Voting Was a VALtastrophe! PART 1: The Bloodbath

Don't you worry about Val's voice not being heard! Her ballot was successfully sucked into the vortex of the scanner on Tuesday, at the county courthouse annex that hosts early voting. 

I've mentioned how my regular voting precinct is the basement of a country church, with carpeted steps to navigate. So now Hick takes me over to the facility where we can vote up to two weeks before Election Day. Mail-in absentee voting in Missouri has so many rules that you could break a hip jumping through the hoops, so this is my best option. Hick also voted early, because he will be working as an election judge again, and won't have time.

Hick drove A-Cad under the little roof that spans the entrance to the building that was formerly a morgue. He let me out, then went to park. A black SUV was sitting in front of the door, blocking the oncoming traffic lane. I had to inch along between it and the sidewalk curb to get to the ramp. It was a much smaller ramp than the one at the Casey's where the gal had parked blocking that one. This was perhaps 1/3 the size. Only big enough for one person (like Val) to walk on it, or perhaps two anorexics arm-in-arm.

Inside, I got into a line that only had one guy ahead of me, giving his info to a worker. There were eight long white plastic tables for voting, each with five or six chairs, all occupied by at least two people. All the workers at the two entrance tables were women. (No wonder Hick likes this duty!) Two sat at the workers' table on the left, two at the table on the right, with two standing next to the right-side table. One of them suddenly said, "YOU! Go over there!" And motioned for me to go across the room to the left table.

I handed one of those gals my driver's license. She put it in a scanner thingy. Told me to check my address and info, then sign the screen with a stub of a stylus, tipped with rubber. As Worker Gal handed me the ballot, my right arm itched on the outside, halfway between wrist and elbow. I reached to scratch it, and Worker Gal said, "Ma'am, you're bleeding!"

Dagnabit! I guess the flowing blood is what made it itch. Too late! My left index and middle finger got a bit on the fingertips. "There's a bathroom out in the hall if you want to wash that off."

"Oh. Well. Am I allowed to take this ballot with me?"

"I don't know!"

Yet instead of asking somebody, she motioned me away. I asked for a pen. They usually have a box of pens that they hand out and then you drop them in another box when you're done. So much for sanitation these days! "The pens are on the tables."

A lady got up from the nearest table, so I sat down there, at the opposite end from the man who remained. I concentrated on filling in my boxes without putting my right arm on the table. It was not an easy task. Not to mention that I was perturbed, having seen a sink and crank-handle paper towel dispenser on the opposite wall, near the right-side workers' table. Would it have killed one of those gals to crank out a paper towel to staunch my wound flow, and hinder my eventual exsanguination? I know it's not their job, but it's common decency!

TO BE CONTINUED...