The Democratic Caucus

There is a train of white and red dots from all of the cars heading toward the caucus site. As I squint my eyes, they become twinkling Christmas lights. Once inside the elementary school, I am nearly overwhelmed by the sea of humanity. We make our way in to the auditorium, which had dozens of red, white, and blue student art projects taped to the walls. Before long, the room is teeming with life. The plaque on the wall reads “Maximum Occupancy: 172”. We are clearly in violation of local fire code. My unofficial sticker poll favors Obama by a lot. There are so many people up against the walls, in the aisles, and even up on the stage, that the temperature in the room is starting to rise. I hear people talking about the fact that the hall outside the auditorium is just as crowded. The woman next to me tells her friend that she just felt someone grab her butt. She is wearing too much glittery gold eye make up. To my disbelief, I see even more citizens entering the room from backstage. We finally get our instructions for the rest of the evening.

We empty out into the already congested corridor, and begin to make our way to our assigned precinct rooms. Suddenly, someone starts to shout “Hillary! Hillary!” I quickly scan the immediate vicinity and spy the corpulent rabble rouser. She is shooting her arms up and down while holding a homemade “Hillary in 08” sign. The woman is a little too enthusiastic, and one of her friends is trying to settle her down. I wonder if she had anything to drink before coming to this event. As the jam-packed herd slowly makes its way, I hear a very tall man quietly saying, “Moo… moo”. I then realize that we do somewhat resemble bovines heading toward veal fattening pens. During my journey I notice a man in a wheelchair, being pushed against the flow of the throng. I do a double take, because he looks very much like the late Christopher Reeve. He has the same bone structure in his face, as well as the same hair color and style. He even has a tracheotomy tube.

Inside our room, which is far too small to handle a group of our size (about 60 individuals), we slowly start to get organized and begin taking attendance. The person in charge is Frank. Frank is a fairly aged man with graying long hair pulled back into a braid. The lenses of his glasses are thick and dirty due to the build up of oil from his skin and dust. He takes a long time to read through the rules for the caucus, as he pauses frequently to adjust the distance of the paper from his eyes. This room is rapidly starting to heat up, so I take off my down filled vest. I notice that it seems much hotter on the left side of my body, and I’m starting to perspire in my left arm pit. There is some sort of machine (it looks like a laminating device of some kind) that has been left on, and it is generating a fair amount of heat. I don’t see an “OFF” switch, so I quietly run my fingers over the textured metal sides of the contraption. My search is in vain, and I’m not sure if I’m allowed to unplug it or not. My mouth is dry, so I start chewing a few pieces of gum. The gum has a wintergreen flavor and provides a cool feeling, even though I know it’s a placebo effect. I’m still hot, so I inch my way forward but this leaves me behind a tall man with brown skin and shoulder length tightly woven black dread locks. He’s wearing a tightly loomed sweater that’s fuzzy and looks very uncomfortable.

It’s finally time for the first vote of the night. A woman on the Hillary side of the room says we need to take a straw poll (a practice poll) first. The room groans, as this will add more time to what we have to do. The woman has a thick head of overly sprayed hair, and it looks like she is wearing a bloated football helmet. She refuses to relent, so we move forward with the process. My feet are starting to ache. I wonder if the windows on the opposite side of the room will open. The windows have a lattice work of wire between the panes of glass, and a metal handle, that if rotated 45 degrees, will un-latch the frame. They’re just like the windows when I was in grade school. As soon as we finish the presidential vote, several people start to leave. Now it’s time to discuss the resolutions.

There are now about 20 of us left to complete the rest of the caucus work, and the clock is ticking, literally. It’s 8:10pm and we have to be done, and out of the building, by 9:00pm. As we go through all 14 resolutions, everyone has the chance to add their input. This will be okay, providing we have enough time for everyone to weigh in. Ed has a problem with the way in which one of the resolutions is fashioned. Ed is, I swear to God, 147 years old. He is roughly four feet tall, with snow white hair, and deep canyons for wrinkles that look more like a road map on his face. His speech is barely audible and very drawn out, as he must breathe between every other word. I seriously question Ed’s ability to survive the night. That having been said, Ed has outlasted at least one of the attendees.

Our caucus secretary decided to expose her 13 year old son to the political process. I’m sure she thinks it will be a rewarding and educational experience for her offspring, but I bet if asked, he would disagree. Over the course of the evening, the young lad has gone from standing erect almost military style, to leaning, to sitting at the table, and eventually propping up his noggin upon his hand and arm. During Ed’s contribution to resolution 11, the youth finally gave up the ghost. His eyelids grow increasingly heavy, as he struggles to keep them open. Close observation reveals a soft glaze slowly encompassing the surface of his eyes. The muscles in his face begin to slacken, until finally the tender embrace of sleep takes hold. There is a glimmer, but I fear it is only a tiny glistening spot of drool.

It is now 9:13 p.m. and we’re still not done, although we’re close. I remind everyone that we have gone past our allotted time, and we need to start cleaning up while we finish our discussions. By 9:28 p.m. we have completed our work, and transformed the caucus site back into its original form of the teacher’s lounge. The building, albeit back to its natural state, has lost the energy that the hundreds of people have injected over the past few hours. I’m not sure why I thought our presence would leave a more lasting mark, but the institutional scent of a school starts to return with every step toward the green glowing exit sign. Why do elementary schools from a certain era all seem to have burnt orange carpet?

I brace myself against the crisp night air, as I walk back to my car. It has been an exhilarating evening. I’m going to be a delegate, possibly going all the way to the National Convention. The District Coordinator has asked me to become a Precinct Committee Person, and I have agreed. My fingertips glide over the surface of my i-pod in search of a song that would best compliment my mood. The ice crunches under my feet as I carefully navigate my way. I wonder if death is too harsh a penalty for not shoveling one’s sidewalk in a timely fashion.