With the power still defiantly out in the moderately low-income neighborhood I, unfortunately, live in, the trucks of outsourced electric companies mostly speed right through, never stopping and never repairing anything. At this point, I have to admit I’ve given up on heating, light bulbs and refrigerated food for the rest of the year.
Still, throughout this whole numbing ordeal, the only real fear I’ve truly had the past few days was that I wouldn’t be able to exercise my hard-fought right to vote, my powerless polling place redirecting me to some hidden building that didn’t have my name on file as I’m accused of low-level sedition by a chubby cos-player in surplus military gear, standing back and standing by.
That’s pretty much how I’ve been gastrically gas-lit this entire election cycle and, as the votes are currently being counted and recounted and eventually contested, might still be for quite a while.
My polling place is at the Crestwood Vineyard Church at NW 16th and Villa, just two or three blocks from my house. For the past two or so years I’ve been voting there, I have never waited in line once, typically moving right on in and getting on out. I assume that’s because many of the people in the area just aren’t regular voters, be they undocumented, felonious or disillusioned.