There’s a fever raging in this town, the fever of an election.  It strikes only a few at first.  You pass them on the street.  Wobbly, but stationary youthful faces rooted to a few square meters of cement.  Circling, always circling, they spin round and round yet never get dizzy and fall down.  Their arms wave out to passersby, attempting to gain attention or a receiving hand.  They are the fevered pamphleteers.

You accept one.  But you have no qualms or concerns.  It’s merely a political flyer.  You are immune.  There is no emotion, no feeling and you look for the nearest garbage can.  The first one is already full as your eyes ricochet down the block for the next opportunity.  Then suddenly and with no warning, the fever strikes. You are griped with fear.  What?  Beth Mason is wrong?  There was no tax increase coming?  There’s what, a tax decrease!

You stop, sweat beating down your brow, you can’t move.  An anger wells up from your stomach.  You want to scream but your voice is frozen with rage.  You didn’t even plan on voting or maybe you did, depending on the World Series of course.  But this, this treachery, the utter contempt, the condescending mocking laughter at voter ignorance.  You grab the phone and then say, “Honey, wait till you hear this…”

Welcome to Hoboken election hell.

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