I maintain a deep, emotional entwinement, not just with election night itself, but with those big Brooklyn ballot boxes of bygone boyhood days. I stood inside them when I was not more than 6 inches high, 3 long months ago (I thought I’d get to the short joke before you did), perched atop the palms of my father’s stubby Jew-hands, helping him to change the face of American democracy, not to mention his fate as foot soldier in the army of the municipal state.

And when I was not yet old enough to drive (as opposed to now, when I am merely uncredentialed), I, with my cousin, traveled to the repositories of these bombastic boxes as the doors to polling places closed, watching the tin machines pried open, their tallies pouring like milk into the consciousness of freedom.

My cousin and I were not alone in these counting houses, having traveled with a local representative we worked for as lads, a man who, though just a few years earlier a challenger to the status quid, was, by this night, a genuine pro quo, running so unopposed that he could illegally take underage lads into the dark, unholy realm of afterhours election sites.


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