I made it to the security station at the Clark County Courthouse before I remembered the pocketknife. A sheriff’s deputy stood at the entrance, and my car suddenly seemed a good deal farther away than it had a minute earlier. I’d given myself plenty of time before the polls closed. I spent some of it walking back to the car.
A national publication had hired me as a stringer to collect and report the county’s midterm returns. On the hour-and-fifteen-minute drive, I listened to Ray Porter narrate The Infinite Extent, the latest Bobiverse book. I was enjoying it, though my mind kept wandering to the last election night I’d worked as a general assignment reporter, in Eau Claire in the early 1990s.
I’d gone into that one expecting to get some sleep, too.
Eau Claire County’s vote-counting machine quit. As I remember it, deputies from Eau Claire and Sauk counties drove down I-94 from opposite directions and met near Baraboo to hand off a replacement. The county finished counting at five in the morning. I had an eight o’clock class at UWEC.
There’s a particular kind of math you do when you’re a college student looking at the clock at five in the morning.
I never liked the answer.
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Back in Clark County, with the pocketknife safely in the car, I found my way to the clerk’s office. She was cheerful, showed me where to sit, and explained how the evening would go. Local results would come in by phone, email, or fax. At intervals, she’d compile the numbers and update the three of us waiting for them. I’d spent plenty of election nights watching the percentage of precincts reporting. It was a pleasure to spend one close enough to hear the people who moved the numbers.
My part had more steps than I’d expected. I copied the totals onto a worksheet, photographed the sheet the clerk gave us, entered the numbers into an online form, attached the photo, and submitted it, repeating the process eight times.
The room would be quiet, then I’d have enough to do, so I stopped noticing the quiet. I took my time with the numbers and kept up. At one point I heard the clerk exclaim that Tom Tiffany had conceded the governor’s race. I hadn’t seen it online yet; for once, I heard election news from a voice down the hall before I saw it on a screen.
Closer to eleven, we were down to one precinct. The person there thought she’d texted the numbers, but the message hadn’t made it. A phone call got the totals to the clerk, and she finished the count.
Nobody had to drive toward Baraboo; I was particularly pleased about that, even without an eight o’clock class to worry about.
I only saw one county’s election night from one hallway. What I’ll remember is how pleasant people were while doing work that required them to get the details right. The clerk took time to explain things to a stranger. When a message went missing, somebody picked up the phone.
Next time I see the precincts-reporting number reach 100%, I’ll think about that last call and the people still at their desks when it came in.
On the way home, I dodged an opossum and let Ray Porter take over again. I’d started the drive worrying that I might be out until five in the morning. Instead, I got to go home thinking about a roomful of people who did their jobs well and were kind to the folks waiting on them.
I’d take another election night like that. I’d even remember to leave the pocketknife in the car.
