Mark, the Voter

The deadline to register to vote in the upcoming Oregon primary election loomed.

My task: see if the formerly homeless Mark from the Old Crow Book Club, now a resident of a Safe Rest Village, wanted to vote. If so, I would rustle up a registration card, bring it to him when he hawked copies of the newspaper advocating for the homeless in front of the grocery store, have him complete the form, then mail it for him. The county elections office would mail him a ballot and Mark would vote in the primary! Long live participating in democratic government and the civilization of Oregon's pioneering mail-in ballot.

I found Mark in a jaunty mood and reading a history of the French Foreign Legion I'd given him several weeks ago.

He saw me and threw up an excited hello.

We spent the next few minutes discussing the French Foreign Legion and how anyone regardless of nationality (and pretty much unsavory background) could join and help brutally defend France's colonial empire.

“I would have loved to have done that,” said Mark, laughing.

Somehow I could see Mark as a member.

I segued into my mission: did Mark want to vote in the primary election? And if he did, I would assist him registering to vote.

Mark turned to me. He hesitated a bit.

“I don't know,” he said. “I don't want to get into the system.”

“Mark you're already in,” I said. We got you ID, you were entered into the homeless services database.”

“I know.”

My teacher's instinct blasted out of me. It happens every now and then and I really can't suppress it. It typically serves a useful purpose.

“Mark,” I said. “You only have housing because people in Portland voted to raise their taxes to pay for it.”

“I know that,” he said.

“I think you have an obligation to participate in a system that helped you.”

“I realize that.”

“There are other tax measures on the ballot, too.”

He sort of nodded. I told him I'd bring him a registration card around in the next couple of days and he could decide then.

He said that was fine.

I drove home, entered the house and checked the mail. A ballot for Mark was there! And so was the Voter's Pamphlet.

Of course! When he'd procured ID last summer it automatically registered him to vote at my address because that's the address we gave to the DMV.

I ripped open the envelope and inserted a pen inside and then taped it up. I'd deliver it to Mark in a couple of days.

Rain fell steadily the next week and I didn't want to deliver the ballot when it was wet outside.

At last some dry weather rolled in and I walked up to Mark in front of the grocery store. I held up the ballot and explained its provenance. He chuckled and I handed over the envelope.

“You know,” said Mark, “opening someone's mail is a federal offense.”

I laughed and said, “Yeah, it is.”

Mark examined the envelope.

I handed him the Voter's Pamphlet. It always makes for interesting reading, especially the statements by the Right Wing nuts running in the Republican primaries.

“So are you going to vote?” I said. “You can just drop right in there.” I pointed to the mailbox five feet away..

“I'll do it,” he said.

We then proceeded to talk about the 70s (I don't recall how this was prompted) and how we frequently pined for that laid back, analog era.