I Was a Poll Worker in New York City During the 2020 Election. Here’s What It Was Like.

For six long days, I worked the polls during Early Voting and on Election Day in Brooklyn. I was a Line Management Clerk and an Election Inspector at two different sites. This is my detailed account of the people I worked with, the problems I witnessed within the New York City Board of Elections, and the things that happened during one of the most important and politically divisive times in our nation’s history.

Wednesday—October 28, 2020

10:45 a.m. I applied to be a poll worker on a whim. After three months of being unemployed, I wanted structure and something different. Plus, I really needed the money, and I’d heard you could make almost $3,000 working the polls during Early Voting and on Election Day. I saw a link to apply on Twitter and filled out the very brief application, which basically just asked for my name, address, phone number, and availability. About a month later, I received confirmation that my application was accepted and I needed to complete training. I was initially elated until I remembered that literally anyone can apply and be accepted, so long as they’re a human being. I attended a painfully boring class at a church near Coney Island that lasted five hours. We watched outdated instructional videos and took an open-book exam at the end that had 20 questions on it. Each question even directed you to the page where the answer was. I marked myself available for all nine days of Early Voting, but three days into it, I still hadn’t been assigned. (Apparently, this was common.) I started to worry. Someone in a neighborhood Facebook group posted a similar concern, and a user suggested calling our district’s assemblyman. Sure enough, after calling, I was assigned—albeit sketchily: I was to first email someone named “Lori” and ask her for a poll site. She responded and asked if I had completed “Early Voting training,” which is apparently different than Election Day training. I said no, that I was unaware there was a totally separate training session for Early Voting, but that I’d like to complete it if there was still time. “Never mind,” she wrote. “Just show up tomorrow at 10:45 to the Park Slope Armory YMCA and ask for Floyd.” So here I am, standing underneath the harsh, fluorescent lights at the YMCA at 10:45 a.m.—the earliest I’ve been anywhere in months—searching for some guy who looks like his name might be Floyd.

11:15 a.m. A short guy in a backwards Yankees cap and a brown suit enters the building and I sense that this must be Floyd. He’s running around like he’s in a pinball machine, spouting out orders in a surly Brooklyn accent. I finally catch up to him. “Hi, are you Floyd? Lori told me to ask for you. I’m new; I’m here to work,” I say. “Lori told you? Hmm, OK,” he says. “Just stand over there for now, I guess.” I stand against the wall next to a chatty, energetic woman named Kate who has curly brown hair and thick-rimmed glasses. She tells me she’s new, too. I’m relieved. After exchanging pleasantries and similar gripes about the disorganized application process, I observe the scene in front of me: Two old women sing “do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, do” in unison. One of them is wearing a beret and does a little dance as she sings. “We’re warming up our vocal cords,” she says, cheerfully. I look around and notice that Kate and I are the only poll workers here under the age of 50. I suddenly feel very out of my element and that I may have made a mistake in coming here.

11:30 a.m. I finally get assigned to work at one of the Election Inspector tables. There are seven tables total, two people at each. I’m paired with a woman named Maria, who has short red hair and appears to be in her early 60s. She’s very kind and maternal and refers to me as her “dear.” She fills out the opening paperwork located inside a giant metal box behind our table. I recognize some of these forms from training, but I’m glad she knows what she’s doing or else I’d be fucked. There’s one iPad on our table, a container of pens that turn into styluses when you click them, a stack of manilla folders for the ballots, affidavit forms, and referral forms. Maria tells me she’ll be in charge of the iPad for now and I’ll hand people their ballots and tell them where to go. Easy enough.

12:00 p.m. The doors open and tired-looking people start shuffling in. It’s cold today; everyone’s bundled up. I hear there’s a massive line outside and people are waiting more than two hours, which is how long I waited to vote a couple days ago at this very location. I consider this a good sign, being a Democrat. Maria greets the voters and asks them for their “e-Poll card,” which is a plastic card with a barcode on it that I learn only about half the voters in Park Slope received in the mail. If they have it, she scans it via the iPad’s camera and their information automatically pops up. If they don’t have it, she asks for the first three letters of their last name and then the first three letters of their first name. Then she confirms their address—apartment number and all—and they sign the iPad with a stylus. Maria keeps calling them “stylish pens” and I wonder if she actually knows what a stylus is. After they sign, she matches their signature with an official signature we have on file. If they don’t look similar, she has them re-sign it. This is a source of frustration for some voters because the original signatures we have on file occasionally date back to the ’80s or ’90s. Many say they’ve tried to call the Board of Elections to bring their signatures up to date to no avail. I ask Maria why she has people re-sign their signatures to match and what the point is of showing them the screen. “Couldn’t anyone copy a signature after seeing it? And isn’t it subjective? Who’s to say the signature doesn’t look similar enough?” She tells me she doesn’t know but she thinks that the ballots could be rendered invalid if the signatures are really off. I hear similar complaints from voters involving addresses that aren’t current or apartment numbers that are off by one letter or number. People say they can’t get through to the Board of Elections—they never answer the phone—and I subtly nod in agreement. Maria tells them if they have time today, they can get these issues fixed at “Table 8,” which is what I later come to refer to as the “Problem Table.” If everything is correct, however, she initials the screen and a ballot prints out from a printer in the big metal box behind us. I grab the ballot out of the printer, recite to Maria the three numbers in the top right corner of the ballot, put the ballot in a manilla folder, give the ballot to the voter, and direct them to the privacy booths. We start getting into a groove, Maria and I, and I find myself genuinely enjoying it.

1:00 p.m. I hear my new friend Kate’s voice at the table next to me and become irrationally irritated at how loud and chipper she is. I can tell she is really pleased with herself for “participating in the electoral process.” I look at the time and realize only an hour has passed. My stomach grumbles. I should’ve eaten breakfast.

