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Off the table In a State of ConfusionBy Rick Horowitz "Hon?" There was something in his voice that hinted of trouble. You don't live with someone for as long as she'd lived with him without noticing that sort of thing. This one wasn't a crisis, she decided -- more of a temporary discomfort. It would pass, as it always did, and then he'd -- "Hon?" She heard the difference right away. She put the book back on the kitchen counter and found him in the living room, crouched and concerned. He sensed her approach, and without turning his head, tossed her his worries. "Have you had the TV on lately?" The TV was on now, she could see. It was often on, but the particulars -- when she'd simply noticed it as she passed through the room, and when she'd last actually watched it -- were eluding her at the moment. She played for time. "Why?" "There's something strange going on." She looked at the screen and saw a man selling antacids. In a few seconds, the man was replaced by a woman waxing euphoric over furniture polish, and then by a wholesome family sitting down to a wholesome and nutritious breakfast. "Looks OK to me," she said. "Something wrong with the contrast?" He shook his head. "Not the picture -- the ads." She looked again. The wholesome family was gone now; two young mothers were comparing iron supplements. "They look pretty normal. I mean, personally, I don't need -- " "Where are the political ads?" "Excuse me?" "Bush. Kerry. Where are they?" It was true, she realized with a start: She had just watched an entire commercial break without seeing a single ad for either of the presidential candidates. Nothing like this had happened in months! Had they somehow slept right through Election Day? It hardly seemed possible, and yet everything was different. "When did you notice?" she pressed him. "Just now. Everything was perfectly fine last night. But when I -- here, see for yourself." And with that, he clicked through the channels. Not a flag or a bullhorn anywhere. No grainy black-and-white pictures. No patriotic music. No health plans, no tax cuts. Nobody approving this message. No message. He turned from the screen, turned and met her gaze with his own. (Was it fear she saw there?) "You don't think...?" she began. "I don't know what to think." They were silent. Only the TV kept up the conversation. A man was driving his SUV up the side of a mountain; a woman was shaving her legs. Suddenly, it was all too much for him. "But we're a battleground state!" he cried. "They promised!" It was true: They were a battleground state. But this, too, is true: Things change. And this is true above all: In politics, things always change. In fluorescent rooms just miles apart and hundreds of miles away, people poked at keyboards and pored over poll numbers and massaged budget numbers and fretted over calendars and tried to make it all fall together. Tried to get to the magic number. There were states, these people concluded, that were still worth the time and the money, the toil and the sweat. And there were all the other states -- states already in their pocket, and states that had once seemed promising and had now somehow slipped beyond their reach. In fluorescent rooms, people knew the difference, or believed they did, which amounted to the same thing: As the days to November grew shorter, the battlefield grew ever smaller. And in living rooms, people felt the tug of those decisions. Felt the blinding light of constant attention pass from them. For some, it might have been liberating. For some -- but not for everyone. She moved closer, to hold him, to console him. "Maybe," she whispered, "we can move to Ohio." Posted 9/14/04. Maybe
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Rick Horowitz
