A funny thing happened …

 

A funny thing happened on my way to the precinct polls Tuesday, November 8, 2020.

Traveling on business, the night before, I had checked into a hotel next to the airport. When I stepped up to the highly polished Italian Marble counter, the receptionist greeted me with customary courtesy and asked if I had a reservation, which I did. “Perfect!” She then asked to see my driver’s license. Not unexpected, as I, of course, had to produce my photo ID to board my flight and for the compact rental car I had used while away.

Entering my modernized impersonal room, I turned on the television as background while I settled in. The evening news was dominated by the upcoming election.

An overcast “Duck, Duck, Gray Duck” sky greeted me the following morning. As I had several things to accomplish, before heading to the voting booth to cast my all-important ballot before the polls closed at 8:00 p.m., I decided to skip the grab-and-go continental breakfast extravaganza.

With Christmas on the horizon and the Minnesota Zoo mere minutes away— we usually purchase annual memberships as Christmas gifts—I headed south on Cedar to “play Santa.” Before I could finalize the transaction, however, I was asked, by a “Grizzly Adams” look-a-like, wearing a Minnesota zoo retro moose hat, to see a photo ID. Sure thing. I knew exactly where to find it.

Memberships in hand, I headed north on Cedar then west on 494 to the Edina Library. I had reserved French novelist Marcel Proust’s cultural artifact novel In Search of Lost Time; a monumental collection that more than doubles the word count of Tolstoy’s enthralling epic, War and Peace, long thought to be the authoritative vanquisher of verbose novelists.

Before I could load the seven volumes onto my mule, so to speak, the library attendant requested to see a photo ID; I presumed as a means of relieving any doubt as to the likelihood of my ability to master Proust’s 1907 serpentine prose.

Exiting the library parking lot, I could hear the undercarriage of my vehicle laboring under its newly acquired literary load. I headed down the block to the local CVS Pharmacy to pick up a particular nail polish my lovely, better half had requested; something to do with complementing her green thumb. After sheepishly wandering up and down the women’s beautifying isle, I finally ferreted out the elusive cosmetic laquer. I hurried to checkout with the title of Proust’s opus haunting me. I set the nail polish down and pulled out my credit card, ready to tap-and-take-off. However, the clerk, to my confoundment, requested to see a photo ID … for nail polish!

I bolted out the door and headed another couple blocks to Southdale Center, and the J.C. Penny store. I had hoped to purchase an actual new shirt as most of my wardrobe sported the “Savers” label. I chose a Scottish plaid that I thought might go well with my wife’s state-of-the-art fingernail polish.

I laid the shirt on the counter and the salesclerk asked if I would be interested in receiving a ten percent discount simply by charging my purchase on my J.C. Penny credit card. Wanting to benefit from the savings, I told her I have a J.C. Penny card but didn’t happen to have it on me at the moment. She assured me, “That’s okay. Just show me a photo ID to verify you are the owner of the account and we can extend the discount.” I took out my driver’s license and handed it to her. She looked it over then requested that I enter my Social Security number on the pin pad. “What? Are you kidding me? All this for a ten-percent discount?”

By this time, I was running a bit behind schedule, given the unanticipated interrogation, but calculated I would have just enough time to catch the Seven Fires Steakhouse at Black Bear Casino as, somewhere during my travels, I had come by a discount coupon.

I arrived at Black Bear with no time to spare. I hurried through the lobby and met the receptionist, who was busy arranging menus. Seeing me, she asked how many were in my party. I informed her it was just me and pulled out my wallet to retrieve my special discount coupon. She immediately directed me to the general service counter, pointing across the room. I weaved in and out of bedazzling one-armed bandits to a young man standing with his hands folded behind his back leaning up against the wall. As he saw me approach, he stepped forward and asked how he could assist. I presented the discount certificate and, upon examining it, he asked me for a photo ID, informing me it was necessary to claim the 10 dollars off my meal. I shook my head in amazement and glanced at my wristwatch. No time for steak lover’s choice. Even if I were to choke down the 20-ounce steak raw, I wouldn’t be able to make it to the polling booth in time. I retrieved my discount coupon, slid it back into my wallet and darted out the double door to my deserted car.

I managed to arrive at the polling place by 7:38 p.m. As I stepped forward, I was asked to verify my identify. When I pulled out my wallet, the Black Bear discount coupon spilled out onto the table. I decided to simply hand them my Seven Fires Steakhouse discount certificate, hoping it would at least provide some value.

No problem. I was promptly provided a ballot with a perky reminder not to forget my “I Voted” sticker on my way out.

What was it Russian comedian Yakov Smirnoff used to say? “What a country!”