Mitch listened intently to the new broadcast. Hundreds of
eyes all directed to the giant digital screen. Everyone took short, bated
breaths while the man on the television, an older gentleman with a bushy white
beard grabbed the latest election results and scanned them in his hands. Mitch heaved
with anticipation, sweat breaking upon his tanned brow. His beautiful skin
glistened in response to his excitement. His dark brown hair fell unevenly
around his trembling head.
“Yes, I
have it now. This just coming into us…uh…the results will be here in about ten
minutes. That’s right, ten minutes folks until the next four years of the
country are decided. Twelve o’clock Eastern Standard Time, nine o’clock Pacific.
As you know…” The rest faded into the growing murmurs of the impatient crowd.
Mitch turned to his girlfriend who crushed his hand with an excruciating
strength.
He smiled
at her and kissed her. She returned it and smiled back, pulling the loose
strands of her blonde hair back behind her ear. Her hands trembled with the
same anticipation of everyone else gathered inside the town square. Mitch
looked around to the friends he grew up with in primary through high school.
They all wore the same faces. They all waited for the same damn thing.
Mitch let
go of his girlfriend’s hand and walked over to a nearby vendor, hustling the
crowd with his beverages of both alcoholic and non-alcoholic taste. He stood
behind a broad shouldered man, wearing the blood red jacket of a ROP party member.
For the time being, however, Mitch could excuse the man’s political
perspectives. In ten minutes, on the other hand, all prescriptions were out the
window. This was Mitch’s first rally, but all of what he had seen and heard on
the television told him everything he wanted and needed to know about election
night. Every person worth voting in the election between the ages of twenty-one
and forty were allowed just one night to gather together in cities across the nation.
Brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, friends and foe alike, all held hands on
the night when the political machine would either keep chugging for another six
years, or suddenly change gears. In any event, all hands would fall.
When Mitch
was five, he vaguely remembered a vote, THE vote that would solidify the nights
festivities. Specifically, he remembered a conversation his mother and father
carried on with the man on the television (the same man they watched on
election night). It wasn’t so much a conversation, but a screaming match, one
the man on the TV seemed to ignore. His father had stood, thrown his beer
bottle against the wall and screamed obscenities, while his mother joined in by
throwing her glass of wine. Mitch had cried, but his screams went unanswered
while the man on TV read the bulletin outlining the new law.
“As of
twelve midnight, December 31st, this year, the senate and house will
only be open to the ROP and DNS political parties, all others have no place in
our democratic seats. The voting age of twenty one will be in place. Also, the
practice of rally will be legalized and encouraged under statute 512 of the
federal…”
Through his
schooling, Mitch learned the actual meaning of that broadcast and how it
affected his life afterwards. But as he stood in line for his beverage, nothing
mattered to him except the call in the next eight or so minutes. A small
scuffle broke out somewhere off to his right, between a man in blue, like
himself, and another man in red. The police moved in quickly and forcefully
arrested the two men before it could escalate. Besides, no one wanted to begin
early except the drunk or the stupid. The man in front of Mitch, the rightist,
approached the vendor and handed his dollar bill across the scratched plastic
counter top. Mitch saw the face of Abraham Lincoln fly between the two and
tried to envision how the old stovepipe master would have felt about this
event. He might have been one of the orators, proclaiming the winning votes on
his pulpit and watching the evening’s entertainment ensue and proud of a
democracy sustained by breaking whilst also maintaining the law.
As every
child in his generation learned in school, had that bearded sage not bent the
will of the Constitution, freedom would have been the last feather torn from a
dying swan and allowed to sail into the wind never to be seen again. On
election night, everyone was free and everyone was equal, giving homage to the
great sacrifices so many had made before the younger generations could even
walk.
Mitch
finally faced the vendor and purchased a bottle of water for ten dollars,
sliding the Hamilton-faced parchment across the same worn plastic and grabbing
his water at the same time. The vendor was obviously ROP, or else the water
would have cost five bucks just like the other guy. Mitch shrugged it off,
figuring that it wouldn’t matter in a few minutes. That ROP vendor would get
his comeuppance. It had never occurred to him that the stakes might be thrown
in favor of the ROP, for that was not how he was educated. The confidence of
everyone that their side would win is what held them so close together. It was
how ROP and DNS could stand together, united on election night, until the hour
struck twelve and the bells began to toll.