1:15 p.m. A deliveryman carrying about twelve pizza boxes walks by. I don’t know how breaks work around here, but the instructor at my training class said they are “unlikely” considering how busy we’ll be. I don’t plan on asking for one and assume the pizza is for voters, but Maria tells me it’s for us.

1:30 p.m. Kate announces that she’s going to “grab a slice” and leaves her tablemate alone. Floyd comes by and asks where she went. “She went to go eat,” her partner says. Visibly annoyed, Floyd goes and finds her. Though they’re out of earshot, I can see that he’s berating her. I’m annoyed, too, not only because she left her partner alone to deal with an influx of eager voters, but because of the entitlement.

2:00 p.m. A sickly looking woman named Amira—another poll worker—suddenly approaches our table and tells me she’s going to take over my position. Before I can ask why, she puts her stuff on the table and sits in my chair while I’m up grabbing the ballot out of the printer. She’s very pushy—I don’t like her at all. Floyd comes over and tells me quietly that he had Amira assigned as a Line Management Clerk but she insisted on working the tables with Maria. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he says. He tells me to go sit against the wall and be a “relief” for other Election Inspectors who may need to use the bathroom or go on break. “I like to have competent people as reliefs,” he says. “You seem competent.” I’m skeptical about this and spend the next hour wondering why I was abruptly demoted and replaced.

3:00 p.m. Maria makes eye contact with me and motions for me to come over. “I’m going on my break,” she tells me. “Can you fill in?” Before I can set up shop in front of the iPad, Amira slides into her seat. “No, I’m doing the tablet,” she says. “You do the ballots.” Whatever.

3:10 p.m. It’s impossible to work with this woman. Her English is poor, she’s old, she can’t hear well, and it takes her almost five whole minutes to locate a single letter on the iPad keyboard. If someone says the first three letters of their last name are “B-A-S,” she types “V-A-M.” They try and correct her, and then it’s “T-A-N.” And so on. I clearly heard what the person’s name is, but she doesn’t listen to me. It takes almost 10 minutes to get through one person. I can see the voter is frustrated and I feel embarrassed. Not only is there a serious language barrier, which is not Amira’s fault of course, but we’re wearing masks and are separated between plexiglass barriers. It’s a nightmare scenario for someone hard of hearing, and our table is a total disaster. We’re holding up the line. I start sweating.

3:15 p.m. Floyd comes over to our table. “I told you you’re not allowed to do the iPad,” he tells Amira sternly. “Switch now.” I breathe a sigh of relief. I feel a bit bad about the way he spoke to her, especially in front of everyone, but we have to keep the line moving. It’s my first time manning the iPad. The first voter I check in has a long last name, and while I’m typing each letter in, Amira hovers over me. “This one,” she says, touching the keyboard with her finger and fucking it up. “Just stop it. I know what I’m doing. Get away from me,” I tell her. She backs off quietly. I immediately feel terrible.

3:30 p.m. I’m breezing through voters. It takes me mere seconds to find them, confirm their addresses, and have them sign. I realize things go much faster when you don’t assume the voter is a moron. I notice Maria and some of the older poll workers take minutes to explain how to do basic tasks like use the styluses and pens and fill out the ballots (hint: fill in the bubble next to your preferred candidate). And if a voter is at the wrong poll site and needs to go to, say, Barclays, they write down extremely detailed directions which the voter can usually just look up themselves. I appreciate the thoroughness, but I think this wastes time and also confuses voters by making the process seem harder than it actually is. I decide to save detailed explanations for elderly and first-time voters or wait for voters to ask me their own questions. But everyone has their own little system, so whatever. Amira and I haven’t spoken since my outburst. It’s out of character for me to speak to anyone like that, but I just couldn’t stand it.

4:00 p.m. Maria comes back from her break. I tell her that I missed her—I genuinely did—and then wonder if that was an inappropriate thing to say. “I missed you, too, my dear,” she says. I go back to the dreaded wall. Maria told me earlier that Floyd is extremely strict about the no-phones policy and will send someone home if he sees them so much as check the time. I oscillate between staring at various stains on the carpet and playing a little game with myself where I guess who’s a Democrat and who’s a Republican and who the hell is voting for Jo Jorgensen.

4:15 p.m. A stressed out-looking woman named Yvonne comes over and asks me if I’ve had a break. She tells me she’s the Election Coordinator; I assume this means she’s Floyd’s right hand. “You need to take an hour,” she says. “It’s policy.” I’m ecstatic.

4:30 p.m. Wolfing down a couple of slices of cold pizza. I feel disgusted by the congealed cheese and the general bleakness of the atmosphere. It smells like trash. An old man who looks like Santa Claus sits down next to me. “How are you liking it so far?” he asks. “It’s interesting,” I say. “How long have you been a poll worker?” He tells me “a while” and that the owner of Burger King is opening a Chipotle or something, and I’m not sure how the conversation pivoted to fast food chains. I really don’t feel like talking anyway, so I tell him I have to make a phone call. I take my pizza and sit on the dirty floor behind some bleachers.

5:30 p.m. I’m in slightly better spirits after eating and go from table to table asking if anyone needs a break. I can’t stand sitting against a wall doing nothing, and I’m sure someone needs to use the bathroom. I fill in for someone and hand out ballots again. I would have preferred doing the iPad, but the woman I work with, Kelly, is tech-savvy, quick, and excellent with the voters. It’s a relief to work with her.

6:45 p.m. The person I was filling in for comes back from their break and I continue floating to each table. I land on the one with the strange old man from earlier. His name is Kirk. He says I can do the iPad; he’ll do the ballots. While I’m processing voters, he asks me what I do for a living and where I live. I give him quick, one-word answers since I can’t really converse while I’m talking to voters, but he’s distracting me. His lack of awareness concerns and annoys me, and I finally just stop answering. He starts rambling on about seminaries and the Lutheran church, essentially having a full-fledged conversation with himself, and the ballots become backed up because he isn’t paying attention to the printer. I’m flustered and irritated.

