Joe Beuerlein: The Morning After
I was up until the wee hours of the morning worrying about it.
Watching television didn’t help put my mind at ease. Neither did refreshing my browser like someone obsessive-compulsive. I just couldn’t stop thinking about it. What would be the consequences of my actions? I felt dirty. I felt used.
It had happened so fast. I was in and out in a moment, and when I was done I wasn’t even confident I had done it right. Sure, that little flag waved at me enthusiastically, but it was little reassurance. I had at least wanted a thank you and a receipt. I got neither.
Choosing the greater of two unattractive candidates wasn't easy. Corker was old, wrinkly, and dull; Harold was a slimy smooth-talker, a rogue, and a scoundrel. But Harold did call me, or at least his campaign people did, asking for support. And I’m not even blonde.
Both of them repulsed me, but in the end I chose youth over age. It’s easier to bed down with the enemy if the enemy is cute. And besides, I wasn’t doing it for just me. I was doing it for the country. So when I showed up at Dogwood Elementary for our intimate rendezvous behind the drapes, I put my finger on Harold’s button, closed my eyes and thought of America. And I pushed it. Hard.
That night I really needed to be around people. Other young, voting people who felt like they too had been putting their fingers in places they wish they hadn't. A vote for Harold wasn’t a clean-conscience vote for tolerance and equality, after all, it was just a vote against the likes of Corker and Bush. I chose the Urban Bar.
Halfway through Jodie Manross’ first set, the television declared that the Democrats had taken back the house. My friend and I whooped loudly, and we weren’t alone in our exultation. It was the end of six long years of political frustration in this country. I was confident Jodie would forgive me for clapping during the middle of her song.
And then suddenly there was Harold, looking like he’d just slept with a million Tennesseans in less than a day with only dry mouth and a blossoming hangover to show for it, conceding defeat. So my vote was for naught, again. I suddenly remembered a certain 2004 Victory for Kerry party downtown, and myself staggering home drunk, crying, and cursing Ohio. The cheeseburger and fries I was munching on at the Urban Bar began to taste about as good as Harold looked.
But as the night wore on, with the cast of Rent taking over Jodie's mic, singing whatever popped into their heads and completely oblivious to the drama on the television screen, it became apparent that --holy shit-- the Democrats might take over the Senate, too. So what if my vote didn’t help Ford win. I was part of a larger picture. Americans, like me, went with the lesser of two evils in states from sea to shining sea. We were collectively kinda grossed out by our actions, but hell, we all took one for the home team.
So in this, the morning after, I do not regret my actions, or worry about the consequences of the afternoon before. Maybe it’s even better this way, because it’ll be Senator Corker, and not Senator Ford, that inevitably screws up, or gets embroiled in controversy, or botches a joke, or eats your babies. And when it happens, I can point and laugh at you for the mess you made by pulling Corker's lever back in November of '06.
Yeah, it sucks I had to give my precious vote up to Harold. But I'm okay with him being out of the picture now. He wasn't very good, anyway.