Due to several instances of creative voter-counts, prior to the Donalds admin, mail-ins were only for the elderly or disabled. Educators were up in arms over the likely outcome..."be afraid, be very afraid." Was Albert's favorite line, from a movie, he'd seen when he was around six or seven. He still remembered his mom saying something about suing the producers, something like $1,100 for a new sofa, and two lamps. Another one of his "I'm th' Fflyyy" stunts - the setting, a dilapidated shed on his folk's property - had landed him in the ER. Needless to say, not long after, his Dad and Uncle Rob, tore it down, and threw the pieces into a rented dumpster.
His phone read 6:07. The diner opened at six, and he was hungry. He then decided to first get to the polls, and get in line. Straightening his tie, his wife's reflection was still...out like a light. Hmm, with a bit of luck, she'd get herself into something else, and somehow not make the 7pm limit. But that wasn't likely to happen - headache or not. Their two votes would cancel each other out. He kissed his political opponent upon the forehead, then upon her cheek; she mumbled a response - if he'd heard what he thought she'd said... Anyway, he was enough of a gentleman to not bring it up; she'd be mortified.
Whistling a tune, he bounded down the stairs. But the second part of the ditty fell flat, upon noticing the rather disheveled state of their living room. A twinge of conscience. Quickly, he straightened and picked up some out of place items. If his wife didn't remember last night, all the better - they didn't call 'em Marine Corp Slammers for nothing; ole teddy, didn't water 'em down...he'd say, with a wink "principal of the thing, ya know."
Whatever was in 'em, they sure were refreshing - though more like a summer drink. He, a one-drink man, had one - which he didn't finish; Carla, must have mistaken the tall orange beverage for Summer Coolers - she'd drank two, or was it three? Either way, pricked his conscience - there was a verse somewhere in the Bible that went along the lines of pushing booze before your neighbor... While he didn't "push" and Carla wasn't his neighbor, still the agenda was the same. Albert was not a religious man, but manipulating people was just plain wrong.
Two hours later, Carla's eyes shot open. The little orange clock radio, sitting on their bureau, read 8:20. "Crap!" She b-lined for the shower. Her head throbbed alittle; too bad, no time for coffee. She was half dressed when she realized, yippee, school was not in session today. The students would be happy, but they wouldn't be overly thrilled come the friday following thanksgiving.
Coffee, coffee, yee-haw, she sped toward the kitchen. "OUCH!" Carla bellowed out a few other words. A heeled, slipper, lay on its side, at her feet. She sat on the coffee table, rubbing a stubbed toe. Darn, that smarted, but worse, did a number on her pedicure. She glanced around their spacious living room - some things appeared out of place. Oh well, first, COFFEE!! She had enough time to tidy up, before 10:30ish - when the MerMaids team would arrive, for their twice-weekly, to polish furnishings, clean countertops, tiles, vac floors...
She poured the lifesaving liquid into a favorite mug - a souvenir she had picked up, a few years ago, when she and Albert had gone to Ireland. The toe continued to smart. "Just put a bandaid on it." She recalled a fellow teacher's voice. Yeah, right...but it was worth a try.
A few hours later, she was very glad to have wrapped the toe. The winding queue inched forward, toward the booths. Three or four people ahead, stood the Waterfeld's. Ward leaned, toward June and whispered something in her ear. "June, now be a g..." WHAT! If Carla heard right, and she believed she had...while, not surprised, still Carla seethed. Stupid senera-joys...although the derision was not inline with the story, it stuck. It was women like June, women who, of course, didn't work...but stayed home, and bred senera-heffers. Portions from a certain book report reiterated in Carla's mindspace - The little twit...yet, casting dispersions couldn't erase the fact, Molly had studiously read it. Carla pondered, trying to recall, the author who wrote "Handmaid's Tale." She reached for her cell.
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