The Last Laugh

I v*ted the other day.

It wasn’t a thing I’d planned, just something I did after a conversation over lunch. I tidied up the kitchen, completed a few office tasks, then hopped in the car and drove to our town government center to cast my ball*t.

The line out the door moved quickly, neighbor greeting neighbor and poll workers calling out, “We have a first-time v*ter!” In all I observed four citizen volunteer stages: the p*lling site manager; those verifying v*ter identification; those printing and handing out ball*ts; and those stationed by the ball*t scanner.

Somewhere along the way I was handed an “I V*ted” sticker, a really handsome one. I’d like to show it to you, but that would banish this p*st from social media [see below].

Behind a cardboard screen at a standing table I filled in several ovals, like taking the SAT with black ink, then scanned the long sheet. It was an unremarkable process that filled me with neither hope nor despair.

Four days from now the final v*te will be cast, whether by hand at a p*lling station like mine or with the stamp of a postmark at the U.S. postal service. A reasonable expectation exists that what follows may be messy, protracted, confusing, and, perhaps, violent.

From my corner of America, looking out over the sea of data and collective anecdotes and teleprompted rhetoric, the flames and madness of post-elect*ral chaos seem a very real possibility. If I tell myself it won’t go that way, I do so out of laziness, unwilling to accept the worst from my fellow citizens.

Word is, some 62 million v*ters have cast their ball*t already. Word is, a quarter million subscribers have fled one of the nation’s most storied newspapers over the owner’s decision to abrogate half a century’s custom and refrain from candidate end*rsement. Word is, the world’s oldest dem*cracy suffers a credibility crisis over the exercise of its defining trait.

The last time one of these candidates awaited inauguration, a trade magazine rescinded their decision to publish my article, Transiti*n Brief. Under the circumstances, at the start of a tumultuous transition, they thought it best to avoid antagonizing a hostile, thin-skinned group of neophytes likely to be triggered by its publication.

I understood, though nothing in the piece was p*litical. I’d written it much earlier in the fall, seated at a circular table in a sea of defense, diplomacy, and development professionals at an area military base. The piece practically wrote itself, reflecting my stupefaction at the sound of one inane sentence following another from the presenter with the microphone telling us how the bureaucracy ought to conduct its development agenda.

The piece was humorous, intended to mirror the frequent madness behind the sincere efforts of career professionals who work in government with all good intent. Somehow, my trade journal friends thought the incoming transition team would lack a sense of humor and take all this personally.

Probably, they were correct.

Not long after, I was grateful when a former professor agreed to place Transiti*n Brief in his collection of short humor pieces: Flash Nonfiction Funny: 71 Very Humorous, Very True, Very Short Stories. I’ll take anthology placement over journal publication any day, even if it means fewer eyeballs up front. It’s too early to say, but I may have had the last laugh.

Something tells me we’re all going to need to keep a sense of humor in the days and weeks ahead. I for one will take refuge in the satire and silliness offered by people secure and confident enough in their own skin to laugh even at their own foibles.

I wish the same were true of everyone.

[I’ve read that social media platforms are nixing certain w*rds from their algorithms this p*litical season. Hence the asterisk.]

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