SECOND INSTALLMENT OF "The Election" from HER FACE IN THE GLASS, a sequel
to A Journey of Choice. [Names have been shortened on purpose.]
Mrs. H. nodded; he
passed the mic to the person on his left. “Go!”
“Hello. My name is Flint B. . . .” He
talked really slow. “. . . and I want to be on the school board so I can help
us get some new bleachers for the band. It’s a crying shame that our kids have
to risk their necks and their instruments climbing on those rickety––”
Ding!
“Next!” Mrs. H. reset the timer each time her husband said, ‘Next.’
“Hello,” said the
mother with two small children. “I am Darling D., and I would like your
vote. I think we need to start a child-care program in this district.” She
shushed the baby on her shoulder, and ran her hand across her own nose. “I
would be willing––”
Ding! “Next!”
“Hi,
y’all, I’m Guy O’N. from Mountain Ridge. I’d like to see better school bus
drivers out our way. You should see how they drive those winding, narrow roads.
The kids say they bounce––”
Ding!
“Moving right along, now. Next!”
After
a while I quit listening. At three o’clock, as the person next to me finished
speaking, the final school bell rang.
Mr. H. took the
microphone. “Mark your ballots and turn them in as you leave. Mrs. H. and I
will count the votes this evening and she will call the five who are elected.
We’ll send a notice to the Banner as
well. Thank you for coming.”
I
was the last to leave and he snagged me.
“Will
you stay and do the counting as my wife calls out the names and numbers?” he
said to me, apparently thinking I was some student’s mother. “I need to go to
the office and see about things there. Thank you.” He blew a kiss to his wife,
and, dodging a student, exited the room.
Obviously,
the man didn’t know I was a reporter. But, hey! This would mean I had a scoop. I stayed. Mrs. H. made room at the
table and pushed a pad and a pen over to me.
“All right, now. List the names
down the page and the number of votes out beside each name.” She picked up a
ballot. “Number one is T.––he gets three votes.” She watched me
write down ‘T.––I I I.’ “Second choice is J. He gets two votes.”
‘J.––I I.’
“Third is G.
He gets one point.”
‘G.––I.’
She wadded the
ballot and looked around to toss it in the trash can. Seeing none, she called
to the janitor who was sweeping the far end of the room. “Mr. B., will you
bring me a trash can?” He did and she mashed the ballot, balled it up and threw
it in. I thought she might chew and
swallow it.
“Next ballot,” she
said. “F., three . . .” She
waited. “B., two . . . G. one.”
Again, she wadded
the ballot into a tiny ball and tossed it away.
“Ready? C., three . . . P., two . . . W., one. My goodness,” she exclaimed. “What if everyone gets a vote
and no one has more than three?” I shrugged; she continued.
“Next. H., three
. . . G., two . . . D., one.” She looked at me. “Would you mind taking
over? I must run to the ladies’ room.”
“Sure.” I took the
next ballot while her heels click-clicked across the concrete. At last, some
names reappeared. G., three . . . F., two . . . J., one. Still, no
one had more than five votes.
I don’t know how
long I worked on those blasted ballots, but Mrs. Secretary never came back.
Soon Mr. B. said, “Miss, five more minutes and it’s my leaving time.”
Only six ballots
remained uncounted. G. had ten votes, J., ten, and G. had risen
to ten. The nearest was F. with seven. For some reason, I stuffed the counted
ballots into my bag. Mrs. H. would have to finish the next morning.
When Mr. B. walked
to the front door, I followed, leaving all the materials on the table. “’Night,
ma’am,” he said, doffing his duffer’s hat.
TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK.
c 2015--PL.
