Voting

I voted today. It was crowded; I spent an hour in line.

Right behind me coming in to the building was an older lady in a hospital wheelchair being pushed by another woman, apparently a friend. As she was jockeyed into position behind me in line, she said something like, “Well, I don’t want us to bang into each other!”

“Sounds like a good idea,” I said, in my best polite I’m not going to get into a conversation with you in a public place voice.

Sure enough, every single time Pusher Lady moved her forward, her foot rests banged into my wheels. Neither seemed to notice.

When we got to the first table (fill out your name and address), I said, “Let me let you ladies go ahead of me.”

“Oh, no!” said Pusher Lady. “We’re fine, we have plenty of room.” (They didn’t but that’s a different problem.)

“Everytime you’ve moved forward, you’ve hit me. It might be easier for you if you were ahead of me,” I explained.

But no, nothing doing. At this point, Elderly Lady Poll Worker notices us and calls someone over. “Take these ladies up where they can wait,” she says, then to me, “Just remember where your place in line is.”

“Why, are you afraid I’ll be in the way?”

“Oh, no, dear, of course not! You might be more comfortable!”

I check my psyche for overly defensive reactions. “I’ll do whatever you prefer,” I reply, trying not to be troublesome.

New Poll Worker says, “No, it’s whatever you prefer.”

“In that case, I’ll be just fine in line, thanks.”

Luckily Pusher Lady decided that she and her charge would be more comfortable out of line, thereby ending the game of bumper chairs we had been playing.