The Custom-Tailored Ballot Box

Voting made easy. Maybe too easy...

 

Image is AI generated. Story is 100% human.

Something about it didn’t seem quite right. Let me just say that.

My wife and I have been voting at that same church, St. James Overcomers, you know the one over on 3^rd and Windsor across the street from Thompson Elementary? Since 1980. January. It was the year after we got married and the same year we moved into our house on 3^rd and Tucker three blocks away. It was cold as the devil’s heart that day we moved in, but then, as I said, it was January, and this is Michigan.

Anyway, we’ve been voting there a long time is what I’m saying. That’s the point. I have to watch myself sometimes because I have this tendency to get distracted a lot. Cheryl, she tells me that all the time. I’m surprised I don’t have bruises on my ribs after all these years of those sharp elbows of hers jabbing me. She’s a small woman, usually friendly, but when I get to rambling, she gets irritated, and those knife elbows go to work.

There I go again. Lucky for me, Cheryl’s not here right now while I’m telling you this story. And it’s something you’re gonna wanna hear, I’m pretty sure about that. I think Cheryl would want you to know about it, too. Because, like I said, something about it just didn’t seem right.

The line to vote this morning was way longer than usual, but we weren’t surprised because everybody knew this wasn’t gonna be anything like your normal election. Not just because of the candidates but because it’s being reported that we’re about to enter a new Ice Age within about 15-20 years. Could be sooner. Yeah, sure, there’s those trying to laugh it all off as wack science, even after we lost California to the fires and New Orleans is now completely underwater. But I figure that’s OK, because if we lose more stupid people like that, then we can write it off to natural selection and not even have to feel guilty.

Oh, but I was saying about the line to vote. Yeah, so it was longer than usual, which, of course, meant the wait was pretty stretched out. But the weather was decent for November, in the 50s and partially cloudy without much wind, so standing outside wasn’t the ordeal it could have been. Cheryl and I had some nice conversation with another married couple in line just ahead of us. We didn’t talk about who we were voting for, but we didn’t really need to.

Once we made it inside the front doors of the church, the line took a sharp left for about 20 feet against the wall, then another left down the stairs to the basement where the voting booths were. Cheryl and I had made this same trip so many times – we never missed an election – that we probably could have made it blindfolded.

It was a good thing we didn’t though, because when we got downstairs is when we saw it. Or actually, when we saw them. There were the usual two rows of four voting booths, one row facing the north wall, the other across the room facing south.

Only this time, at the far end of each row, was what looked like a huge blue egg, maybe 7-foot high, with a regular-sized open door in the front. I noticed a younger woman holding a small child's hand walking into the egg-shaped booth on the north side, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, and I wondered if maybe I needed to wake up. Cheryl squeezed my hand tight as the door hissed and sealed itself shut to where you couldn’t even see where the door had been. There was a low humming sound that lasted for about three minutes before the rectangular outline of the door reappeared, and the young lady calmly stepped out, still holding the hand of her little boy. As she walked past us toward the exit, Cheryl tapped her on the shoulder. The woman stopped, turned to face Cheryl, and smiled.

“What is that?” she asked.

The woman’s smile twitched a bit, and her eyes became curious.

“When was the last time you voted?” she asked, trying not so sound judgmental but not doing a real good job.

“My husband and I vote every year. We haven’t missed an election since before you were born,” Cheryl replied, also trying not to sound judgmental and failing at it.

The woman cocked her head to the side.

“You might want to check that,” she said, then turned to walk away before either of us could say anything else.

The couple we had been conversing with earlier both turned towards us after the young woman had left, an unsettled expression on their faces.

“Well, that was a little weird,” said the husband, whose name I had learned was Jake.

Once we reached the table to sign in and register, two elderly Black women we recognized as having been poll workers at this same site for years now, smiled helpfully as Cheryl and I approached. The one whose name I remembered as Grace, more heavyset than her fellow poll worker with her straightened gray hair pulled back tight into a bun, spoke first.

“All ready to vote?” she asked.

“Yeah we are, but first I just wanted to ask if you could tell us what those huge egg-shaped things are on either side of the room. Cheryl and I have been voting here for years, but this is the first time we’ve ever seen these before.”

Unlike the young woman, Grace’s smile didn’t twitch a bit.

“Yes, I noticed where you – I’m sorry, your wife -  asked that young lady about the custom booths a few moments ago. There was no need for her to be so rude, but you know, people these days.”

I nodded. We kept smiling at each other for what I felt was three or four beats too long, and I wondered if she was hoping I would forget I had asked the question. I wouldn’t forget. Grace’s smile brightened.

“Custom booths?” I asked. I looked over at a young, dreadlocked man filling out his forms next to me, half-expecting him to look up, wondering what the hell he had just heard. But he just kept writing as if he hadn’t heard a thing. The couple who had agreed the young lady’s behavior was kinda strange, just a few more feet away and well within earshot, was also acting as if now nothing was out of the ordinary.

I looked back at Grace. Grace chuckled.

“Finish filling out your forms, and then the two of you follow me,” she said. “The custom booths aren’t a good fit for everyone, but I think they would suit you both perfectly.”

“Do we have a choice? Because I really think I would prefer…”

“The booths don’t bite, dear heart. They’re just voting booths like all the others. They’re just an upgrade, is all. Just like nobody pulls that huge lever and votes from behind a curtain anymore, right? Progress.”

“So you’re saying these new booths are progress? Can you explain?”

I could tell Grace was starting to get a little irritated as she leaned forward a bit, her arms still folded, her eyes a little hot and squinty.

“They make voting a little easier, is all.”

“How?”

“They ask you questions?”

“Questions? Questions like…”

“Yes, sir. Questions. Like what makes you you.  What kind of things you like, don’t like, kind of things you like to do. Kind of folks you like to spend time with. Hobbies. Those sorts of questions.”

I could feel knots starting to cramp my stomach. Cheryl was tugging at my hand, and not gently.

“But what do those questions have to do with my vote?”

Grace leaned forward a bit more, this time slowly, almost like she was creeping up on me.

“Who you are is how you vote, sir. All the machine does is figure out who it is you really should be voting for. Like I said, they just make voting a little easier. And don’t we all want things to be a little easier?”