The queue had waned a bit and the worst of the rush was over. Those most eager to cast their votes and make their contribution to American democracy had already left the building. It was then that a famous face in the community, with uncertain steps and a look of lostness in his amber-brown eyes, entered the local high school’s gymnastics hall, now turned into a temple of modern democracy. Most locals knew him as the friendly and talkative cab driver, clearly initiated in the major problems of the day, but not known to hold any obvious opinion in any matter. True, this was Anselm Caldwell’s first time casting his vote in an election, let alone a presidential election. Why now?
“Folks have been telling me how important this election is and all of that, so I just figured I’d break a habit and not sit this one out, you know?”
The elderly lady standing before him was just about to turn back around, when Anselm asked her, very sincerely:
“So who gets your vote?”
“That’s a secret, dear.”
“Surely you can tell me. I won’t gossip, I swear.”
“I don’t tell anyone, not even my husband, poor man.”
As the lady disappeared into the voting booth, Anselm, standing in front of the seated election workers and excited by the prospect of taking part in such an important event, did as he most always did – let his mouth run.
“It’s my first time here and I have no idea who should get my vote. Any ideas?”
“We aren’t allowed to make any suggestions, sir.”
“But they can’t all be as good or bad, the candidates I mean?”
“That depends on how you define ‘good’ and ‘bad’, and that choice is up to you, sir.”
“But which one do most people like?”
The election worker, a middle-aged man with a substantial bald spot and a blackish goatee, replied, slightly irritated:
“That’s what we’re going to find out once the election is over and all the votes have been counted. Do you perhaps know something about any of the candidates?”
“Not really no…”, Anselm mumbled to himself. “I know one of them used to be the president before he was kicked out. And I think the other one was a president as well, but not the real one, a minor one.”
“The vice president you mean.”
“I guess. See, I don’t know much about the political game. It’s all usually the same no matter who pretends to run the whole country from Washington. Who are you voting for, by the way?”
“I’m not allowed to tell you that, sir. That could interfere with the decision you are going to make.”
“But I want you to interfere! How am I supposed to know who to vote for unless those more well-informed than me tell me who I should vote for?”
“That’s not how democracy works I’m afraid. You must decide on your own. It’s up to you to take the information available and use that to make an informed decision.”
“Well, can I come back, when I’ve read up more on those two candidates?”
“The voting closes in just over an hour, sir, so you can…”
“That’s hardly enough time to open a brochure, let alone read it! No, I’ll just stay here and stick to what little I already know.”
“Whenever you feel you’ve made your decision, sir. Just remember that the decision is final, it cannot be reversed.”
Standing in the corner with his face buried deep in his palms, Anselm stood motionless for a good thirty minutes as he battled with his severe bout of indecision. Anselm understood the significance of his choice, no doubt the most important choice of his life. Any sense of pride or privilege of taking part in such a luxury as a free and fair election was mercilessly drowned by the ever-growing panic of not being able to make up his mind. At last, after much painful consideration, he had reached a decision and decided to stick to it, come hell or high water, glory or dishonor. He said a quick prayer to accompany his return to the now very diminished line of waiting voters. The three people ahead of him seemed all the more confident as they with great determination walked into and out of the booth. In Anselm’s mind, they appeared to radiate an almost celestial bliss. He hoped but feared that he would not feel the same way, yet still, he strode on with a determined gate towards the booths, taking a deep breath as he stepped inside.
He did as he had been told to do, down to the littlest detail. Once done, he could not help but think it funny that he, such an insignificant little man from a small town in rural Idaho, had a real saying about who should run as big a country as the United States of America. Nodding politely to all those he met leaving the hall and driving away in his well-used cab car, it only hit him once he was more than halfway home: he could not for the life of him remember who he had voted for. Not even a good night’s sleep was enough for him to recall – but it did help him make a new decision. Now, after election night, if he was asked who he voted for, Anselm would simply say that it is a secret. Which, in truth, it most definitely is.
↓ Image Attributions
“A polling station in Washington DC, 5 Nov. 2024” by OSCE Parliamentary Assembly // Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0