I get there at 6:45. J, the neighbor, had brought his dog Wallace at 6:20. "It was packed then." We meet, him coming out, me going in. "It's the electrical college that's going to decide," says the lady in front when the van parks with an Obama poster in its window. "That's what has to be change. Makes me sick." I'm not sure but there are whiffs of booze somewhere. "Which line are you on?" "I think that's just the information line." "This line is for 66." "Please do not get on that line unless you talk to me." "I'm 66." "They change the boundaries every year. Please do not get on that line unless you... have you talked to me?" "Why didn't you tell us that outside?" "This is outside. Miss, Miss. The Asian lady..." "I'm not Asian..." The old man, barely sighted, cane in hand, resetting the booth as each of us steps into it. "I wish I could tell people who to vote for," after the young suited man sticks his head out of the booth saying "um I have a question?"
It is my turn and I step into the old familiar booth. A new year, a new year, a new year, each click of a tiny lever in this battered old spaceship to democracy. A new year, a new year, a new year... God Bless America I whisper and pull the lever to vote.
MY PRIVATE CONEY presents IT WAS HER NEW YORK, the short stories that accompany the work-in-progress video and photo collection of the same name (myprivateconey.com - media link - IT WAS HER NEW YORK). The stories and the media explore the tender rubble that holds both my mother, Florence's and New York's soul as one disappears into old age and the other into gentrification. All are real observations and/or experiences with very little tall-tale telling.
Except when it makes the story better.
Please visit myprivateconey.com for additional information and sample works.