Salamander
Fire Walking

I stand outside the church, anonymous among neighbors. They know each other. I do not. They speak of new cars, aging houses, children at college and weekend chores. I try to read a book I brought along to help with the wait or I pretend to read while I eavesdrop. The doors to the church’s recreation hall are shut. Through the windows I see women in suits at a folding table and a man who could pass for Santa Claus in casual khaki pants and a plaid golf cap bustling to and fro. It is 6:30 am on an early November day and I am twenty-sixth in line. I know this because the man in front of me announces he is number Twenty-five. There are at least one hundred people behind me; it is hard to total how many of us there are because the line disappears around the side of the building, toward the parking lot.

Twenty-five confides to me he had been number one, but by mischance stood at the exit instead of the entrance. By the time he realized his mistake the line had already formed at the entrance. I nod in sympathy. Had I been the first here I too would have been standing at the wrong door. Whoever decides such things has reversed the flow of electors from what it used to be.

Twenty-five recognizes his next-door neighbor, Twenty-Eight, and they start talking about Twenty-five’s daughter’s tendonitis. Apparently it has affected her on the golf circuit, but luckily the fall season has just ended. Number Twenty-eight’s son arrives in a sleek shiny silver wedge with chrome wheels. The engine sounds expensive. Twenty-five and Twenty-eight laugh as he weaves through the lot looking for an empty spot to park in. I gather from the conversation that the son’s late entrance was typical. I look at the car and at the two men. I’ve a feeling that their combined forces will overwhelm my single ballot.

The doors open and the line moves forward more quickly than I expected. Immediately after the door we are divided into four lines, according to our last name. I follow the beginning of the alphabet to the extreme left. Number Twenty-five is now the only one ahead of me. Statistically speaking, it would appear that early risers tend to have names from the back of the phone book. A tall middle-aged black man at the front of the line on my right takes his slip and is told, “You’re number One” by a woman in a suit made of fabric red enough to pass as Mrs. Santa. The man grins and heads to the curtained boxes on the other side of the room.

I am renamed Number Seven. Number Twenty-five has been rechristened Five. We also head towards the curtained boxes, where we can choose whatever line we want. Twenty-five waits beside me, in a line to a different booth. His curtain parts, and Number One exits from the booth, grinning broadly. He shakes the hand of the poll worker. “I’ve waited a long time for this day,” he announces to no one in particular, and then exits through last spring’s entrance. I realize that my single vote will not stand alone.

The curtain to my booth parts and I advance to my own future. I have traditionally voted against candidates. It has been many years since I voted for someone. I let my finger rest on the “Submit Vote” button for a few moments before pushing it, trying to commit to memory the smooth feel beneath my finger. I miss the feeling of force as I depress the button. The old lever, resisting my will and then finally relenting, would have felt far more satisfying.

I leave the booth and exit through last spring’s entrance. The clock on the wall says 7:10. Santa Claus in a plaid cap is now directing traffic. I walk past the silver wedge with chrome wheels to my hardy Prius. Santa spies that I’m leaving, and quickly waves a black SUV towards my not-yet-vacant space. As I pull out I belatedly think to look at the line in my rear view mirror. The end of the line now winds past the corner of the church, out of sight. May they all get what they need, even if it isn’t what they want.