7:15 p.m. A voter hands me their ID so I can use it to look up the spelling of their last name. As I’m holding it in my hand, Floyd comes over. “NEVER hold their ID,” he says. “Give it back to him now. We never look at their ID unless the computer asks for it. And even then, have them put it on the table. Don’t ever do that again.” I say OK. All morning, I’ve been hearing faint chatter from other poll workers that Floyd is a “huge asshole.” I wonder if this is what they meant by it. If so, they’ve clearly never worked in fashion or media. He doesn’t seem like an asshole to me; he just seems precise.

8:00 p.m. We’ve shut the doors for the night. I help Maria, my original partner, close down our station, which involves more paperwork. I tell her I hope we work together again tomorrow. She says she does too but that I might get paired with another Republican. It didn’t dawn on me that that’s what the “R” next to her name stood for. Or that the tables are required to be bipartisan. I guess I didn’t expect Maria to be a Democrat, considering her age. It feels odd to have such fondness toward a Trump supporter—if she is one, that is. I decide that I don’t want to know but feel pleased that we are able to peacefully coexist.

8:05 p.m. Yvonne tells everyone to stick around because we have a meeting. In total, there’s about 25 of us. We all crowd around the Coordinator table. “I’m going to start with good news and bad news,” Floyd says. “The good news is you guys did a good job today. The bad news is I’m extremely annoyed because some of you were hoarding pens. Some of you took the whole box of pens to your table like you’re going to sell them on the black market. Jesus Christ. Share the resources, people,” he says. My face turns red and I look around. Earlier this afternoon, I went in the supply cart and got a box of pens to bring to my table. We were out of them, no one was bringing us more, and it just didn’t occur to me to not do that. Whoops. Yvonne then tells us that if we work the “expanded hours” on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, we will get an extra $250. Someone asks if it’s an extra $250 per day or if we’ll get $250 for working all three days and she says she doesn’t know. I assume it’s the latter. Everyone claps and cheers. I leave, mentally drained.

Thursday—October 29, 2020

8:00 a.m. I’m dreading today already. I’ve only worked one day so far, but this is the most human interaction I’ve had in months and it is seriously taxing, all of these personalities. I sleepily pack some peanut butter toast and a thermos of coffee and head out into the cold, rainy morning.

9:00 a.m. Sitting against the wall, eating my breakfast and drinking my coffee. Even though she annoyed me yesterday, I’m actually glad to see that Kate is here again. Everything is very informal with us stragglers; there’s no official document saying that we’re required to work at a particular site on a certain day, as is the case for everyone else. We’ve just been showing up and signing the time sheet like everyone else. I’m moderately concerned this will affect my chances of getting paid and foresee it being a messy and frustrating process. But Lori told me to be here, so I’m here. Kate tells me she was “very wound up” when she came home last night. I say, “Me too,” but in reality, I was anything but.

9:15 a.m. Yvonne assigns me to Table 3. I’m working with a woman named Paula who looks perpetually displeased and has a very shrill and off-putting voice. I think she’s in her 50s or early 60s. I try and make conversation with her as we do the opening paperwork but she gives me little to work with and sometimes ignores my questions completely. I wonder if I’m behaving obnoxiously like Kate and promptly shut up.

10:00 a.m. The doors open and voters file in, sopping wet from the rain. Paula’s on the iPad. I notice she, too, is calling the stylus the “stylish pen.” I chuckle to myself.

11:00 a.m. Paula is also very slow on the iPad, though not nearly as slow as Amira. We are working at an OK pace, but I know I could be much faster. I ask her to tell me when she wants to switch, but that I’m happy doing whichever position. She looks relieved and we switch.

1:00 p.m. My coffee must’ve kicked in because I’m feeling very energized and enthusiastic today. I’m greeting voters—even cracking jokes and making small talk—so much that I begin to annoy myself. I know how to talk to people from years of waitressing, hostessing, and being a journalist. It all comes very easily to me. That doesn’t mean it’s not tiring, though. I ask Paula if she wants to switch back and she says no. Damn.

1:30 p.m. There’s a lot of people on “relief” today, so Paula and I take our breaks around the same time. My boyfriend brings me lunch and I take it to the break table, where there are boxes of pizza again. Maria and Paula are talking to each other across from me and I hear snippets of their conversation: Coronavirus is a hoax and a leftist construct; masks silence people; fuck Governor Cuomo for not allowing travel, especially during the holidays. I try to ignore them. Some group called “Democracy is Delicious” drops off empanadas. I eat one; it’s cold and soggy and I nearly gag.

4:00 p.m. I’ve been working the iPad almost all day and feel completely spent. Paula has decided to not talk at all and just puts the ballots in the folders, leaving me to hand them to the voters, tell them where to take them, and what to do next. She is the most low-energy person I’ve ever worked with and it’s a real drag to be next to her. I make a mental note to not use up all of my energy so early in the morning. My voice and the repetitiveness of my script disgust me. “Hi there. How are you? Name. Address. Sign here. Thank you. Ballot is printing. Don’t get wet. White privacy booths. Scanners. Thanks for voting. Next.” I get up from my seat and look at the line. Endless. I feel very, very tired.

4:30: p.m. I look over at Kate, who was unfortunately paired with Kirk today, and see that she, too, is struggling to keep up with his nonsensical ramblings while simultaneously communicating with voters. I’m grateful that Paula and I are having minimal interaction.

5:00 p.m. I finally ask Paula if we can switch. When we do, I uphold her strategy of only one person doing the talking and barely speak for the rest of the evening. People have been noticeably excited to vote all day, but one woman starts to cry as I hand her her ballot. “I can’t believe the day is here,” she says. It makes me tear up, too.

