"Out here on the perimeter there are no stars"
In Ventura County,California, people like the hills, wild and tangled with Chapparal and Oaks. Near the land of Reagan's grave and library, it's almost the country, and the place is clean and still a little rural and just far enough away from the grime and heat and gritiness of the LA metro area, so people don't mind an extra 30 mile drive to get there to work. This here is God's country, it's election day, and the registration is about 55-45 Republicans. This is very red country, boy. Today, I have no time for partisan battles. I'm working a poll. I'm an election officer. My name is Hickerson.
Dawn pokes a rosy nose through dull clouds of a humid summer day in Ventura County; it backlights the sky to the color of pink lemonade and the residual ground fog wisps around like a heavy metal video from the 80's. I pull into the parking lot. Day one of the New Dawn of elections: We're using the new Sequoia machines. At least they aren't Diebold.
What would happen next, I could only guess.
This is a new polling place for me, I usually work a church closer to my home in a slightly more tony neighborhood, with gated communities in every direction. But hey, I go where they send me. I'm part of the team. The Elections officers are typical for the area: mostly composed of the greatest generation, with a smattering of boomers like me added to the mix. It's a mixed neighborhood, which in So Cal parlance, means you have several economic tiers sharing the same street. Some residents paid 20 grand for their house in 1961, some new arrivals, 780.
I arrive a little late because I always think I know what I'm doing and I read the map wrong (I just glanced at it) and ended up at the middle school a few miles west. So, setup of the foreign new equipment begins: no one has a clue about the machines (assembly required) because they are not real computer friendly, being of the greatest generation. I on the other hand, am a know-it-all baby boomer and paid attention at the seminars, so I set up the handicap voter "Edge" machine, which is a genuine touch screen with an attached printer that hangs on the side like an afterthought by a thin aluminum track, but it goes together if you recognize the parts like any computer, which of course the older folks don't. It's pretty alien looking, I have to admit, folding out of a suitcase roller like thing like those transformer toys. I test it out and thankfully, the printer prints out the memory, showing zeroes as a beginning total. Security wise, the printer is totally sealed and needs a key if you want to open it, and you have to break a security seal to do so.
Now the main system is not touchscreen; it's a Sequoia scanner system, which looks ready except I notice the tape, which should spit out a memory of its own, is suspiciously short. It's a thing that sits on top of another case which will hold voted ballots: these physical ballots get counted at the registrar's and they use the tape as a backup. But it should be about 20 inches long and it isn't. I ask around and no one knows anything , so I pop the back open to check and sure enough there's a wicked paper jam and our first ballots are already being cast, it's 7:01. "Hey, guys" I say, "this thing isn't ready until this printer works" "HUH? What say?" "This. The printer. Didn't you check the thing?" "What?" "Never mind." I lightly pull at the roll and it slides free, and the jam follows it, and the printer does its thing, thanks be to the gods of Democrats and republicans alike.
Now, the first ballots have been cast, which was another thing: they are HUGE compared to the old ones, which were IBM data cards like from the 50's about as wide as a TI calculator, about eight inches long, that went in a punch machine and were designed to run in gen 1 IBMs for counting, and the crowds had that down. These new things, they are the size of a placemat, HUGE, and you have to DO something with a pen on them: you have to connect two parts of an arrow next to the candidate you want to vote for, so the finished product looks like it's pointing to your pick. (This proves quite vexing to many; some, thinking that we forgot the machines, punch holes where you're supposed to connect the arrows with their county supplied Bics.)
The scanner makes two basic noises: one, for a correctly digested ballot, kind of sounds like "Ta Daaa!" And the other, some metallic pig squeal if something's wrong. "No", I gently explain to the person who punched holes in the ballot. "You have to connect these, like this, see? Maybe we can still use this." She smoothes out the holes, and fills in the spaces, and hands me the ballot back. I put it in for her and "Ta Daaa!" Sequoia takes the ballot. Only then do I wonder to myself "hmmmm, I wonder if that was an accurate vote? But just as quickly I say to myself "aw, fuck it. It was a republican ballot" The ballots, because of the primary, are color coded so you can tell one from another.
