- Paul Davidson
The Post Where I Turn My Voting Experience Into A Really Over-The-Top Action/Adventure Movie
I turned off the ignition.
Looking into the rear view mirror, I winced. The pain was more than I could handle. The number two pencil, which had pierced my chest, came inches from doing me in. Why I had taken the sharpened staff of death with me was anyone’s guess, except for Tawney. She didn’t want to have anything to do with me. I remembered the conversation like it had happened yesterday (although it had happened mere minutes prior…)
Tawney: You can’t be serious, Brock. Me (Brock): Oh, but I am. Tawney: You don’t know who you’ll run into. What if you run into-
I stopped her, placing my fist over her mouth in a symbolic gesture of good faith and pure threatening force.
Me (Brock, again): I can handle myself, Tawney.
I took out the sharpened stick and her eyes widened a wideness I had never witnessed before in my entire time I’d been with her.
Tawney: You’re playing with fire, Brock. Me (Brock): That’s because I like the heat, sugar.
As I opened the door to the car, the memories (from a few minutes before) left me. I looked down where the shaft had pierced my muscle-covered skin. With one full swoop I removed it quickly, and looked up to the residential garage/evil lair. There, standing one after another, a group of questionable folk stood.
I moved quietly, using my stealth techniques that Captain Gibbons had taught me at The Institute. I remembered my heydey there like it was just yesterday (although it was years ago.)
Capt. Gibbons: Faster! Harder! Quicker, Brock!
Using an old S.A.T. answer card was Gibbons favorite training technique. It taught fastness, hardness and quickness. You never knew when a stray chunk of pencil could hit you in the face like shrapnel. For me (Brock), it was a learned skill that never left my brain (except for when I wasn’t thinking about it.)
Me (Brock, years earlier): It’s too hard, Captain! I can’t control it! I’m such a f- Capt. Gibbons: Don’t say the f-word, Brock. Don’t even think it. Me (Brock, years earlier, about to say the f-word): But I am a f-
Captain Gibbons slapped me upside the head like it was going out of style and placed the pencil back in my hand.
Capt. Gibbons: You’re ready for this, Brock. Ready to take the plunge. Up to the challenge. Me (Brock): But, Captain. It’s years away. Three years to be exact.
Captain Gibbons looked at me with a knowing glance.
Capt. Gibbons: Three years will be here before you know it, son. Now, get back to getting back.
Standing in line, grasping the now bloody device in my cold, nervous hands, I remembered it all. The drama, the heartbreak, the constant training. Using this number two pencil and using it wisely was the goal. It was the end game.
It was now.
As the line filtered into the garage (evil lair of number two pencil-dom) I stepped forward and got an eyefull. There, lined up along a wall were the monstrosities. They were electronic voting machines.
I looked down at my pencil and up to the technologically-advanced mechanisms. And looked to the sky (garage ceiling) as I dropped to the dirty ground (concrete floor)…
Me (Brock, now crying): Noooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
Everything I had been trained for no longer mattered.