7:00 p.m. We close the doors. Paula tells me she hopes we work together again tomorrow and I wonder why because she didn’t seem to like me very much at all.

Friday—October 30, 2020

5:00 a.m. Today’s the first day of the newly expanded Early Voting hours. I’m exhausted, but I need the $250, unfortunately. I pack my toast and coffee and venture out into the freezing, dark rain.

6:00 a.m. There’s more staff than usual today and I wonder if it’s because of the bonus pay. Drama ensues when Yvonne assigns the tables. I’m too tired to pay attention to any of it, but I hear lots of shouting. I guess there are far too many of us, and those not “officially scheduled” will be sent home. Since I still have not been technically assigned and have just been showing up, I anticipate being dismissed. In the meantime, I eat my peanut butter sandwich and chug my coffee and try my best to stay out of the chaos. Kate isn’t here today and I wonder if Kirk pushed her over the edge. “Hilary, you’re with me again,” Paula shouts. “Table 3.” It’s clear she asked to work with me and that she has some pull with Yvonne. I feign enthusiasm as I head to the table, half thankful to not be sent home and half dreading another day working with her.

10:00 a.m. The morning is going by quickly despite Paula being on the iPad. I’m in a good mood—I’ve never been a morning person, but I think I’m sharper during it. I long for Maria, but Paula and I have a decent system in place.

11:00 a.m. I’m starving. I ask for relief and take my break. I dig a wilted spinach salad I packed the night prior out of my bag and head to the break table. Because it’s still early, and the pizza hasn’t arrived, there aren’t many people on break. Except me. And Amira. She pulls up a seat right across from me and eats small spoonfuls of what appears to be chickpeas. I try and avoid eye contact with her. I’m still feeling badly about snapping at her the other day, but I also have a lot of resentment toward her. It’s confusing. She breaks the silence. “What do you do?” she asks. Her smile is earnest; I notice she’s missing a few teeth. Her eyes are deep and kind. The guilt becomes all-encompassing and I start to feel a lump forming in my throat. “I worked for a magazine, but I was laid off,” I tell her. “And you?” “Real estate,” she says. “I’m a broker. But I’m not making much money these days.” She tells me she’s been a poll worker for seven or eight years. No wonder she was pushy the other day—I’m an amateur in her eyes. She tries really hard, but the new technology is a hindrance, as it is for much of the Old Guard. It’s not her fault, it’s the Board of Elections’ fault, really. She takes off her coat and I notice just how frail she is. She looks to be 70 or 80 years old. I wonder if she has grandchildren or a husband or what her apartment is like. I start to feel so badly that I can’t take it anymore. I excuse myself back to my table.

1:30 p.m. Pizza arrives and I ask a relief to fill in for me for 15 minutes. The salad didn’t cut it for me. As I approach the break table, I see a poll worker I haven’t met yet stuffing a bunch of slices into her bag. She uses a walker and I’ve seen her waiting outside for the Access-A-Ride van to take her home the past two nights. I feel very guilty and ungrateful and decide against eating any.

3:00 p.m. My cheery mood is completely gone and I’m finding myself getting irrationally angry at some of the voters. Fucking idiot, I think, when someone tries to sign the iPad with the ink pen or grabs the ballot folder prematurely and tries to walk off with it. A particularly annoying voter complains to Floyd about the poll worker at the table next to us whose nose was sticking slightly out of her mask. He makes her go home instead of giving her the opportunity to correct the mask placement. “She had a big nose,” Paula whispers to me.

4:30 p.m. Floyd is going from table to table asking who’s working tomorrow. It’s Halloween, so I think he’s worried he’ll be short-staffed. I’m unsure if I want to wake up at 5:00 a.m. again, but I say yes when he asks me. “Very good,” he responds. He really does remind me of a General Manager at a restaurant, tacky suit and all.

5:00 p.m. We finally close the doors. Yvonne calls us over for a meeting. We crowd around her table and she tells us it’s been a pleasure working with all of us and she’s been very impressed with our work ethic. I realize that it’s her last day. My eyes start welling up and I tell her I’ll miss her and that I’ve appreciated her kindness. It’s bizarre—I barely interacted with this woman over the course of three days. But I feel emotional and nostalgic, as if we’ve been lifelong colleagues or something. I can see now why people on Love Island or The Bachelor become hyperemotional and attached to other contestants on the show. If you confine yourself to one environment, I guess it just becomes that way.

5:30 p.m. Paula and I finish our closing-out paperwork and wait for Yvonne and Floyd to sign off on it. I decide to give it another go and ask Paula about her life. She tells me she used to be a school crossing guard at an elementary school here in Brooklyn but she quit because she didn’t like her boss. Then she had colon cancer. And a few years ago, on her birthday, she fell down some concrete steps in front of her home. Now, she wants to open a daycare in the basement of her home but is waiting to see if the door in her kitchen will qualify as the second exit required for a home daycare business. She says she’s trying to get disability from her fall but hasn’t had any luck. I’m relieved to hear that Paula likes children. She has a gloominess about her, but she’s been through a lot, so I understand.

Saturday—October 31, 2020

5:00 a.m. It’s so hard to wake up this morning. I consider just not showing up, but I gave Floyd my word. And, of course, I need the money. Last night I had grand plans to make an elaborate dinner and watch a movie, but I came home and passed out immediately. I sluggishly get ready, leaving no time to pack breakfast or lunch.

6:00 a.m. I’m sitting against the wall next to a girl my age who’s been here for two days already. She’s pretty and stylish and I figured we might be poll worker friends, but we never crossed paths or had a chance to talk, and now it feels like it’s too late.