Things go swimingly for another hour until about 8:30 when the machine neither "ta daas" or goes "oui wee Weee!" But makes a noise akin to a Mad magazine comic: Squadooonk1zzz!" I look over at the LED screen. It says "PULL". WTF? "PULL"? That wasn't in the training. Maybe it was, and I was daydreaming. But no one else at the table of election officers has a clue about this either. I assume it has to do with the ballot, stuck inside somewhere. So I get the set of keys and go to unlock the ballot doors, where two bins catch the hard ballots. Know what? There's three locks, and the key works great on two of them, but the third lock? Nothing. I look at the inspector, who's new at this. "You didn't check these to see that they were empty?" "Nope. Wouldn't open." Ah, shit. Then I remember the Sequoia, about the size of an IBM Selectric (that was a "typewriter" kids, like a word processor that had no memory and was much louder) will hinge up from its base and allow you access to the area where it spits out the ballot into the bin. Sure enough, there it is, the ballot is hung up in there, and I pull it out like a paper jam in a big printer, close the lid , and clear the machine and hand it back to the lady. We put it back in, and this time, the metal pig noise, and it spits it back out and prints out something: BALLOT OVERVOTE.
Well, like ten others that muggy morning, the arrows proved too much for her. She has, I notice, written in the same candidate's name in the write in box that she voted for and drawn arrows to both. It was another republican ballot. Not that I'm implying anything here. But this is easy. I explain how to once again, "spoil" her first ballot, and she votes again and gets it right. I'm thinking to myself, "this is definitely a type of IQ test."
Now, here is where things turned weird. Well right beore that, I call the head of our region and explain the locks. "Yeah" he says. We've heard that from four or five others as well". "SO, what do you recommend?" I ask. " Just break in" he says jovially. OK. THAT was a liitle weird, but a direct solution to a problem that has no actual remedy.
So, we're in the school auditorium, you know the drill. It's actually a multi-purpose room, with removable chairs and tables al stacked against the wall neatly in almost militray precision. A stage at the far end that has some scenery, ominous looking stuff. A lady I take to be a teacher emerges from a door marked "Teachers Lounge" and walks up to me. "you're going to have to move these tables and voting booths" she says to me, like that was the most reasonable thing in the world. I can't believe my ears. "Did you say you need this table?", I ask, wishing I had drunk another two cups of coffee at 5 am when I was getting ready. Then the lunch lady, who has been puttering around in the background for the past half hour, walks up as well, face with a worried expression, like a lady who just smoked her last Kent and is now stuck at work.
"I need this table" she gestures to what I now note is a stainless steel topped table, unlike the other ones. "I can only serve food on this metal table, not wood." "You mean you plan on serving lunch in here?" I ask. "Yes" says the teacher "That's why I need you to move these tables and booths". I look at her with an incredulity that usually preceeds the comment at the office "Didn't you get the urgent memo?" "Look. We're having an election here. You are supposed to accomodate us for this one day. Didn't anyone tell you about this? I can't move these machines because we can't interrupt the power source."
She begrudgingly looks at us. "I guess the kids can go outside after they pick up their food. But we need this area up here for the play." I look over at a stage, decorated with black satanic looking scenery, which is quite ornate and made we wonder what it was for. "Play? What do you mean?" " We have a play in two days and rehearsal is scheduled for today." Criminy. "Well", I tell her, "move some of those tables over there and we can divide the room in half, and you can rehearse." The tables are like picnic tables with wheels, standing on end so they make a great room divider. We have the janitor move them in place. Cool.
