"I'm so nervous!" I realize that no one emerging has stickers that say 'I Voted Today'. I am concerned. "Where are the stickers?" I ask Mike in a very worried whisper. I suspect he is not as concerned as or--heaven forbid--doesn't even know what I'm talking about, so I shut my mouth. Inside the tiny building, they keep shouting names. Were those people not registered correctly and punished? Were they voting for the wrong candidate and publicly shamed? Were they being disciplined for announcing Starbucks' 'free coffee for voting' policy with too much fervor at 7 a.m.
At the table (of all elderly people--why is that?), I hand them my ID and Voter's Registration Card.
"Heather Colletto," I say proudly.
"Cutler," the woman shouts down the line. "Heather Cutler."
I look at Mike. Ummm...
"Sorry, but, uh, Heather Colletto?"
The woman looks back at the sheet, and I relax when I see my name. I smile when I see Mike's below it. I've seen that name written next to mine so many times, and I still get flutters in my stomach. I married Mike Colletto!
I continue down the line and stand patiently behind an elderly gentleman with a ballot in his hand.
"Please move forward to the chairs," he says.
"Oh, no, thank you, though." What a nice old man. Nice old men love me.
"Please move forward to the chairs," he repeats.
"No, really, you're fine." I gotta say, elderly gentlemen are so kind, and I just love-- "Oh, you work here, don't you?"
He nods and gestures me further down the line for a third time. I obey with a sheepish grin.
I was hoping for an actual booth, but I'm mostly at a tall table with what looks like an open suitcase with wings. It is not what I had in mind. Mike steps next to me.
"Do I have to fill out all the names?" I whisper. I'm worried we'll get caught and kicked out for cheating or something. I don't hear him answer. I fill in the candidate, and I am deeply tempted to vote for a particular senate member because the lady outside the polling place made such a good pitch for him and it was really nice of her to be standing outside in the cold and-- No. I won't be duped. I skip that one on principle. I recognize all the names from the many, many streets signs stuck into every square inch of grass in this county. (They have more here because there's hills, meaning there are is visibility than Nebraska for such things.)
There is one "Yes/No" question on the ballot. Do I want $400 million to go to improving roads, grounds, etc.? I thought for a moment. Well, we're moving, so we wouldn't have to pay the taxes, but, if we returned, we would reap the benefits. But that is an awful lot of money, and they aren't doing so hot on the road construction by our house... I flipped a mental coin, ashamed that I am such a scam of a voter.
When I finish with my ballot (two boxes checked!), I place it into the scanner and start to walk away, but a message pops up. It says I haven't filled in enough boxes.
"Would you like to get it back?" the woman asks.
"Um, does it count?"
"What?"
"If I-- like, if I fill in more, is that what-- I mean, is it okay with just a few boxes filled in?"
I am whispering. It's not that quiet in there, but still. "Just press 'Accept'," she explains.
"But does it count?" After all this, I'm worried that my stupid vote isn't even going to count. It's a swing state, darn it! This matters! The woman nods at me, already tired at 7:12 a.m.
I push 'Accept' and the scanner tells me I am voter #25 that day. I wait outside for Mike for another five minutes. When he finally emerges, I mumble "You WOULD take too long to vote," and we make our way to the McDonald's breakfast date I begged him into.
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