Genre 3: Flash Fiction

Vote Early and Vote Often

Declan had a familiar ache in his chest.  He understood that this was his body reminding him how exhausted he was, even though it was only ten in the morning.  Trudging down the street that was, by this time on a Tuesday morning, as quiet as he could hope for, he let his face turn upwards toward the sky.  It was just starting to snow.  Looking at the pale blue expanse above him allowed him to momentarily forget the myriad of tasks ahead of him for the day.  New York, he thought, was really a phenomenal city.

The church was silent but for the murmurs of voters and polling place workers.  The air was close and inviting; it felt Christian.  Declan welcomed the pious atmosphere as a respite from the biting November air.  Strolling up to the voting booths, he nonchalantly offered his name as “Mark Haverford” and took a ballot.  Upon indicating that Mr. Haverford would be voting for Patrick Coughlin for mayor, Declan deposited the ballot into the proper box and braced himself for the chill as he headed back outside.

It was at Father O’Grady’s wake that Declan had first discovered the colossus that was the Democratic Party.  Daniel Rogers, Coughlin’s top advisor, had approached him towards the end of the service.  “You’ve got a good Irish brogue,” Rogers had declared, beaming, “and we could use you on Mr. Coughlin’s campaign.”  Declan hesitated momentarily, and Rogers continued: “We could get you a job, you know.  And of course Coughlin is the only candidate who really supports the immigrants around here.  Especially the Irish.  The others just want to kiss up to the fat cats.  But Coughlin, he helps the little guy.”  This was convincing to Declan, and from then on he had been a loyal servant of Patrick Coughlin.

Coughlin’s campaign office was, as per usual, hazy with cigar smoke.  There was a bottle of whiskey on one of the center tables, and beside it were several ward maps of the city.  Haggard-looking men in poorly tailored jackets -- Rogers being one of them -- discussed strategies for the hours remaining in the day.  When Declan walked in, almost nobody looked up from their work.  The air in here, Declan mused, is much less comfortable than it was at the church.  He sought out Max McDonnell, who was hunched over a corner table, eyeing lists of voters.  McDonnell welcomed him warmly.

“How did it go?”

“Just fine, Max.  I’ll go out again if you’d like.”

“Good man.  How about...Ian Devlin, 5th ward?”

“I’ll be back soon then.”

And with that, Declan again left the office.  He was on his way to the voting booth.  It was his third time that day, and he predicted that it would not be his last.