How to Confuse the Poll Workers

The story you are about to read is true. The names have been changed to protect – aw, heck, the names have been changed. That’s all.

Actual email from Chuck on the morning of a small election (primary for State Supreme Court Justice): 

And! I did vote.
I was number 15.
Funny thing, Chuck Jones and wife were right in front of me. I’ll pick up after Mrs. Jones voted.
 Little Old Election Lady: Please take your ID out and hand it to me so I can read it.  Then say your name loud enough so I can hear it. And what’s your address?
 Chuck Jones: Charles Jones. 521 West Pickle Street.
 LOEL: Nope. That’s not what it says here.
 Chuck J: What? Let me see.  (She shows him his ID and points.) Ummm, that’s my middle name. Charles Richard Jones.  The last name is just above, see?
 LOEL: Oh, OK. Here, you’re number 14.
 Chuck Koala  (Anticipating, I’ve already got my card out.) Charles Koala, 522  West Pickle Street. (a little emphasis on the 2)
 LOEL: Charles? What? Same address? (A little back and forth, then) OK. You’re number 15.
 Next Person: Charles… (I didn’t catch his last name) … on Pickle Street. (It was a neighbor I don’t know well from down around South Street. I was gone by then.  Poor Little Old Lady.)
And so it goes – like sands through the hourglass, these are the stories of Pickle Street (all of two blocks long) goes to the polls.
Readers, did you have any adventures or stories to tell from the first election requiring IDs?

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