For me, it’s always been people, not substances. Or if it WAS a substance, it was likely to have been a grilled, deli-style hot dog, probably the reason a previous election night — could be after the primary some months earlier — had been so frustrating to me. That night, rather than a trip through the inside for me and mine alone, I was, quite simply, alone.
While handing out literature at the polls, I’d asked, fearing the wrath of Mom, just when and how I’d be getting home, hoping they’d say there’d be a party and I would get a lift home after that. But when my shift ended, they said only that they’d take me home. Which they did.
Though there WAS a party.
With FRANKFURTERS, even.
While I was…home.
When I whined about it, they claimed I’d wanted it that way, but I had only wanted information, a timetable.
Those things in life I know I’ve missed loom at least as large in my consciousness as the things I’ve done. I can still picture my cousin, hot dog in hand, an ample number of cute girls around him, the TV playing election results in the background. Even though I wasn’t there. Even though my cousin said it wasn’t that great.