6:15: a.m. I crack and tell her that I like her boots. I learn she’s working on a start-up: sustainable contact lenses. I ask her what she thinks of being a poll worker so far and she says she likes it fine but that many of the veteran workers seem “unwell” and are bad with technology.

6:30 a.m. Paula has set up shop at Table 3 already. She’s staring right at me but I’m avoiding her because I want to work with someone else today—someone nice, positive, and a little quicker on the iPad. Yvonne tells me to go to Table 3 and I reluctantly head over. “Morning, Paula,” I say. She reaches under the table and hands me a tiny American flag pin the way a drug dealer might hand someone a bag of weed. “It’s a Halloween gift,” she tells me in a hushed voice. “We aren’t allowed to wear anything flag-themed, which is ridiculous, so keep it in your bag. I’m only giving them to a few people.” Despite my qualms with Paula, I find this very endearing and put it in my backpack.

7:00 a.m. We open the doors. After an initial cluster of voters, the line disappears and there’s a steady but light stream of people. It’s going to be a slow day. Amira comes to our table and says she’s going to be a backup. She pulls up a chair right next to me, leaving me sandwiched a little too closely between her and Paula. I ask if she wouldn’t mind moving her chair behind us so I have room to twist around and reach the printer for the ballots. Paula sees her and says, “Oh, hell no. No way. You aren’t here with us. We don’t want you. You will slow us down.” It breaks my heart a little. “What did I ever do to you?” Amira asks her. “You talk to me so terribly. I don’t understand why you’re so terrible to me.” I wonder if it’s because Amira speaks English poorly and is a minority. Or if it’s because there’s a “D” next to Amira’s name tag and Paula is a Trump supporter. (Unlike Maria, I have confirmation of this because I overheard Paula tell a voter yesterday that she liked the MAGA stickers on her mobility scooter.) But if that were the reason, why would Paula give me, a Democrat, the flag pin? I decide it’s probably all of the above and also because Amira is objectively bad at the job and incredibly frustrating to work with. Floyd comes over in the middle of this kerfuffle and asks who was officially scheduled today. “Not me,” I say before realizing I could’ve easily lied. “Then find something else to do or go home,” he tells me. I’m annoyed because he directly asked me yesterday if I was working today and I said yes. I consider pushing back with this, but decide it’s not worth it. I grab my things and go to the wall to be a relief. Amira is now in my position and I watch Paula talk to her like absolute shit. At one point, Paula gets up out of her seat to grab a pen she dropped, and in the process, trips over the leg of the table, falling on her ass with a giant thud. The whole thing seemed to happen in slow motion. Other poll workers and I rush over help pick her up off the ground. “I’m fine. Get off me,” she says, waving us away. I look at Amira and see her grinning. This is almost better than the Real Housewives!

8:00 a.m. A man named David comes over to me. He’s the new Election Coordinator, Yvonne’s replacement. “Hilary, between you and I, you’re going to need to look busy. Floyd is going around telling everyone who’s doing nothing that they need to go home. If you don’t want to, I’d suggest going outside and working the line, maybe.” There’s still no line, but I came all the way here and want the $250, so I go outside to work the imaginary queue.

8:15 a.m. Christian, the guy in charge of the Line Management Clerks, gives me a tragic neon vest and tells me to go stand on the corner and direct voters to the entrance. It’s freezing; if I knew I’d be outside all day I would’ve dressed with more layers.

9:00 a.m. Still no line, but people are coming to vote. I use the same greetings with all of them. “Go right on in, folks! There’s no line today! You picked a great day to vote!” They all have the same excited reactions. It becomes monotonous, but it’s actually nice to be outside in the fresh air, and the sunshine is warming me up. I decide I enjoy being a Line Management Clerk more than working the tables. Plus, I can see when the empanadas and pizza arrive first.

10:00 a.m. A guy with long, greasy hair approaches me. He’s also working outside. I knew it was only a matter of time before I’d have to engage with him. He’s given me a weird vibe since day one. “I can’t stop looking at your hair,” he tells me. “I’m Damien. Do you have a boyfriend?” I try to finagle my way out of further conversation by walking around and chatting desperately with passersby, but he doesn’t get the hint. I reckon he’s in his early 30s. “Have you ever taken recreational drugs?” he asks. “Sure,” I say. He tells me he loves marijuana, acid, and Adderall and then asks what I’m going to do with my check when the job is over. “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m going to buy a mattress—one that has a remote control,” he says. “Mattresses are important.” He tells me he wants to work in politics, but the other day I overheard him tell another poll worker he wanted to be “on Broadway.” I suspect he is some sort of scam artist, or maybe just an Adderall addict. He’s considered a Line Management Clerk, but spends the bulk of the day sitting around the break table, eating, walking around, and texting. He arrives late and leaves early. He’s the kind of person who slips through the cracks with jobs like these and is sneaky enough to get away with not doing shit while still getting paid the same amount as employees who genuinely work hard.

11:00 a.m. Damien continues to follow me around asking oddly personal questions and it starts to piss me off. I go inside and stand at the entrance with another Line Management Clerk. He’s older, maybe in his 70s, and is wearing an Allman Brothers Band mask. His name tag says Tom. “Can I stand here with you?” I ask. “I’m just trying to get away from Damien; he’s talking my ear off.” Tom nods. “I have to warn you though—I’m pretty chatty, too. Being quarantined for months has made me that way. Even a little social interaction makes me really happy,” he says. I feel bad and regret saying anything.

11:15 a.m. Tom tells me he worked in the music business for years “when we had these things called cassettes.” He says he has a daughter my age and that his wife died a few years ago. He likes Gary Clark Jr. and Beth Hart. He uses lingo like “OK, boomer” and references TikTok and I find it adorable in a grandfatherly way. It’s his first time working the polls, too. “I’m kind of surprised at the quality of the people,” he says. “I think poll working should be a like jury duty—everyone should have to do it.” I nod in agreement.

