Embarrassing Moments We'd Rather Forget

So there I was, locked between two yammering old women, each wondering aloud how-in-the-world-she-dropped-her-ballot-into-the-slot.

Apparently the new-fangled, fancy-schmancy voting booth had a slot that wasn't really meant for ballots. Sure, it looked like a ballot slot. It sat at the top of the slanted table and resembled the kind of slot I'd dropped previous ballots in. But apparently this one was a fake. The real ballot box was a big ol' handcrafted oak box with a thick lid sporting several coats of varnish. It sat prominently at the end of Madge's table, where voters would see it.

"See?" she says, reading my mind. "THIS IS THE BOX. It has a slot, see? Right there."

At that point, I was itching to leave. Forget my ballot. I was willing to lose my vote just to get my sorry hide out of there. But that was not to be, oh no. Madge had other plans.

She picks up the phone, keys in a few numbers, and hollers, "Hank? You busy? We got a real LIVE one over here in Room 202. Seems she went and stuck her ballot in a slot in the booth...NO, I'M NOT KIDDING, HANK. Can you just bring your tools ASAP? Ok, thanks."Madge announces to the growing crowd of voters that there might be a delay of about fifteen minutes. These are hard-working people who stopped by after work to do exercise their constitutional right. They want to vote, and head home for dinner. They have families to feed, news to watch, bills to pay, and babies to burp. And there they stand, waiting for Hank the tool guy to come to our rescue.

OK. So picture me waiting between Madge and What's-Her-Face, when in marches a teeny tiny mustachioed man with an overloaded tool belt flip-flopping at his side. "You the one?" he says, squinting one eye closed like a wannabe detective.

I nod. He nods. It reminds me of a scene from an old western, where two cowboys have a staredown before the big shootout.

Hank inches over to the voting booth, crawls under the table, and gazes upward. He looks like a plumber who has lost his sink.

It takes him only a few seconds to see whatever he's looking for. He springs to his feet with a somber announcement. "Can't fix it. I don't have the right ratchet to open 'er up. Sorry, but I won't be able to retrieve your ballot."

At that point, I really did not care.

Hank commandeers the room by asking for silence. When he's certain he has everyone's full attention, he announces, "Voting Booth Number Six is out of order. We've had an unfortunate mishap. Please use booths 1 - 5 only.Thank you."

My embarrassing Ballot Box Incident of 1998 concluded with Madge admonishing me to "pay attention next time." She tapped shiny pink fingernails on the lid of the varnished oak box. "THIS is the real box. We never use those slots in the booth. Too hard to empty those tubs the ballots fall into," she says.

"Too hard to bend over that far," echoes her friend.

Hank shakes his head, then bursts out laughing. "Never seen anything so crazy," he says. "Can't wait to tell Louise. She won't believe this one."