Okay, so here’s my “dead man voting” story.
About a year ago, I caught up with a good, good friend of mine from college. I was present at her wedding some years before. The grapevine told me she was no longer married, so I knew better than to ask about that. So…
“How’s your Dad doing?” I asked. Her dad is someone of whom many of us might have a passing memory–not famous outside of his own circle, but a heavy hitter who spent more than a little time in front of CNN cameras a while back.
“My father is dead,” she said, which led to a most pregnant silence followed by a spluttering apology on my part.
Oh, f** all, didn’t I just screw the pooch on that one?* thought I, and that has remained one of my most embarassing moments in recent memory–besides last Christmas, that is.
Until today, when I found I was following my friend’s dead father to the voting center. Then, I got in line right behind him. Then, I read his I.D. card, which he was holding behind him in line, which showed the same old address. Then, he spelled his name out for both the voting officer and for me.
It’s the dead guy, all right.
In light of my past experiences when asking questions of this family, I decided it would be prudent for me to not introduce myself (again) or to ask any questions about his daughter.
But there’s a dead man walking in Arlington, VA, and that’s probably where I’m gonna leave things. Weird, huh?