11:30 a.m. Christian, the guy in charge of the Line Management Clerks, tells me to go stand at the “Special Access door,” which is where elderly or handicapped people can enter. I grab a chair and sit in front of it.

12:00 p.m. This is a much better position than sitting on the wall inside due to ample people-watching opportunities. Damien is standing near the entrance holding someone’s whimpering beagle. Why someone would trust him with their dog is beyond me.

1:00 p.m. A feeble old man wearing a fur coat, chunky turquoise rings, and vintage Gucci loafers pulls up a chair next to me. His name is Paco and he’s a Spanish Interpreter. I’d been curious about Paco since I started a few days ago. His wardrobe intrigued me; I wondered if he was an artist or something. He tells me David directed him to come out here and “look busy,” too. I learn that Paco is in fact an artist, but he doesn’t show or sell his work. Right now he’s working on a Cubist drawing. He had two dogs—Sweetie and Baby—but they died last year. “They were my only family,” he says, looking down at the ground. His parents also died recently. “I didn’t give a shit, though. They threw me out when I was 13.” He looks weathered up close and I suspect he must have been through a lot in his life. I feel strangely drawn to Paco and we spend the next two hours talking about cooking and rugs and animals. He loves making a specific dish that involves thin layers of eggplant, fresh mozzarella, ricotta, a little olive oil, and a tomato-basil sauce. I jot down the recipe on the back of a receipt. I briefly envision the two of us drinking martinis and discussing the complexities of the world but snap out of it when Christian shouts to me that a small line has finally formed. “Go be the caboose,” he says.

3:00 p.m. I’m still enjoying my gig outside, but the sun ducks behind a building and it gets really cold again. I tell Christian I’m going inside quickly to thaw and have a slice of pizza. I run into David on the way to the break table and he tells me he’s sorry he had to put me outside and promises that tomorrow I’ll be on the tables. When I finish eating, I go back outside and see that Paco is huddled up in his fur, sleeping. There are two slices of pizza in between paper plates on my chair. “Paco?” I say. His eyes open. “I saved you some pizza,” he says. “I wanted to make sure you got lunch before it was gone.” I don’t have the heart to tell him I already ate, so I thank him and force small bites into my mouth.

5:00 p.m. Finally, we’re closed for the night. My cheeks and nose are red and raw and I feel sniffily. After taking down the “Vote Here/Vote Aqui” signs from outside, all of the Line Management Clerks stand around the front waiting for David and Floyd to give us the OK to leave. A man who works at the Information Desk asks me how I got this job. Apparently, he says, Early Voting is usually reserved for the veteran poll workers. “There’s a lot of nepotism.” I tell him that a woman named Lori directed me to come here. “Well, tell your friends come and work, too. We need young people. These old folks don’t know what they’re doing with the new technology,” he says, pointing in Paula’s direction. “They need to pass the baton. I’m old, but I can use the iPad. When I can’t anymore, I’ll step down. But they need to step down now.” I tell him agree that we need more young people involved, but ask him if he thinks the Board of Elections should have more extensive training for older, less tech-savvy individuals. “No,” he says. “They just need to go.”

5:05 p.m. Paco comes up to me and hands me a cold empanada. “No thanks,” I say. “But it’s a sweet one,” he says. “They went fast so I grabbed you one. Just try it. It’s cranberry.” I tell him thank you and that I hope to see him tomorrow.

Sunday—November 1, 2020

5:00 a.m. My alarm goes off and I feel awful. I stayed up until 1:30 a.m. last night passing out candy to trick-or-treaters and watching movies with my boyfriend. I regret it. I also regret agreeing to come in today. I didn’t really, I guess, but David said he’d have a position on the tables for me, so now I feel obligated to go in. Tomorrow is everyone’s day off, though, because Election Day is going to be very, very long. I can do one more day, I tell myself. I find the will to pack some toast and coffee and head off on my way.

6:00 a.m. I run into Paula in the bathroom while attempting to salvage my sallow complexion. She says she has a poem for my boyfriend and his coworkers and to remind her to give it to me before the end of the day. I forgot I told Paula earlier in the week that my boyfriend is a firefighter. I say that’s very sweet and that he’ll love it. She gives me another flag pin, this time for him. I ask her how she’s feeling from her fall and she says “sore” and that she’s thinking of suing.

6:30 a.m. Everyone rushes to the tables and I’m left on the wall again. “I’m sorry, I don’t have a position for you on the tables today, so you’ll be a relief,” David tells me. It’s like fucking Groundhog Day. I don’t have the energy to argue.

8:00 a.m. I finally get called to a table and am paired up with the old woman in the walker who was sneaking pizza into her bag a few days ago. Her name is Sylvia; I think she’s Russian. She’s on the iPad and I’m doing the ballots. She’s hard of hearing like Amira, but instead of asking the voter to repeat themselves multiple times, she has them write their names down on scraps of paper right off the bat. I admire this tactic and decide I like her.

8:30 a.m. It’s a light day—there’s no line again—and Sylvia and I are working efficiently together. “Can you do me a favor and tell David that I was not slow on the iPad?” she asks me. “Sure. Why?” I ask. “Paula tells him I’m too slow,” she says. “Look at her. She won’t stop staring at me.” I turn to Paula’s table and sure enough, she’s shooting daggers at Sylvia. “She’s a miserable bitch,” I whisper to Sylvia. “Don’t pay her any mind.”

