I’m running late this morning. It’s one of my long days, wherein I go in to one job at 10:00 AM and emerge from another, battered and bruised, at around 11:00 PM. So the only way I’m gonna get time to vote is this morning. But as I said, I’m running late. I think I’m going to have to skip it. If I have to go deal with the crowds at the Polling Place I just know I’m going to be extremely late…
Hang on. What did I just say? Crowds? Polling place?
So I cruise over to the Michael Jackson Auditorium just up the street. No lines. Lots of friendly older folks. I vote. No problem. The similarity of my name to that of Keira Knightley sparks a conversation with one of the poll-workers, a seventy-something woman with bright eyes. I tell her my brother, Keir, has a name even closer to hers. She tells me she doesn’t like Keira’s face sometimes, and that its limitations keeps her from becoming a great actress. She asks me if I see movies. I say yes. So she scrawls her name and phone number on a piece of paper and says, “Call me. I’ll go to the movies with you. And I know the good ones from the bad, so you don’t have to worry.”
I vote. I get a sticker. And I get a phone number.