This was my first election as a voter in the City of Philadelphia and let me tell you, I wasn't disappointed.
My plan to show up at 7am to avoid the lines was hopelessly ruined when the cat spilled a glass of water on the alarm clock, somehow freezing the display on 3:95. I'm not sure exactly what time 3:95 is but regardless with my alarm set for 5:45 and the clock not moving, it was a safe bet that I wouldn't be getting up on time. Score one for feline attempts to derail the democratic process.
After futzing around for a while, I finally made it out the door and got in line at my polling place, 2nd Ward 24th division at the Fleischer Art School on Catherine between 7th and 8th. This location serves as polling place for my division and those yokels from 2nd Ward 17 division. (I keed I keed, I love those fightin' 17ers).
Outside of the building, a Knox volunteer, taking the rule of being at least 10 feet away from the entrance to the extreme, stood about 100 yards away on the corner of 7th and Catherine. Two friendly Nutter t-shirt-clad women said hello and another woman with "ample room" for the Brady For Mayor button that she wore on her chest tried to give me the "official Democratic ballot." A Vern Anastasio volunteer attempted to hand me a bottle of water, which I passed up. My vote cannot be bought with mere water! It's gonna take at least a slice of pizza and a diet coke.
Upon entering, I dutifully took up my place in line and prepared to be part of the Democratic process. Four straight elections by absentee ballot had left me a little rusty and I was unsure whether I'd be able to perform when the curtain closed. Those Fleischer folks had the right idea, holding a bake sale just inside the front door. Fortunately, the proprietor of the bake sale, who has a future as a ward leader if she wants it, had the good sense to inform newbies like me that we had to go past the line, through another door, and sign in at the table before we get in line. Thanks, bake sale lady. If only all polling places had just delectable treats, maybe turnout would be higher than the anemic 35% it's expected to be today.
Fighting my way through with my garment bag and gym bag on my shoulder, with the "We Shall Overcome" running through my head, I made it to the table and presented my voter registration card. With technology perfected in the time when monks made copies of the Bible by hand, a kindly older woman took my registration card and wrote my name a on an un-lined, very unofficial looking piece of paper that contained a list of all of the other folks who had voted that day. I learned that I was the 69th voter to check in that day. I giggled. She did not.
She passed my card to the woman to her right who looked for my name and picture of my signature in the large book from the City Commissioner's office.
"That's Pohlig, with an 'h'," I said. "Pholig?" she asked as she opened to the page that undoubtedly contained the names of my neighbors Phinneus, Phanatic, Phuture, and every other ridiculous permutation of the letter "f."
"No, POLE-ig, P-O-H..." That's it, I'm changing my name to Smith. Finally, after trapping my right to vote on a page with my neighbors Pollack and Polzner, she found my name and I signed in.
And took my place at the back of the line.
Where I waited... and waited... My only consolation in the length of the line being that it looked like we in the 24th were kicking the 17th's butt in turnout. A hollow victory as the random 17ers came and went as if voting were akin to stopping by the ATM machine on their way to work. Yeah? Well I suffered for it. My feet were killing me. I'm a patriot!
I also noticed that ahead of me in line was Republican City Committee Leader Vito Canuso! Who knew? The titular head of the city's Republican Party lives in my division. I watched as he entered the booth, and 30 seconds later was outta there. Ahhh, the advantage of having no contested primaries in your party. I wonder if he voted for Al Taubenberger?
The woman with the Brady buttons accentuating her ampleness came in a started chatting with the folks at the registration table. Apparently her allergies were really getting to her. One of the ladies at the table whispered that she should take off the buttons while she's inside. I thought she should at least have left all the sample ballots out on the bake sale table before she got within 6 feet of the actual voting booth. She retrieved her inhaler and headed back out on the mean, pollen-filled, streets of my Bella Vista neighborhood.
As I neared the front of the line, with my handy index card that I had written the night before so that I'd know which traffic court candidates had unpaid parking tickets (I had to draw the line somewhere!), the woman who seemed to be in charge got a call on her cell phone. After hanging up, she announced to the crowd, "the first ballot question about the casinos has been taken off the ballot. If yiz want to vote on the casinos yiz gotta go to 9th and Montrose."
I half expected to see the crowd turn around and walk out. I explained to the guy behind me, who had a real quizzical look, that Casino Free Philly folks were setting up their own ballot boxes to gauge public opinion. I was quite proud of myself for being able to do it without using the words "fake" or "shadow."
Then the moment of truth. I stepped into the booth, told the woman my party affiliation, and started pressing buttons. The little red lights danced like the side of the Cira Centre on the night of Red Cross awareness campaign. Geez, there sure are a lot of Council At-large candidates.
Mayor... hmmm... where I can I write in the Mayor of Denver? In principle I should just leave that one blank. I feel like I have too much information. Let me see if I can remember the messages that they've been trying to brainwash me with.
Brady... something about safe driving through Center City at night...
Evans... he'll fix my table?
Nutter... daughter likes pizza... but I got a mailing saying he likes Mayor Street... maybe they both like pizza?
Knox... isn't he "the accident attorney" I'm always seeing on tv during my soap operas or are undertakers running television ads these days?
Fattah... don't know... haven't seen any ads about him but his wife seems pretty smart.
Ok. I'll just do what everyone else does and pick at random. Yay democracy!
Ballot questions. I'm in a disagreeable mood by now. Straight "no." Well, except for those ones about planning and zoning. They seem important if a little verbose. Why couldn't they just ask if I think the guy who ran that really good deli down the street should continue to be in charge of whether a condo tower can go up on top of the oldest church in the country?
Ok. Hit the green "vote" button and head on out.
I stop by the table on my way out to ask how many folks have been through. The old man who I hadn't noticed before asks me, in as curmudgeonly a way as possible, "Who are you? What's your name?" Don't make me go through this again I think as I answer, "Pohlig." "Your a poll watcher?" he asks, with even more hostility if that's possible. "Don't you have a list? Why are you asking?"
I just wanted to know. Do I have to be up to something nefarious? The kindly woman in sitting next to him assured him that I wasn't there to subvert the process, at least, not any more so than their friend with the Brady buttons or the woman who thought she'd send everyone to 9th and Montrose.
She told me that there had been about 80 voters through at for 2nd Ward 24th division by 9am and there appeared to be about 10 more in line. She said if it stays busy like that she expects "all of them" to vote. Wow, I thought, 100% turnout in my little division... how Saddam-esque. When my fiance goes to vote later this evening, I'll have to find out if she was voter number 610 out of 600. Why stop at 100%?
Please continue to share your experiences with us so I have something to talk about tonight during out Election Night coverage on TV-12 starting at 9pm.