r.kv.r.y. quarterly literary journal
fall 2008 winter 2009
literary non-fiction
polling place blues by Joel Deutsch
"Ninety-nine and a half just won't do," sings soul man Wilson
Pickett to a reluctant lover. "Just won't get it." When it comes to
disability access accommodations, same thing applies.
fall 2008 winter 2009
literary non-fiction
polling place blues by Joel Deutsch
"Ninety-nine and a half just won't do," sings soul man Wilson
Pickett to a reluctant lover. "Just won't get it." When it comes to
disability access accommodations, same thing applies.
I scrawled my signature where a polling place worker had his finger pressed
down on what looked to me like a blank page in the voter registration book.
Now I would request that someone accompany me to the voting booth. I'd
done my homework. No explanations needed, not about the candidates or the
state and local issues, either. Punch, punch, punch. Five minutes, tops.
Probably less.
But then someone grabbed me by my elbow so abruptly that I almost dropped
my white cane, and led me away to a smaller table.
"Sit down," he said, pulling out a chair. I sat and found myself looking at a
small, light-colored box. I ran my hand over it. It had a plastic shell. On its top
surface were raised left , right, up and down arrows plus a large button
encircled by a protective ridge to prevent it being accidentally pressed.
"This is our blind voting machine," explained my new friend, who I'll call Dave.
"You're the first one to use it this election. Put these on." He handed me a pair
of headphones.
I listened but all I could hear was the chatter of the crowded room. I took off
the headphones.
"Dave?" I asked. But Dave had disappeared. After a few long moments, he was
back.
"What?" he sounded exasperated.
"Nothing's coming over these," I said, holding the phones out to him. "Have
you ever tried to work this yourself?"
"That's not necessary," Dave huffed. "I don't have to know how to use it. Just
put on the headphones like I told you." And then he was gone again.
When I put them back on, a man was already in the midst of reciting some
instructions I'd missed the beginning of.
"Dave?" No answer. I set the headphones on top of the machine, got up and
found my way over to the end of the main table. "Where's Dave?" I asked the
poll worker closest to me. A man, it turned out when he spoke.
"He's not here."
"Where did he keep going before, when I was trying to use that blind voting
machine?" I asked. "Did you see?"
"He had to do something on the computer over there against the wall. That's
how it works."
"Then where's the precinct captain?" I asked. "I haven't voted yet, and I can't
work that thing by myself."
"Dave's the precinct captain," the man said. " Now look, just leave me alone,
okay? I'm busy, and you aren't helping me."
Despite my better intentions, I lost it. "It's you who's supposed to be helping
me!" I snapped as I returned to my little table, took a seat again, and tried to
regroup. I felt around the side panels for some kind of start, pause and stop
switches, but found nothing other than the little chrome ring of the headphone
jack.
Maybe I should just forget it and go home, I considered ruefully. American
democracy would surely survive without my participation this time. But the
thought failed to console. I just couldn't accept being so absurdly
disenfranchised.
"Remember me? We folded our clothes next to each other at the laundromat a
few weeks ago." The voice was female, thirty-something.
Let's call her Veronica. She was an actress, and I'd enjoyed our chat much
more than I'd enjoyed talking to the man who'd earlier bent my ear about
extraterrestrials building the pyramids at Giza, or the Hillary Clinton supporter
who, during the Presidential primary campaign, assured me that only affirmative
action could have gotten Barak Obama elected President of the Harvard Law
Review.
"I've just finished voting," she said, and I saw you sitting here. "Is there
anything I can help you with?"
A few minutes later, out on the sidewalk, my savior introduced me to a male
friend who was waiting for her. They'd offer me a ride home, Veronica said,
except that she was on her way to an audition for a commercial. As she spoke,
I found myself wondering what Veronica actually looked like, beyond the nearly
generic medium-sized human figure my eyes could still detect. I wondered what
her friend looked like. Wondered what the long line of restless shadows waiting
to get into the polling place looked like.
Actually, I wonder all the time what people look like. Not having exchanged a
smile, a frown or even an indifferent glance with anyone for ten years, I am
always wondering how a person survives the profound isolation the loss of
faces causes, let alone the invisibility of other human beings which will be my lot
if I should outlive my last photoreceptor cells, brings on.
"You know," she said, "you kind of surprised me."
"How?" I asked.
"I mean, you voted exactly the same as I did, on everything"
I understood. I was probably twice her age, and I was wearing ordinary,
off-the-rack casual clothes, not exactly the sartorial semiotics of hipness and
liberality in Los Angeles.
