A Wanted Man

Cleaning the dishes from the neglected night before, he glances up at the calendar,

November 3rd –
Election Day.

A Patriot to the heart, though not a veteran himself, like his father and his before him, he felt the tug, a duty.

‘Election Day’ . . . he repeats to himself, carrying out the recycles.

It is quiet where he is, in the woods, yet not far from the road.

Today is his day off from Charlene’s.

 A diner, where he flips burgers and stays mostly with his back turned, in the greasy mist of the fan.

    Election Day.

He reminds himself of the discipline that has served him well over the past year.

He is also aware that the rhythm of his routine has just been altered over the past few days.

A couple of men in suits, black Crown Vic, going store to store in the streets of Jewett, asking questions.

Charlene doesn’t take kindly to snoopers and he is grateful for that.

        He is a Wanted Man.

His camper is parked over in Voluntown, Ct., a heavily forested rural area, bordering Rhode Island, his legal home state.

Charlene’s Diner is about a twelve minute ride to the West.

He is wanted up in Boston to the four corners of Tivertown, throughout Jamestown, Nooseneck Hill and down to Westerly RI … .best he last knew.

That made his next decision particularly precarious, as his voting precinct was the Police station in Westerly, RI.

He grabs his keys.

The ride, like most of late, is without event and he parks in a space amidst the early morning hustle of busy folks.

Pulling his woolen fishing cap on, he joins the line.

Security outside is somewhat loose and he strides with the flow, blending in with those rushing to vote.

Inside, he observes just three oval cameras above, one uniformed state trooper and a plethora of signs, directing the voters.

A left and a right, then welcomes him to a brightly lit room, with seven bright eyed volunteers and two more State Troopers.

He pauses – but no turning back now.

He looks up from his phone and smiles, fluidly presenting his soon to expire driver’s license.

With the building line, instructions are given and the voting is refreshingly routine.

Walking back, upon reaching for the door and the sunshine beyond, a State Trooper behind him calls out, and in an uncertain pause. . .  

‘Sir, your sticker’

He exhales and only relaxes upon driving away, turning left towards the beach and beyond.