I take thirty minutes off work to vote.
Our polling place has moved. We are no longer in the concrete sandwich that is the MARTA office; instead, we have to drive several more blocks to a grade school gymnasium.
Inside, people are coiled into tight spirals. We get in a line and wait; at the desk, we’re told we’re in the wrong line. We look for signs and ask around. No one knows where the twisting lines begin or end, or where they’re going to.
The third line we’re in — the one in the center of the gym, which circles a tiny wooden desk three times — is the one everyone must visit first. Here, a man gives us a sheet of paper. We write our name on it, and he initials it. We stand in line again. At desk to, they take this paper and give us another one. We stand in line number three, and, upon reaching the dozen voting booths, punch in our votes and hand this ticket to yet another bored poll worker.
Time elapsed: two hours.
As we leave, the 5:30 crowd arrives. We shake our heads and go home, dizzy and amazed.
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