I thanked Veronica for her help, wished her good luck with the audition, and
headed off for the nearest bus stop while she and her friend went the other
way to get their car. One end of my "I Voted" sticker was already unpeeling
itself from my shirt pocket. As I walked along I pressed it back down. Maybe if
I'd worn a cotton shirt instead of permanent press polyester that morning, I
thought, the sticker might have stayed put, and maybe Veronica wouldn't have
been quite so surprised.
down on what looked to me like a blank page in the voter registration book.
Now I would request that someone accompany me to the voting booth. I'd
done my homework. No explanations needed, not about the candidates or the
state and local issues, either. Punch, punch, punch. Five minutes, tops.
Probably less.
But then someone grabbed me by my elbow so abruptly that I almost dropped
my white cane, and led me away to a smaller table.
"Sit down," he said, pulling out a chair. I sat and found myself looking at a
small, light-colored box. I ran my hand over it. It had a plastic shell. On its top
surface were raised left , right, up and down arrows plus a large button
encircled by a protective ridge to prevent it being accidentally pressed.
"This is our blind voting machine," explained my new friend, who I'll call Dave.
"You're the first one to use it this election. Put these on." He handed me a pair
of headphones.
I listened but all I could hear was the chatter of the crowded room. I took off
the headphones.
"Dave?" I asked. But Dave had disappeared. After a few long moments, he was
back.
"What?" he sounded exasperated.
"Nothing's coming over these," I said, holding the phones out to him. "Have
you ever tried to work this yourself?"
"That's not necessary," Dave huffed. "I don't have to know how to use it. Just
put on the headphones like I told you." And then he was gone again.
When I put them back on, a man was already in the midst of reciting some
instructions I'd missed the beginning of.
"Dave?" No answer. I set the headphones on top of the machine, got up and
found my way over to the end of the main table. "Where's Dave?" I asked the
poll worker closest to me. A man, it turned out when he spoke.
"He's not here."
"Where did he keep going before, when I was trying to use that blind voting
machine?" I asked. "Did you see?"
"He had to do something on the computer over there against the wall. That's
how it works."
"Then where's the precinct captain?" I asked. "I haven't voted yet, and I can't
work that thing by myself."
"Dave's the precinct captain," the man said. " Now look, just leave me alone,
okay? I'm busy, and you aren't helping me."
Despite my better intentions, I lost it. "It's you who's supposed to be helping
me!" I snapped as I returned to my little table, took a seat again, and tried to
regroup. I felt around the side panels for some kind of start, pause and stop
switches, but found nothing other than the little chrome ring of the headphone
jack.
Maybe I should just forget it and go home, I considered ruefully. American
democracy would surely survive without my participation this time. But the
thought failed to console. I just couldn't accept being so absurdly
disenfranchised.
"Remember me? We folded our clothes next to each other at the laundromat a
few weeks ago." The voice was female, thirty-something.
Let's call her Veronica. She was an actress, and I'd enjoyed our chat much
more than I'd enjoyed talking to the man who'd earlier bent my ear about
extraterrestrials building the pyramids at Giza, or the Hillary Clinton supporter
who, during the Presidential primary campaign, assured me that only affirmative
action could have gotten Barak Obama elected President of the Harvard Law
Review.
"I've just finished voting," she said, and I saw you sitting here. "Is there
anything I can help you with?"
A few minutes later, out on the sidewalk, my savior introduced me to a male
friend who was waiting for her. They'd offer me a ride home, Veronica said,
except that she was on her way to an audition for a commercial. As she spoke,
I found myself wondering what Veronica actually looked like, beyond the nearly
generic medium-sized human figure my eyes could still detect. I wondered what
her friend looked like. Wondered what the long line of restless shadows waiting
to get into the polling place looked like.
Actually, I wonder all the time what people look like. Not having exchanged a
smile, a frown or even an indifferent glance with anyone for ten years, I am
always wondering how a person survives the profound isolation the loss of
faces causes, let alone the invisibility of other human beings which will be my lot
if I should outlive my last photoreceptor cells, brings on.
"You know," she said, "you kind of surprised me."
"How?" I asked.
"I mean, you voted exactly the same as I did, on everything"
I understood. I was probably twice her age, and I was wearing ordinary,
off-the-rack casual clothes, not exactly the sartorial semiotics of hipness and
liberality in Los Angeles.
I thanked Veronica for her help, wished her good luck with the audition, and
headed off for the nearest bus stop while she and her friend went the other
way to get their car. One end of my "I Voted" sticker was already unpeeling
itself from my shirt pocket. As I walked along I pressed it back down. Maybe if
I'd worn a cotton shirt instead of permanent press polyester that morning, I
thought, the sticker might have stayed put, and maybe Veronica wouldn't have
been quite so surprised.