But, no one mentioned this was a MUSICAL. Off-off Broadway. I'm not hip to musicals. It's something I have only heard of: Wicked, which is a modern day story about the witch and peripheral characters from the Wizard of Oz, a kind of prequel before the witch gets melted. About an hour later, we find out what we are in for. First is the dramatic reading, the sans song part, which unbeknownst to our election staff, is about to descend on us in full bombast about an hour later. During the reading, which is distracting but not over the top bad, except the acting, which seriously, what to you expect from 5th graders...I am approached by the musical director of this extravaganza, who is charming and affable, a theater major made good, with a school district gig, riding that sweet spot, he's a nice guy. And why not? Genuinely. "Please" he pleads. "We need the stage for rehearsal tonight" and he goes on with some sad tale of woe that ultimately means the musical part of the show will be rehearsing in the room with us as we conduct our primary. But hey, it's So Cal, and we are very friendly towards the arts so we all say , what the heck, where's the harm in a couple of kids belting out a few Broadway numbers?
Now, maybe it's just me. But the music to this show, Wicked, is just the worst kind of over the top schmaltzy pap that you might encounter on the original Saturday Night Live as a send up of Broadway. The number, which it turns out, is performed by a chorus of at least twenty kids, is "One Short Day (in the Emerald City)" which can be sampled here. What an ungodly piece of crap this song is. Well maybe that's too harsh. Leave God out. It's just so....Broadway. If Ethel Merman were alive today, she'd be doing this tune on the Tonight show with Star Jones. Like that. So, for the next few hours, we get treated to this tune over and over and over and over and over until we get it RIGHT, people! Meanwhile, back at the election, I am starting to get bored. Turnout, usually quite high in this area, is "wicked" low. By 4'0clock, maybe 170 voters, out of 1500 registered in this precinct. I'm monitoring the Dem vote; it seems that it's running 2:1 but it's only the Dems who provide any ticket action. It's pleasant for me because many recognize me from the many Dem meetings and fundraisers crisscrossing the area at the moment. But we can barely hear each other over One freaking goddam day in the fucking Emerald city. I'm trying to remember if I have any handcuffs or restraints in my car(don't ask) because I'm thinking I'm going to arrest that fucking nice guy in front of all his adoring students and charge him with a felony of interference with a polling place. Maybe beat him down with a nightstick, one fine day in the goddam Emerald city. My dark reverie is suddenly interrupted by a lady in a sparkly white plastic back brace, which looks to be a type of S&M device except it has to be for something, you just don't want to hear the story you know is coming if you act at all curious. She's wearing an unbuttoned ( for comfort, I'm sure--it's muggy today!) blouse that accents her ample cleavage which spills out as she manuevers to try to get her ballot in her contraption, and the old guy next to me is starting the hyperventilate because it's almost as if the breasts are weapons and his face is the target, they come that close.
Well, one fine eternity in the goddam Emerald city later, we can almost hear ourselves again, as the chorale is winding down, with only soloists performing infrequently, geting closer and closer to being on pitch. Two patterns are becoming clear. One, remarkable low turnout the likes of which I have not seen in this neighborhood for years, and two, a strong showing by Dems in a neighborhood I know to be maybe 70-30 in favor of republicans. I worry for Francine Busby, who we were all pulling for, knowing turnout is key, and I worry for my man Phil Angelides, who, at daybreak, was running about 1 point ahead of Steve Westly, with over 20% still undecided.
Before we know it, we have accelerated into the future, and our candidates are nominated, we have triumphed over whatever the laughing dieties in the sky have thrown at us. As 8:00 passes and our polls close, one lone democrat is left voting. She completes her ballot and hands it in, and I realize that we have thrown the switch dutifully on the Sequoia and it is awaiting shutdown , so it won't take her vote. Well, it's a Democratic Ballot , so I rapidly consult the manual. Press "9" to reactivate. I glance down as I feed her ballot through. Angelides.
I then review the voting tape for a clue as to what will happen later tonight and there's the total----
Westly 54
Angelides 55
And that's my call. Angelides by one percent, the slimmest of margins, Sequoia style, during One Fine Day in the Emerald City.