Dion Waiters received a ballot from the elderly attendant at the polling place. He muttered a barely-audible thanks, which was met with nothing but a tight-lipped smile. He hadn’t expected much more. Ever since he stepped into this middle-school gymnasium, there had be nothing but a few hushed words, the old ladies performing their duties in library-like silence. Anything more would be a violation of his constitutional rights, he guessed.
Dion walked over to the booth, relieved that he wouldn’t have to figure out one of those electronic voting machines. His relief was short-lived, however; as soon as he looked at the choices for president, he realized that he hadn’t done any research at all on who to vote for. He picked up the pen, but made no movement to mark a selection.
Hillary Clinton – he remembered just enough media soundbites to know that this was the candidate, he, as a black person, was supposed to vote for. He bristled at this thought. Why were white people telling him who to vote for? So they could control him? So they could reinstitute slavery? Clinton was out of the question.
Donald Trump – something about a wall? He remembered the Instagram clip he had seen of Stan Van Gundy telling the Pistons to “form a fucking wall” and smiled, then quickly stopped. The polling place was not the appropriate location for smiling. Was Trump the racist one? He quickly glanced at the other candidates listed and decided, yes, Trump was the racist one. No Making America Great Again this year.
Gary Johnson – was he the one who supported legalizing marijuana? Dion strained to remember. He liked weed, that much was sure. He wanted to vote for the candidate who supported weed. But he also remembered there was a candidate who wanted to harshen drug convictions. Maybe that was Johnson? Dion sighed. Why had he come to vote if he didn’t know the first thing about any of the candidates.
How long had he been standing here like a dope? He had to make a decision soon, or the olds would kick him out. None of the other names on the ballot looked familiar. He could vote for one of them, he guessed, and just hope for the best… besides his stance on the marijuana issue, all he knew was that he wanted a candidate that would never, ever lie to him…
With a start, he noticed the “write-in” section of the ballot, beneath the list of candidates. He smiled. He knew who he was going to vote for now. Positioning the pen over the paper, he clearly wrote out in capital letters:
BUCKETS