counting backwards

Polk 3

The people I work with at the polling place are becoming extended family. They’re people who are familiar, and whose company I enjoy, and I only see them about once or twice a year—on the major holidays. I catch up with my real family in late December and my election family on the first Tuesday in November. They’re actually the first people I wish a happy holidays. Just like family, I’m involved in their squabbles.

—-

Polk arrived before me this time around. I’m never sure if he remembers me. Whether he does or not, he’s always down to talk. We started the day hanging up signs. I followed his lead, for the most part. I thought we could have picked better spots, but at 5:45 a.m., I’m less apt to argue than normal, which is almost never. Later in the day, I ended up moving some around on my own, mostly just to alleviate the boredom. Mid-afternoon, the weather had warmed up real nice, enough so that I could take off my hoodie. I was sitting on a padded metal folding chair beside the ramp to the church door in a nice patch of sun. It’s not a bad way to earn $225, this year’s Christmas gift fund.

Our site coordinator came out to check on me. She’s a nice lady who always greets me warmly when I arrive. I feel bad that I can never remember her name. I do now, though. We’ll call her Pam. We began talking about Staten Island—about how much we love it, but how it needs to improve. Mostly, we talked about the dreadful state of the roads and the lack of adequate public transportation. From there, we discussed the surrounding neighborhood and how barren it looks with all the boarded up buildings—a real shame since there are banners hanging from the streetlights that proclaim the area “Downtown Staten Island.” One of the poll inspectors came out and interrupted our conversation. Polk had fallen asleep.

Pam rolled her eyes and went inside to see what was the matter, but Polk greeted her at the door. She asked him what was going on, and he answered, “Why are you asking me when she already came out here and told you?” Polk was obviously agitated. The two women went back inside while he remained at the door and launched into a tirade. He didn’t want my input… he just wanted to vent.

It was mostly a string of curses. “Faggot ass niggas” was one of the more discernible. Later, when he calmed down, he told me what had happened. He had fallen asleep—and really who could blame him—but he wasn’t apologetic. What had angered Polk the most was that one of the other workers, a man, had hit him on the shoulder to wake him up. When Polk awoke, he turned to see the other poll workers laughing.

“He’s lucky I didn’t break his jaw,” Polk said, still fired up about the incident. “He doesn’t know me.”

Polk spewed two cigarettes worth of bile, but eventually his anger subsided. He told me again about his time in prison, his desire to move his family to the Poconos and about his little girl, for whom he wanted to keep out of trouble. He threw his arms up like a human cross and shouted into the mid-day November sun, “Lord, you see how I’ve changed?”