Polls had closed and the wall was still lined with more boxes--uncounted boxes surely outnumbered the sluggish output pace of tenured state employees and temporaries like myself.

I was cut to my 2nd 15-minute break when it happened. Hans Moleman's espresso-flavored chocolates were still on the breakroom table, albeit resting on their side with a few spilling out near the Us Weekly's and Better Homes. I grabbed one, made charming banal banter with women old enough to be flirted with, grabbed another.

"...And now President-elect Barack Obama will prepare to address his supporters..."

"McCain was so graceful in speech," chimed in a news reporter or one of the old ladies--who knows where the origin of the parrot comes from...

Wait. So, they're saying the election's over? That "yes, we can" and "yes, we did" was already in full effect? What about those votes... uncounted? The scowling Russian youths still hauled in the boxes on the catering carts. The observers were still there rubbing their exposed skin in contemplative thought--especially 'ol Blondie the Made-Up Oldie.

So, double-u tee-eff!! The wind in my sails?

Poof.

When I got back to my station, I told Bud. "Hey, the election's over. Isn't it kind of funny how, I dunno, that we still have to count them. I mean, I understand the electoral votes and stuff, but..." Bud smiled and worked just as diligently. The gruff grandpa figure next to us sighed, and shoved more votes into the machine. My morale was gone, but the hardened city employees soldiered on. Battle tested, battle approved.

On my first 15-minute break, Linda had put her arm on my shoulder (all old women flirt) and asked, "Honey, would you like to come back tomorrow and work?" Stupidly, I agreed to an 8am shift--which left, like, 4 hours for sleep after getting drunk to cope with dullness. And now? My little ship on the patriotic Democra Sea was stranded (yeah, I'm hating that little literary device, too).

Then, the tugboat of a "lunch" break came. It was 9pm, and outside the voting center people were celebrating. Musicians with fedoras played oompah music--there were tubas. A soundsystem blared ambient dubstep to sets of people dancing. There was kissing. Every club on the way to the Mexican food place was filled with revelers and smiling brunettes. Chewing on a burrito and a Coke (no Negro Modelo--I kind of needed the job for, like, bills... man) inside of a bus station enclosure, I took in the scene.

What was it all worth? Was it just entertainment? As our Soviet predecessors would say, bread and circus? As our English rockstars would say, "new boss, same as the old boss, won't get fooled again!" Even the tone of the election had some wagging of the dog--with a tragic grandmother that just so happens to die right before "her" moment of glory. Or, the last-second scandals unearthed for dramatic effect. There were clever catchphrases! Lots of red, white, and blue. And, just the massive foreplay leading to a predictable climax...

I came back from my break. The security guard didn't even look up from his post as I walked in the building, filing behind another worker. "How was your lunch," he asked. "It was good. Mexican," I provided.

The machines still whirred and I was back being a Helper.

"Look at all these ballots. They've got chocolate or something on them. Bloody, bloody, bloody," Bud said, feeding the ballots into the hopper. "Overvote, overvote, Ooooo-veeeeeeee, those last three," came his faggy sing-song. It was true. All those votes were being invalidated by someone who just couldn't lay off the Choco Tacos or ketchup on their fries (there were concession carts to satiate/capitalize-on the queued voters).

"Bud, your thumb," said the grandfather.

"Oh, oopsy," Bud said. I turned to look to see a stream of blood coating ballot after ballot. Bud got a band-aid.

Oops.

At the end of the shift, our efforts seemed inconsequential. More votes were stacked against the wall than we had counted, the main part of the election already called--just give me a paycheck, okay? The nightshift had taken over, looking more butt-fugly than the previous shift--hard to believe, but the creatures of the night are not blessed with the features that look right.

After reluctantly giving my badge back to the security guard, a dark-blue car pulled up to the curb and Bud, whom offered me a ride home, motioned me to the back seat. "Say 'hello', Jim," Bud said to his significant other, "and say 'hello', Ruby!" A dark-colored Schnauzer jumped into my lap. Its fur was as soft and comforting as the end of the shift. Exhaustion took hold.

"McCain was so graceful in speech, y'know," said Jim, in a languid way.

"Oh yeah," replied Bud.

"He basically said that between the two candidates

Meanwhile, Ruby and I were getting as legally hot and heavy as dog and man can be before commiting heinous acts of beastiality. Ruby was generous with the kisses, and I concentrated on Ruby's dog-rump with scratching from my weary, red-pencil writing hands. Jim drove smoothly across the scenic bridge towards my house, the city lit up as a frozen explosion of light.

My brother was home when I opened the door to my apartment, jamming out to NoMeansNo. "I fucking couldn't even go downtown and drink, the fucking idiots are yelling 'Obama' and I don't give a fuck. A fuck. These people were running out in the street with pots and pans, and I thought, 'what the fuck is this shit?' How was your fuckin' election thing?"

"Ah, it sucked. Do you wanna go to Tony's Tavern? I could use a greyhound." We walked to the bar and I had a whiskey sour instead.