Notes on Notes

Early Voting in the Bardo

I first decided to vote by absentee ballot. Sent application, and when ballot didn’t arrive I called the Great American voting department. Whoever picked up was able to locate my name but could not say when the ballot, which had to be return postmarked by the 23rd, would be sent.

Not so good. Called Nadler’s people (he’s my rep) and got an energetic fellow who called the department and told them I was his grandmother and needed my ballot. They assured him it would be sent, but had no clue when it would.
So better mask up and do early voting.

Checked zip code on the .gov site, was directed to the school on 102nd St. where I voted last year, so met Mike there, because although his zip code is different, he votes at the same address. We were assigned different tables, and he voted without incident, but my saga had only just begun.

They had my name but said I don’t vote there. Yes I do. (Repeat a few times.) I was given a written note and escorted to another table. Same problem. They said I had to go to 116th St. No way was I going to drag up there and be sent back here, but the lady gave me a note, said it was on the Columbia campus, and I could sign an affidavit if there was a problem up there. (btw, I knew that address was not on campus.)

Mike said he would come, but when we got on the bus, it was too crowded for him, so we got off and found a cab. We got out at 116th St and walked away from the campus, which was correct. The location was well hidden but there were pavement signs.

Went to table, got ballot, two large pages, took them to the machine, which did not have enough light for me to see. I managed somehow, but the second page seemed blank. Back to the table. White guy asks black woman to get me another ballot. She tells him not to talk to her like that. I wait it out--this is no time to have an opinion. Sure enough, I had a defective ballot, and no I couldn’t keep my first page one, which was two sides worth of reps I voted for with little circles.

I fill out the new ballot, both pages, and put it through the machine, which refuses it. Black guy takes ballot to white guy, and in a second they’re at each other about respect. (No time to have an opinion, just back off while they spat behind their masks.)

Mike has long since glided out. I try to go tell him I’m a prisoner in a Chinese cookie factory. but they won’t let me out because I have a ballot problem. I pray he’ll wait.

Turns out my little circles were too big for the space, because I can’t see. And no I can’t use the first ballot.
Another ballot. Mike, where are you? Are you safe? Are you blaming me?

I voted. They gave me a sticker that said so. Mike was wandering in the street. He walked me to a ShakeShack but grabbed a bus while I waited for a burger. He was right. 20 minutes.

Absentee ballot arrived in the mail yesterday. I guess I won’t need that one but like, who knows? Who knows anything?

THE LILAC THIEF: an introspection

I wanted to start by saying that I hadn't pilfered anything since the time I walked off with a pumpkin because the cashiers were too busy to take my money.

But thinking closely, I say, shamefacedly, that on occasion I do a little of this, a little of that.  It may be anger-driven.

In this surreal time, in the beautiful breezy twilight, I was out for a stroll, shortly before the curfew, imposed on my city to quiet potentially riotous mobs.  My head reeled with news of looting, throwing, cops, shouting, riot gear, bottles, horses, fights, arrests, lies.

The setup:  first grocery store I stopped at was already closed and darkened, plastic covers in place, last of the staff slipping out.  Quick, to the other store.  It was lighted, shoppers visible, but the keepaway guy wouldn't let anyone in because they were trying to close, and really, who could blame them.  He was uninterested in my claim to be a wandering ancient.

Outside was an array of fruits, but also fresh flowers.  (I know what's fresh and can see when the flower man has been there.)  I walked over to the buckets and lifted out three pink peonies, just opening, and a sumptuous bunch of lilacs.  Really, if by tomorrow they weren't wilted from lying there ignored all night, they'd be bought up before I could get back to the store.  I scurried to the entrance waving the two bunches and shouting for the keepaway, who had disappeared inside.

The rest happened in the blink of an eye:  "Looting, looting," I hollered.  No one came.  I turned and headed home, a spring in my determined step.  Now my (MY) lilacs and peonies are trimmed, fed, in water, gratefully fragrant in a fat vase, and in this strange world where rules are crumbling, I am no more than sheepish.  I turned on the news.

But in fact, I did snip the price tags off the flowers and go back with them the next day.   As I explained what they were the cashier stared incredulously at them and me.  She conferred with other cashiers (maybe in Haitian) and the manager before swiping them.  They turned to stare at me, laughing.  Guess this was a first, but now I am free to purloin again one day.