Democracy Is Sweeter When Voting Under ‘Battlefield’ Conditions : Community Essay: The poll workers didn’t show up, the polling place was locked, the ballots were 20 minutes away.

When I voted at the April primary election, I chatted with the precinct workers and found that they were always looking for volunteers. I figured that I could afford a day off work for such a good cause, and with three neighbors to help pass the time, it would be an easy exercise of my civic duty. I also thought it would be an interesting experience. Little did I know just how interesting.

I volunteered for the June 6 election and, three weeks before the date, I received a “notice of appointment” from the Office of the City Clerk of Los Angeles. I was an official clerk of the precinct board for the June 6 election. The notice listed the polling place, the other workers (an inspector, a judge and another clerk), and a phone number to call to refer additional workers. There were no other instructions but I assumed that the more experienced workers would tell me what to do on election day.

On election day, my wife was ill and stayed home from work. This would later turn out to be a stroke of luck. I gulped breakfast, brewed a Thermos of tea, grabbed the newspaper and prepared to leave. Almost as an afterthought, I grabbed my cellular phone. Another stroke of luck.

I arrived at the polling place at 6:30 a.m., half an hour early. The same house has been our polling place for the last several elections and is familiar to voters in the neighborhood. The empty garage is not much, but is typical of precincts everywhere. As I waited for the others to arrive, I puzzled at the lack of lights or activity. The gates were locked and I could see a padlock on the garage. Oh, well, the inspector probably had the keys and had everything under control.

By 7, the first voters were there but still no other workers. I tried to call the phone number on my notice but could not get a cellular connection. More voters arrived and left. I pleaded with them to come back later.

At 7:30 I tried calling the clerk’s office again and got through, but lost the cellular connection after blurting out the problem. Frustrated, I tried calling my wife at home. I explained the problem and asked her to call the city clerk’s office for instructions. Prospective voters continued to arrive and leave, frustrated.

Sometime after 8 my wife, unable to reach my cellphone, drove up to tell me that the city had contacted the precinct inspector, who would be bringing the voting materials soon. There was still no sign of the other two workers.

As we waited, there was activity inside the house. Several children emerged to go to school. One unlocked the driveway gate for us. When the homeowner emerged, he told us that nobody had contacted him about the use of his garage. He assumed another polling place had been found. The garage was occupied by a dead car, but we could use the driveway.

Sometime after 8:30, a woman came out of the house and handed me a cordless phone. It was our precinct inspector calling--the leader of our supposedly four-person team. She had the materials but had to take her daughter someplace. Could I come pick them up instead?

The address was far from our precinct, at least 20 minutes each way. As I drove, I kept calling Anita at the city clerk’s office, with whom I had by now had several disconnected conversations. Miraculously, we didn’t get cut off this time. I told her that I appeared to be the sole worker but didn’t have the foggiest idea what to do. “I’m going to fake it as best I can and hope that I get things right.” She laughed and said she would try to find me some help.

I got to the poll inspector’s apartment and rang the bell. She opened the door, shoved out two boxes and shut the door, saying that the instructions were inside.

Back at the polling place, we dumped out the contents of the ballot box and found the most critical items: the ballots, the list of voters and the roster. With the hood of my car as a makeshift voting booth and the tailgate as our “office,” we quickly served the waiting voters, drawing on our memories of procedures from when we last voted. The voters laughed and shook their heads, taking everything in good humor. It was now 9:30, 2 1/2 hours late. A dozen prospective voters had given up and left. We hoped that they would return.

As the first rush subsided, we dragged a grungy patio table into the driveway and inventoried the supplies. Finding the instruction book, I quickly looked for directions on what to do in this situation. Nothing. They assumed that there would always be an inspector.

As the only board member present, I gave myself a “battlefield promotion” to inspector. Now, here was a situation covered by the instructions. As inspector, I recruited my wife and appointed her judge, the second in command. We still had no voting booths, but we were in operation.

As the wind picked up, I sought out the homeowner and prevailed on him to open the garage. We pushed the dead car out and cleared the usual detritus. The top of a tool chest and a shelf became our voting “booths.” Now we were really rolling.

As the day went on, we read the instructions and were relieved to discover that we had violated no major laws. The only glitch was a missing list of absentee voters. Fortunately, this would not become an issue.

The mystery of the missing voting booths was solved when we discovered that the booths from the April election were supposed to be saved for use in June. The homeowner had not realized this and had cut them up to catch oil dripping from his car. Some voters did double-takes at our improvisation but took it all in stride. Some of the people who had been unable to vote in the morning did come back.

By the time the polls closed we were dead tired, but with a sense of accomplishment. As we drove to the ballot collection point, we were silent, contemplating. I tried to describe my feelings about the sealed box of ballots on the front seat, but couldn’t quite find the words. My wife likewise couldn’t describe it, but said it felt somewhat religious. We knew that our small box of 97 ballots would have no great impact in the election, but to us they felt like the most precious thing in the world.