Vote, Part II

This story was originally posted some place else on accident. I could explain but it's really not that interesting. Also, my co-worker told me an even better story than the one you're about to read here, but her story is not suited for public dissemination, or, I should say, it's not suited for public dissemination by me. If she wants to tell her story, well, I'll totally support and even encourage that.

Are you reading this, Nancy [not her real name]? Because I think my readers deserve your story. I think the world deserves your story.

...

I went to Carl's Jr. this morning for a large diet Coke, after voting and before going to work. There was a youngish black girl and a youngish black guy waiting for their food.

The girl must've seen my I Voted sticker, because she asked me where I voted. I said, "Long Beach." Where I voted seemed a bit personal, but okay, it's a big town, she was interested in the process, which seemed like a good thing. I think she thought polling places are like mailboxes: hard to find, but handy to know about. Most of the day, people have been asking me that same question, so I don't know, I guess she isn't alone in not understanding how it works.

(Next time I might answer, "Near your house. You know? The place with the flag out in front and the big signs that say 'Polling Place.'")

Then she says, getting hostile now, "Who did you vote for?"

I said, "I don't have to tell you!" in kind of a kidding way - I laughed when I said it, but I recognize that my natural dorkiness (20-somethings bring it out in me) probably brought out the bully in her. She was fine with me at first, but then she must've thought about it, because she said, in a snotty way, "Well okay, then. I didn't know it was that serious." Her pal (who, by the way, was wearing a coral colored over sized men's suit, which made his legs look about two feet long) said, "You're not supposed to ask people that." Then they started talking to each other and I ordered my diet Coke, and I figured they were going to make fun of me quietly and leave me alone to read my article from the New York Times about Knoxville, Tennessee (talk about political fiascoes!), a conclusion to this encounter with which I was fine.

Then my new best friend announced, "I'm voting for the black guy - what's his name? Mohammad?"

And then I realized that this story had a happy ending. Go for it, kid.