Richie's big dilemma

My friend Richie from up the street came over on that Tuesday morning in November and we rode together to the place where we would finally, finally get to vote. Finally.

After the longest year of my life, following the Presidential campaigns on TV, watching about a thousand debates, listening to Obama and Hillary and McCain and all those other guys, not to mention all the TV commentators who sometimes told us something we didn’t know but mostly just argued with each other. Richie would watch the arguments and hope for a fight to break out, maybe a few chairs being thrown around, and he said that Keith Olbermann could take Pat Buchanan out in about 30 seconds, but it was only arguing, and no chairs ever got thrown.

Whenever a debate was on, Richie would show up at my door, bringing a cold six pack and a newly acquired passion for politics. I never heard everything they said in the debates because Richie would be talking about promoting celebrity fights between the candidates. He would wonder out loud what would happen if you put, say, Hillary and Barack in the same ring, or maybe in one of those cages, and no rules. I’d tell Richie that Barack was younger and more athletic, and Richie would insist it wouldn’t be a basketball game, that Hillary would be tougher and would bite and claw, and then I’d point out that Barack was quicker and had a longer reach, and Richie would say that Hillary would have pointed shoes and would know how to use them, and then I’d give up and start listening to the debate again, and Kucinich would be talking about UFOs, and then Richie would ask me who I thought would win if they put Kucinich in the ring with an alien. And so on.

Then at the end of August that McCain guy surprised us all by naming a woman as his running mate. And not just any woman. We heard her name, Sarah Palin. Then we saw her photo (Richie studied the photo, then sat back and said "Desperate Housewives"). Then we began to learn things about her, like she was a runner-up for the Miss Alaska beauty queen, and mayor from a small town we’d never heard of. And then we heard her speak. We heard that voice, for the first time. She was folksy, all right, talkin’ county and droppin’ those g’s left and right. I looked over at Richie and his jaw had dropped and his eyes were big and I asked him if he was all right and he didn’t say anything. I think what he was was hypnotized.

So all through September and October, as the general election got closer and the campaign more heated, Richie focused on Sarah Palin. He read everything he could about her. He showed me her photos as a high school basketball player, and beauty contestant, and hunter. He showed me the fake photo from the Internet, with Sarah Palin’s head on the body of a well endowed woman in a bikini. I think he carried that one around in his wallet.

Richie stopped talking about celebrity fights. We agreed early on that Obama would take out McCain, in the ring or in an election. In fact, we were both big fans of the tall skinny guy from Hawaii with the funny name and the great jump shot. Richie and I, and I think all of our friends, were backing Obama. We had stood in line for over an hour in the spring to vote for him in the Democratic caucus. Richie had even looked up the word “caucus” and told me “It turns out it has nothing to do with the word ‘circus’ after all.” But when we finally got into the caucus room at Jefferson Elementary to vote for Obama, they had run out of ballots and we had to write on blank sheets of paper, once we found out which table was ours, and it was crowded and noisy and exciting and, now that I think of it, a caucus actually is like a circus.

All that was B.S., of course. Before Sarah. Before Richie got obsessed with the woman and Tina Fey started playing her on Saturday Night Live and cracking us up. Before the interviews, and Sarah telling us how she could see Russia from her house and how Putin rears his head and comes into the air space, and Richie saying they must be looking at each other a lot, and I thought he seemed just a bit jealous when he said it.

So anyway, November 4 finally arrived, and Richie drove the mile to Sacred Hearts, where we always vote, and we parked next to the Kaimuki Longs, which is right across the street, and soon we were in the voting booths, filling in the little boxes next to the ones we liked. The ballot was pretty short and it took me about three minutes to vote. Then I fed my ballot into the machine and looked around for Richie. I spotted his slippers and skinny legs beneath the half curtain of one of the voting booths. He was shifting his weight from one leg to the other. I moved closer, and that’s when I heard the noises from his booth. “Hmmmm.” “Arggggggggg.” Then I thought I heard “Shit!”

“Hey, Richie,” I said, “are you all right in there?” The only response I got was “Double shit!” That was a new one anyway. “Richie, you okay?” I said, this time louder. No answer. Finally I looked around, ready to explain that my friend needed help, in case anyone wondered, but nobody did, so I pulled the little curtain aside and squeezed into the booth with Richie.

“This sucks, man,” Richie said.

“What sucks? Having trouble with the constitutional amendments or board of education?” We were both kind of whispering.

“No, man,” Richie said, “I’m still on the President. I’m stuck, man.”

“What do you mean? Gotta be Obama, right?”

“Well yeah, Obama, sure. Obama, absolutely. But they don’t let you vote for a different Vice President. It’s gotta be that Biden guy if I vote for Obama. It’s like they’re joined at the hip or something.”

“Biden’s okay,” I said.

“But he’s not …” Richie’s whisper trailed off. Then it hit me. I’m slow sometimes, but eventually I catch on.

“He’s not Sarah,” I said.

“Damn straight,” Richie said. “And if Sarah doesn’t win, she’ll go back to Alaska and we’ll never see her again. She’ll be out of my life. I mean our lives.”

I put a hand on Richie’s shoulder. “It’s okay, dude,” I said. Richie likes to be called “dude.” “You know, dude, you’ll see her again. She’ll be around. I bet once this thing is over she’ll be on her own and twice as …” I searched for the right adjective.

“Twice as special,” Richie said.

“Sure,” I said. “Special” was not the word I was looking for, but if it helped me talk Richie down it would do.

Just then Richie poked his head out of the booth and called to one of the workers for help. The woman patiently explained to him that no, he couldn’t split his vote, that the running mates were tied together, and Richie said “joined at the hip,” and the woman laughed and said “now you’re catching on,” and Richie thanked her and turned back to his ballot.

He let out a big sigh, and slowly filled in the little box next to Obama and Biden. Then he said, “Let’s go, I don’t want to vote for the other stuff.” He fed in his ballot, and then, as we walked to the car, I patted him on the back and reassured him that we hadn’t seen the last of Sarah Palin. Richie asked me if I thought she would keep talking and be on TV, and I told him I didn’t think anyone could stop her. And Saturday Night Live would be grateful.

“Maybe one of those reality shows,” Richie said. “Or a talk show of her own.” We climbed into his car and, before he started the engine, Richie turned to me and said, “Who do you think could stop her from talking? Maybe Hillary? Now that would be a fight. Maybe in a cage. People would pay thousands of dollars for a ticket. And we could watch it on your big screen TV. I’ll bring the beer.”

By the time we pulled into my driveway Richie’s mood had brightened considerably. He was ready to watch the election results from the mainland. Ready to cheer for Obama. Knowing now that he could have it both ways. Barack and Sarah on the big screen TV, tonight and beyond. Richie reached into his pocket for his lucky bottle opener. Life was good again.