Yesterday was Super Tuesday, when ten states—including Massachusetts—headed to the polls for the 2012 Presidential Primaries. I knew early it wouldn’t be a typical sleepy Election Day in our neighborhood. Down the street, a swarm of television vans was staking out the senior center next to our local ballpark.
Which could only mean one thing: Mitt Romney and I have the same polling place.
Yes, we live in the same unassuming first-ring suburban town where Mitt claims residence via a seldom-used condo—purchased after the Romneys sold their estate on the hill. It’s one reason I have a soft spot for him. I can (almost) forgive the grotesque wealth and Swiss-bank-account vibe. Because he’s not just from some gated, hedge-lined zip code—he’s from my town. Which is, let’s be honest, only about one-quarter hedge-lined.
It will be hard—but not impossible—for me to vote against him come November. I mean, surely having the President of the United States as a local resident boosts property values? Just something to consider.
I did a little recon and learned Romney was scheduled to vote around 5 p.m., so I left work early to participate in a little Mitt Madness. When I picked up Little Boy from daycare, I tried to explain our post-school plan. He heard “vote” and got very excited—we were apparently going on a boat.
We parked at home and walked down to the senior center. Our usually quiet neighborhood had turned into a press gauntlet: cars everywhere, cameras, reporters, local cops, and two helicopters overhead. Little Boy was enthralled by all the exotic vehicles, but I dragged him inside to cast my ballot. If I were smarter, I’d have waited outside for Romney’s arrival—but I prioritize efficiency when I’ve got a toddler in tow.
Also, I suspect we’re in different precincts. They switched things around so that my larger, middle-class precinct got stuffed into the smaller room, while the rarefied richies lounged in the ballroom. Democracy at work.
It took me all of a minute to vote. Then we emerged to join the growing crowd outside.
Romney arrived minutes later—swarmed by Secret Service and a wall of press. I caught a glimpse of his forehead behind a policeman’s shoulder, snapped a blurry photo on my phone, and considered it a win. He moved fast, followed by Ann, as if gliding toward destiny (or at least the ballot table).
We lingered a bit longer, but the crowd was getting restless and Little Boy was edging into meltdown territory. So we walked home. Later, we watched Romney’s mini press conference on TV—same backdrop, same helicopters, now in stereo. He signed autographs. Kissed babies. The whole thing felt oddly cinematic.
And yeah… I sort of wished we’d stayed longer. Or at least that I’d gotten a clearer shot of the forehead.
Do you see it—behind the massive policeman? Do you see… Romney’s forehead? That was the best my phone could manage. He moved quickly, ducking into the building with Ann close behind. We loitered for ten minutes, the crowd swelling, Little Boy getting increasingly squirmy, and I finally called it.
Back home, we watched the local news coverage of Romney’s mini press conference—helicopters in stereo. He smiled, signed books and signs, shook hands. And I kind of wished we’d stayed, just long enough to awkwardly thrust Little Boy into his arms for a photo op.
Ah well. Maybe we’ll try again in November. Preferably with a better camera.