10:00 a.m. A girl in a really short skirt comes up to our table. As Sylvia checks her in, I notice one of the Line Management Clerks from outside—I’d never seen him before, but he’s wearing the neon vest—is behind her with his iPhone out. He’s taking a photo. As in, this poll worker followed this girl inside to get picture of her ass. He darts his eyes back and forth and then gets a little bit closer and crouches down. He takes another one. “This guy is taking a picture of her!” I say to Sylvia. “You—come here!” she yells at him. “Delete that photo now!” He looks embarrassed. “Uh, I wasn’t taking a photo,” he says. “Yeah you were,” I say. He runs off. “What a bastard,” Sylvia says. “What happened?” the girl in the skirt asks. “He was taking a photo of you,” Sylvia tells her. “Oh,” she says, smirking. “I don’t care.” Sylvia calls David over and we recount the incident to him. He says he’ll go outside and talk to him.

10:15: a.m. “He said he didn’t do it,” David tells us. “There’s nothing I can do; maybe you saw something different.” Unbelievable, think. I don’t see that Line Management Clerk for the rest of the day and spend the next few hours wondering if it was OK to immediately call him out like that when the girl said she didn’t care and perhaps even enjoyed the attention, which is her prerogative. Then I imagine this poll worker—probably in his 60s—jerking off in his car on his break to this 18-year-old girl and I become angry all over again.

2:00 p.m. Senator Chuck Schumer comes in and introduces himself and thanks all of us. Damien, who’s been sitting by the break table all day on his phone, stands up and salutes him. I roll my eyes.

3:30 p.m. I’m feeling very delirious and silly. Fortunately, I’m comfortable enough with my fellow poll workers to act in such a way. We dance around and eat leftover Halloween candy and joke around. I fill in for someone else and end up at a table with a middle-aged Turkish guy named Umit. In between lulls he tells me about his job as a jeweler and explains all the different stones and cuts. I like him a lot and wish I worked with him earlier. Umit is also delirious, and when a voter comes to our table, he types in her last name completely wrong. The botched spelling of a very common name makes me laugh and laugh and laugh, and soon, Umit and I are nearly on the floor giggling. He pulls down his mask to quickly gasp for air and I realize he looks completely different than what I imagined. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen the bottom half of many of my coworkers’ faces. It dawns on me that after today, I likely won’t see any of these people ever again. And on Election Day on Tuesday, I’ll have to work with all new people at a school a few blocks away. I feel a bit sad.

4:00 p.m. We close the doors. I don’t have to do any of the closing-out procedures since I was a relief today, so I sit against the wall and wait to be dismissed. The Line Management Clerk who was taking a photo of that girl earlier walks by and winks at me. My stomach flips.

5:00 p.m. Maria, Paula, Sylvia, and another woman in a walker named Suzette come join me on the wall. “How’s everyone feeling?” Maria asks. “Tired and disgusted,” Sylvia says, in what I assume to be a reference to the earlier debacle. We talk about the day and our families and suddenly all of the women break out their phones and start showing me photos of their grandchildren, nieces, nephews, and pets. Maria pulls a stack of tattered papers out of her bag—they’re copies of her poem—and instructs me to email her as soon as my boyfriend reads it. I promise her I will and type her email address into my phone. Sylvia and Suzette say their Access-a-Ride vans aren’t scheduled to pick them up until 7 o’clock—two hours from now—and I can’t believe that disabled workers have to wait that long to go home.

5:30 p.m. I help rip off the signs posted around the YMCA and say my goodbyes to everyone. I’m totally depleted, but grateful to have met so many different people I would have otherwise never known. Even Amira and Paula.

Tuesday—November 3, 2020

4:00 a.m. Election Day. Despite having the day off yesterday, I don’t feel sufficiently rested and recharged. I heard today is going to be brutal and that we might have to stay until midnight or later. Thankfully, though, I’m a Line Management Clerk, so I get to be outside. I was “officially” assigned today, meaning I have a real badge and everything, so there won’t be any ambiguity about my position. I sleep in too long to pack breakfast or lunch and hurry on my way.

5:05 a.m. I arrive at the school five minutes late in a panic. The security guard at the front directs me to the gym, and when I enter, I’m shocked at how many young people there are. I assume all of them also marked themselves available for Early Voting but never got assigned because they didn’t see the same Facebook post I did directing them to call the district assemblyman and ask for a polling site. What a shame.

5:30 a.m. There’s a cluster of us just standing around waiting for some sort of direction. The workers assigned to scan the ballots are nervously flipping through the manual and I’m grateful I wasn’t given that role. As I suspected, this polling site seems equally disorganized. To confirm I’m standing with the right people, I ask the guy next to me if he’s also a Line Management Clerk and he says he thinks so.

5:50 a.m. A woman in an ill-fitting red skirt suit approaches us. Her name is Clarice and I learn she’s the person in charge—the Floyd of MS 88. “All my Line people, go outside,” she says. That’s all the direction we get. It’s still dark out—you can see the moon—and there’s about 30 voters lined up already. I learn that every single person I’m working with is new. They look relieved when I tell them I worked Early Voting the past five days and have some experience working as a Line Management Clerk. “You’re going to be the person in charge then,” one girl says. I say that a few of us should be outside (one person as the caboose), a few at the entrance, one at the Special Access door, and a couple of us inside.

6:00 a.m. Voters file in very, very slowly. I wonder what the hold up is and go to the entrance. The woman working at the front door is only allowing 10 people in at a time. “It’s a big school—I think you can let the rest of the people in,” I tell her in an uncharacteristically bossy voice. This is why we need direction, I think. I try conversing with some of the voters but everyone seems tired and uninterested.

7:00 a.m. There seems to be enough poll workers outside so I go in to direct people to the somewhat maze-like exit. I stare at the laminated rainbow borders, the Young Adult books on display, and the watercolor paintings. “Middle school looks just like you remember it, huh?” a girl who looks to be about my age asks. “Yeah, totally,” I say. She tells me she works for Pepsi and used to do marketing for a cosmetics company. In between talking to voters, we chat about the beauty industry and New York City and politics. I really like her.