He
hurriedly rushed back to the large television, finding his girlfriend and
grasping her hand once more. The crowd surged toward the large plasma display,
standing so close together that a piece of paper could not separate. The man on
the broadcast wiped his brow with that same cool composure he always portrayed.
A stack of paper was handed to him from off-screen. The crowd took a collective
breath and held it, the air becoming still and perceptive. The only sound came
from the large speakers that issued an annoying electric hum. Mitch found it so
quiet that his girlfriend’s heartbeat pounded in his ears.
The man on
the TV sighed and took a deep breath, removed his glasses and stared out to
every individual in the country. A bead of sweat trickled down his nose and
dripped upon the desk he tiredly bent over.
“My fellow
citizens, the ROP has won the presidential…” were the only words that anyone
heard from speakers before the crowd erupted in shouting and screaming. Like a
rock concert, no one could hear what the person next to them was saying, but
they were both likely yelling at the top of their lungs. The entire crowd, both
ROP and DNS roared in approval. It was hard to believe a vote had even taken
place with the uproarious support from both parties. But it was tradition that
forced their calls and jubilation. Tradition called them to the square to
celebrate by any means necessary.
Mitch
finally stopped yelling and hugged and kissed his girlfriend, holding her tight
and pulling his fingers through her soft blonde hair. He stared into her tear
stricken eyes, smiling back with joy and wondrous amazement. The tumultuous
crowd finally settled into a quiet murmur as everyone began to bow their heads
and await the final election night ritual. Mitch looked across the tops of
buildings lining the square, watching the mid-July sunset with his own tears
beginning to stain his vision. He followed the path of light, as darkness
quickly descended upon the horizon.
From the
center of town, a large bell finally rocked back and forth, back and forth. The
chimes were deafening, but no one moved or raised their head. They all took
deep breaths and mentally prepared for the task ahead, waiting for that final
stroke. The bell tolled on and on, ringing and ringing through every person’s
heart and mind. It rocked back and forth until finally, it locked into place
and the clapper struck the sides twice more before swinging to a stop.
The crowd
exploded. DNS members stood their ground with bowed heads. Some, who were
couples, hugged each other and closed their eyes. ROP party members grabbed every
object they could, sometimes just using their fists and feet, and fell upon the
DNS. A terrible swelling sound of screams erupted from the square as it exploded
in chaos. The DNS made no movement as they were struck down to the pavement,
broken, bleeding and dying. Six years ago, the scene was the same, but the
roles reversed. Six years ago, Mitch had watched from afar as the DNS tore the
ROP party to pieces. It was the way things were conducted. The police
maintained a perimeter, to make sure no one left until the violence died down,
but also to direct the festivities and put down any rebellion by the losing
party’s members. Of course, not everyone attended, for the political process
could not continue if such happened, but true patriots lined that square.
Mitch
pulled back from his girlfriend and gave her one last kiss. He pulled back and
she smiled up at him, her tears gone, replaced with a frightening look of
accomplishment. She hoisted her red band on her arm higher and turned to pick
up a large obsidian rock she purchased the day before. With a small cloth she
grasped the bulbous, sharp object. Lifting it high above her head she turned
back to Mitch, who had already knelt on the ground.
Pride beat
in his heart and he knew with utmost certainty he would ascend the annals of
history for his quiet sacrifice. His chin touched his chest and he rested it
there. Mitch’s girlfriend brought the rock down and crushed his skull, blood spraying
upon her crazed face. She continued until his last tremors ceased and his body
lay still. She dropped the rock and picked up the cloth, wiping the blood on
her face and smearing it down her neck. Her heaving chest was similar to every ROP
in the crowd, finishing up the last stragglers of the DNS.
She felt
the election had gone quite smoothly. Her towel fell to the blood covered
pavement and she looked down at Mitch, still smiling with patriotic pride and
confidence. In six years, she would attend again, probably falling herself to the
DNS. It didn’t concern her, however, for it was how things got done. It was
election night tradition and would continue as long as the parties existed, God
willing.
