I’m sorry. I think it’s important, and I really intended to, and Eric, I know I promised. But then I got all worried that I would be arrested.
Last year, around this time, I found myself “between apartments.” This is a Manhattan euphemism for “you will not believe what you will settle for by the time this is over.” Particularly if your only recourse is to move in with my parents, a deceptively easy commute away in CT.
Now this is where it gets sticky.
A few months before my lease ended, I got a jury summons. And deferred it, because I was scheduled to appear on a day when my newly-purchased plane tickets said I should be in Barcelona. I did have a pang of guilt about deferring it until after my lease would end, since I didn’t think I would renew, but only a small one. See, I believe in jury duty. I think it is a cornerstone of our democracy, and I had every intention of honoring my responsibility as a citizen, even if I had to do so from a bit further away.
But…Connecticut?
I did the math. I would have had to leave by 4:30am. Have they met me?
So my thinking went a bit like this: I had now moved out of state. Who cares that it was just the next state over–I could have moved to Iowa. What would they have done then? That is actually an interesting question, you see, because the you-have-already-deferred-once-and-huge-men-are-waiting-outside-your-door-to-escort-you-now notices are pretty terrifying. There are simply no options for not appearing; they do not even provide a phone number to call with questions. They are not interested in your questions. Just. Show. Up.
I did my best, you know. I circled the 100% genuine USPS forwarding label. I wrote “Moved Out of State” as large as I could. I mailed it back. Even so, no one seems to be able to say for certain that there is not currently a warrant out for my arrest.
Normally, I would have voted even so. I mean, I live yet somewhere else now: further proof, if any were required, that I was no longer a resident of my old apartment last November. Clearly, no big deal.
This morning, though, I realized the implications of never having changed my voter registration. I was about to trek over to my old neighborhood to cast my ballot in a district that my continued freedom may depend on my not having lived in for a year.
It’s not as if I really believed that the police would be waiting for me at the polling place. But think about it for a minute: what if I were ever mistakenly accused of murder or something? They dig into crap like this; I’ve seen Law & Order.