November 01, 2004
Democracy and Lobster. Part 2
"It's the Betsy Ross Bridge," I declared, passing the border from New Jersey into Pennsylvania. "We're following the footsteps of our founding fathers. And do you know which river we're crossing?"
Miss S. glanced down at the map, and I snatched it away.
"No peaking," I said. "It's the river that George Washington crossed on the way to Valley Forge."
"You know, when I was in high school, I was more interested in hooking up and finding out where the keggers were."
We exited the freeway onto Benjamin Franklin's hallowed cobblestone streets, and began searching for headquarters. The neighborhood seemed to have deteriorated somewhat from its colonial splendor, yet its modern-day vibrancy was evident. Checks cashed, lotto tickets. We buy gold. What else does civilization need? 3 out of 4 buildings were burned out or boarded up.
Miss S. and I parted ways, and I found my way up a staircase to a office where dozens of volunteers hovered around computer monitors and folding desks. I found my way to my contact and introduced myself. "I'm here to empower voters," I told her.
She glanced up at a clock on the wall. "You're just getting here now?" she said. Turns out the canvass crews were already out hitting the pavement. "I'm in a meeting right now. But I guess you could just go over to the hostel."
"Sounds great. Where is it?" I said. She told me an address. "Feel free to get directions on Mapquest. If you can find a computer. "
I waited for her meeting to end. She and a staff of five, most of them in their twenties, sat in a circle, laughing, massaging each other's feet, taking pictures of one another with their cell phones. One had a lapbook open: I could see that on the screen she was downloading a screen-saver image of a kitten.
After thirty minutes or so, I heard what was like music, a woman's voice asking, "Does anyone have a car?" So the next minute this delightful New Yorker was in my Corolla, the scent of Miss S.'s sunscreen still lingering. Turned out she was a writing student at a well-known Manhattan University. Impressed that she had the decorum to pretend that she didn't recognize the renowned prose stylist in her midst, I dropped this idealistic lass at the train station.
Then I headed out to a pub where pictures of Yeats and James Joyce hung from the wall, put away a few pints of Guinness and a plate of bangers and mash, then headed up to the hostel, a converted mansion on a sprawling estate with some sort of French name, where I passed the evening watching TV and reading the polls online.
It's been a tough day, but our democracy is stronger as a result of all my work.
