I was casting my final votes at Stamford High School this morning when I noticed an errant black dot in a the oval for a certain Board of Education candidate. My special felt tip pen had not slipped. This, I could tell from years slinging ink, occurred during the printing process.
“Pssst.”
I tried to summon my wife, Lisa, who was in the neighboring booth.
“Psst, is there a problem with your . . . ”
“YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO TALK TO ME NOW!” she whispered back in capital letters.
I pondered scratching off the blot with my pen knife. I sensed Lisa glaring at me.
Instead, I finished filling out the ballot and approached a poll worker.
“Just put it in the machine,” she said. “It will spit it out if two of them are filled. I can give you another one if there’s a problem.”
The machine didn’t spit.
“See, it should be OK,” she added.
Of course, she never asked if I wanted to vote for that candidate, or who it was so she could check other ballots.
“What was with the ‘Pssst?’ ” Lisa asked as we walked back home. “You were like a high school student trying to steal algebra answers.”
Just one more reason I miss the levers and curtain.