(UN)RELIABLE SOURCES: 008
POLITICIANS ON THE PROWL

by FRANK O'DONNELL
JULY 16, 2006

A special breed of beastie is on the prowl in our neighborhoods.

It happens every other year – at that time of year when dusk lasts the longest. As the haze of a long hot day starts to dissipate and the crickets start up their song, the beasties arrive.

Usually alone, sometimes in pairs, occasionally in a pack.

Politicians.

And not just any politicians.

These are political candidates, scouring the neighborhoods for nomination paper signatures. Some are elected, some want to be elected. And we, the voting public, are the first obstacle in their paths.

I was dropping my son's friend off the other night. I pulled out of his driveway, and almost ran over a couple of them. Shirts and ties, one in a lightweight suit, both clutching clipboards.

The car jerked to a stop. My son got bounced around a bit. "What happened, Dad?"
         
"Politicians! Get down! And whatever you do, don't look at them!"

"But Dad, I know that guy in the suit. He came to Career Day at school."

That's when Patrick waved at him.

Which is about the same thing as inviting a vampire into your house.

"Hey, how are ya, got a minute?" By then, they were at the car, one at either window, reminding me of the technique employed by police officers making late night traffic stops.

"Hey, are you a registered voter?" asks the Suit.

" Uh, yes, I am, but look, I have to get my son somewhere…"

"Won't take a minute. We're collecting signatures."

"Yeah, I figured that out," I say, pointing at the clipboard.

"Oh, yeah, right, the clipboard. See, we have to collect a certain number of signatures to be qualified."

Now there's a concept: a politician who's qualified for the job he seeks.

But I'm not sure that proving he can collect signatures is proof of his qualification. It does prove he'd be good taking a census, but that sort of work only rolls around every ten years.

"See, we have to get the signatures so we can get on the ballot," he explains.

There's something I've never understood.

I thought that living in a democracy guaranteed that anyone who wanted to do so could run for any office. All you've got to be is a legal citizen over a minimum age. Certain offices have minimum ages slightly higher than the rest.

But that's it.

I don't recall having heard at any point in civics class that political office was guaranteed to legal citizens of a certain age who can get a certain number of signatures on a clipboard.

"Do you live in this district?" the Suit wonders.

"Um, no, actually, I live on the other side of town, I'm not from around here." I tell him where – not exactly, of course, but in general terms.

The Suit talks over the top of the car to the Tie. "Hey, isn't Bill running over there? Hey, sir, you know what, maybe we can have Bill come visit, get your signature."

"You know what, we're moving," I say, thinking quickly.

"We're moving, Dad?" asks Patrick. "I don't want to move!"

"Um, yeah, Mom and I have been meaning to tell you. We're moving to Burrillville."

The suit hears this. "You know what, my friend Jake is running for office in Burrillville. Maybe I can send him over to your new house?"

I can't win. "Sure, send him over," I say. "I'll leave a trail of breadcrumbs."