9/5/99

(Election Day Supplement)

Just One, Precious Vote

... and that's why this country always goes meshugga at election time.

    I have no problem coming right out and stating, publicly and candidly, who I'm going to vote for.
    If only I knew.
    I'm going to vote, of course, but I'm waiting for the best offer. For an apartment (min. value $220,000) I will vote for anyone; for a car (dark green or metallic red) I will suspend my conscience and support any party between the extreme Left and extreme Right, extreme religious and extreme secular. For a toaster oven, only someone I really believe in. For an authentic amulet (not made in Japan or Korea) and a personal plea by a former chief rabbi, I will promise to vote Shas, but won't.
    I readily accept that an appropriate inducement may not be forthcoming, and I could end up having to vote according to my politics. Now, don't laugh: I have politics. I voted for Pierre Trudeau because he wore sandals. And if the Canadian Liberal Party were to run here, I'd vote for him again. They could make a real difference in this country: unlimited water, unlimited English, cheap lox, hockey on Saturday nights and autonomous territories (that is, what's left of the Northwest Territories) for the Palestinians. And separatism for the haredim.
    I've been wondering about how others are going to vote, because frankly, I like being on the winning side. If, say, I voted for Mordechai, and it turned out I was the only one, what would people say about me?
    So I began asking around. But the kind of people I know are the kind who say it's none of my business who they're going to vote for. And the kind of people I know account for one percent of one percent of one percent of the general population, so clearly, this would be a poor sampling.
    I realized the best way to find out was to hit the streets.
    I got in my car and went out looking for Mr. and Mrs. Average Israeli.
    "Bi-bi! Bi-bi!" an average Israeli shouted at me, and then started rocking my car. Then he slapped a Likud sticker on the side. Can you imagine?!
    At a red light, I found myself stopped next to a taxi. I honked and gestured, and I got his attention. He expected I was going to ask for directions. (In a sense, I was.)
    "Who ya gonna vote for?" I asked him.
    "Taxi Drivers' Party. We're going to win this time." And he handed me a sticker for my car.
    I made a note: one vote for the TDP. At this point in my public survey, it was a virtual tie for first place (margin of error: 0%). Barak would be shaken to hear this.
    (I have always wondered about these professional surveys. Have you ever noticed that the results are always stunningly optimistic for the party that commissioned them?)
    I made a left and then a right, and I found myself in a religious neighborhood. At least, I think it was. In one second flat, my entire car was covered with stickers of Aryeh Deri. I rolled down my window to ask the question, and the interior was reupholstered. I hadn't even stopped the car, but they managed to sticker the treads, for goodness sake. I didn't think I had to ask who they were going to vote for. I made a quick head count and skedaddled.
    A few blocks later, somebody shouted an obscenity at me. Considering what I was now driving in, I awarded a vote to Meretz.
    I realized if I was going to get a fair idea, I'd better ditch the car and go it on foot.
    I came across a man with a black hat and beard. "With God's help," he said, "United Torah Judaism."
    "Uh-huh. And without?"
    A couple of blocks down the road was a bus stop. There were about 20 people standing silently together. "Who are you going to vote for?" I asked.
    I don't know what got into me: I've been in this country long enough to know better.
    "Meretz," a young woman said.
    Oh, the commotion. "Arab lover!" someone yelled, and was promptly yelled at by an Arab lover (in fact, an Arab), who was himself accused of being a terrorist and forced to flee while two or three people said "tsk, tsk," which enraged several others who then began bickering among themselves. When the bus arrived, no one was interested in it anymore. Wherever they were going, whatever else they may have been planning to do, was of secondary importance at this moment, because they were Israelis, and a political brouhaha had to take precedence.
    "Only Bibi!"
    "Only Bibi destroys the country!"
    "Who needs a country with people like you in it?!"
    "De-ri! De-ri!"
    "A criminal! You're gonna vote for a criminal!"
    "Ashkenazi pig!"
    "Ptui!"
    "Barak! Barak won't go to a prison to make a coalition."
    "He'll give away the country!"
    "Bi-bi!"
    "Be-gin, King of Is-ra-el!"
    "Ptui!"
    Not wanting to get ptuied on any further, I thanked them and hurried off. It was not a pleasant encounter, but it did give me a good cross-section of the average Israeli and what to expect.
    I walked a good hour and a half, and when I could no longer hear them I stopped to rest. A happy-looking young family -- mom, dad, cute little girl, cute little dog -- strolled by.
    "Excuse me," I said pleasantly. They looked at me blankly.
    Russians.
    Well, I know only three Russian words, and our conversation consisted of all three.
    "Sharansky?" I asked.
    "Da," said the man.
    "Nyet," said his wife.
    "Ptui!" they said at each other, and she stalked off with the cute little girl, and he steamed off in the other direction with the cute little dog.
    I wound up in the shuk. How providential, I thought: it so happened I had run out of radishes that very morning. Suddenly it occurred to me: the shuk! This place is more political than the Knesset.
    I approached a vendor. "By the way," I said politely, "who are you planning to vote for?"
    Like I said, I've been here long enough to know better.
    A wild rumor tore through the crowded stalls that a Leftist was harrassing Momo the radish man. (The giveaway was that I had asked politely, I guess.) And you know how rumors get going: by the time it made its way through the shuk and back again, I was -- somehow -- a candidate with the Green Party making the requisite handshaking march through the bastas to get my picture in all the papers.
    Somebody hollered: "A Green so-and-so? Take this!" He hurled a sheaf of wet parsley at me. Everyone howled in laughter and before you knew it, I was being pelted with celery, cabbage, decaying avocado and unripe oranges. No radishes, unfortunately.
    It wasn't like this in Canada.
    I located my car, which by now had been shiputzed with uncountable layers of stickers from every party. I made a peephole by scraping a few off the windshield, and drove home.
    On the way, some smartass truck driver looked down at my wallpapered car. "Hey buddy!" he bellowed. "You can only vote for one of 'em, y'know."
    Why is it always some loutish, bellowing truck driver who puts things into such clear perspective?  
    He was right.
    That's the problem with democracy in this country.