Governor

So what the fuck, I voted. Why not? I had the card. I had some idea who was on the ballot. I already told you I’m a reader. And if I didn’t know who was who in a certain race, I’d just read the names aloud. You can tell a lot from a name. Examples: Somebody’s got a name like a cartoon character, you don’t vote for ’em. Somebody’s got a name ending with a y, like Mikey or Bobby, no way. A name says a lot about how you were brought up. Listen, I’ll tell you the truth. I was just voting because why not vote? I had the card. But I’ll tell you something else. I felt pretty good when I finished my ballot. Like I’d done something good, like I’d finished something that was supposed to be finished.

Truth be told, I’d forgotten all about having voted when the knock came at the door. When I saw the three cops, my first thought was Laila had decided to unload on me and tell a bunch of stuff that’s not even worth going into. A couple of other scenes flashed through my mind, but they were years ago. Statute of limitations, right? My first words, according to the body cameras, were What the fuck do you guys want? and that’s exactly why I hate body cameras. The first thing that comes out of your mouth, especially in a heated situation, is not necessarily the thing you really mean to say, or want to say. It just comes out. And then they’ve got it recorded, so now what are you supposed to do? So the big guy—and God knows I wanted to make a crack about doughnuts and I even thought later that I might have, but I it turns out I hadn’t, so I guess there is some good to those body cameras—anyway, the big guy—big, fat white guy, stereotype come to life like you see in the B movies—the big guy hears What the fuck do you guys want? and he’s got me spun around and cuffed so fast it made my head spin. Probably why I didn’t call him Doughnut Boy.

Those cuffs are tight, too. I was gonna ask him to loosen them—like he would—but I really did want to know what the fuck they wanted, I mean, duh?

The lady cop said You voted illegally, sir. I like a woman in a uniform. Cop, military—doesn’t matter. And “sir” was a nice touch. I looked at her name tag: SHANDRA. Mr. B-movie cop must have thought it was taking me a little too long to read her name, so he tightened the cuffs one more click and that’s when I said—again, according to his fucking body camera—Hey, watch it . . . Doughnut Boy.  

I was particularly proud of the pause.

Click.