9:00 a.m. I haven’t seen Clarice all morning. There’s no line, either. And there are far too many of us. I’m thankful it’s so lax and go to the bodega to get coffee and a breakfast sandwich. When I return, I see my neighbors and the lady who works at my favorite fruit stand come in to vote. I’m excited to see them and feel optimistic about the day.

10:00 a.m. A white SUV with a bunch of flags on the end of it that read “MAKE LIBERALS CRY AGAIN” and “TRUMP 2020” pulls up. It’s a rare sight here in largely liberal Park Slope, and naturally, it causes a stir. It’s a father and a son. I assume the father already voted or is voting elsewhere, so he waits in the car while his son, wearing a U.S. Border Patrol cap, goes in to vote. “Excuse me, sir. You need to be 100 feet away from the entrance,” a woman shouts to him. She’s a Poll Watcher, which means she monitors the polling site and identifies and reports “irregularities” like electioneering, which is what the Trump support is doing. “I am 100 feet away. Get a fucking tape measure,” he shouts back. They argue back and forth, and then he gets out of his car and stands in front of it with his arms crossed like a bouncer guarding the entrance of a nightclub. The Poll Watcher calls the police to report him. As voters and passersby comment and snap photos, he begins taunting them, telling one that he has female genitalia and another to “get the fuck out of my face.” I record a particularly disturbing part of the debacle in which he tells a group of people at the entrance that they’re “all a bunch of fucking pussies” and that liberalism is a “mental disorder.” I post the video on my Twitter account. “I’m a poll worker here in Brooklyn. Here’s the first case of voter intimidation I’ve witnessed,” I caption it. As we wait for the police to arrive, his son comes back out. He swaps his U.S. Border Control cap with a red Make America Great Again one and stands next to his dad. Clarice comes out and asks what’s happening. She seems unbothered but tells us she’ll “kick his ass” if he tries to come inside. I wonder what Floyd would have done. The whole incident is ugly and difficult to watch and for a second, I feel like crying.

10:30 a.m. A NYPD car pulls up to the entrance. They talk to the Poll Watcher and then to him and then amongst themselves for a while. It’s a bit chaotic and I’m not sure what’s happening exactly.

11:00 a.m. The guy moves his car up a few feet. A woman—I’m unsure if she’s a voter or just a person walking by—talks to him from the driver’s seat window for a long time. I check my phone and am shocked to see that there’s over a thousand comments on my video. I also have dozens of media inquiries and even a few direct messages asking if I want to “license the video” in exchange for a percentage of revenue. “Damn, you are straight up viral!” a friend texts me. I do a few phone interviews with local news outlets and say yes to journalists asking if they can use the video in articles. As a former journalist, I want to be as helpful as possible, but being on the other side of things feels uncomfortable and frankly overwhelming.

11:30 a.m. The MAGA-themed SUV leaves. “Your name is all over the news,” another Line Management Clerk tells me. “Jesus,” I say. I go inside and stay there for the rest of the day, vowing to not answer any more press inquiries or do any more interviews about it, but the classmate of a friend texts me and asks if she can bike over and interview me about the incident and I reluctantly agree.

12:00 p.m. She arrives and I take her to a quiet hallway. She asks me to recap the incident and I do but say that I wasn’t the only poll worker who witnessed it and maybe someone else outside—most notably the Poll Watcher—could provide her with better insight. She asks me if I thought any voters were truly intimidated by him or if I thought anyone decided against voting due to his presence and I laugh.

1:00 p.m. The rest of the day is relatively uneventful. A Line Management Clerk who was inside passing out Clorox wipes to voters asks if I’ll fill in for him during his break. I remember we get two whole hours today and plan on going home and maybe sleeping for a little when he returns.

2:00 p.m. I thought being a relief at the YMCA was the most mind-numbing “work” I’ve ever done, but passing out antibacterial wipes takes the cake. I refresh my Twitter feed and see that someone identified the Trump supporter by calling the auto parts store advertised on his sweatshirt. I get overwhelmed again and feel nauseous. I know it’s a politically charged climate, but this sort of guy exists everywhere. Maybe not in Park Slope so much, but definitely other parts of Brooklyn—and especially Staten Island. I’ve seen far more aggressive political altercations in real life and on the internet. I spend the next two hours staring at the wall feeling both perplexed and worried about the media’s—and my—fascination with the Elusive Trump Supporter and how this blindsided us in 2016 and may very well knock the wind out of us again in 2020.

4:00 p.m. I get called to fill in for someone whose job it is to simply stand at the entrance of the gym. I try to keep my eyes open and think of the wonderful, deep sleep I’ll have in about six hours. One of the guys who was working at the tables comes over and stands next to me a little too closely. He’s much older but reminds me of Damien. He has his mask down under his chin but I don’t have the energy to say anything about it. He asks me where I live and what I do and I respond with the same lethargic enthusiasm as Paula. He invites me to a “garage sale” he’s having in front of of the library on Saturday and I say, “Sure, I’ll definitely be there.” A voter passes us and asks him to pull his mask up. “Who are you, the fucking moral police? Fuck you!” he responds. Clarice escorts him out of the building and I can hear him shouting expletives through the hallways.

5:30 p.m. The poll worker I was filling in for comes back and I go outside to get some fresh air. “Did you post it on your Twitter?” a woman working the entrance asks. “Post what?” I say. “That guy who was yelling about his mask.” Fuck you, I think. I muster up a fake laugh and announce that I’m going on my break. I decide against going home because then I’d want to nap and napping would be dangerous, so I walk around the block a few times and get a kombucha from the deli.

6:30 p.m. I’ve officially hit a massive wall and cannot speak or interact with anyone any longer. I sit in the hallway and stare at the floor waiting for nine o’clock to hit.

7:45 p.m. A woman I recognize from the YMCA walks by. It’s Kelly. I worked with her only briefly but she was a great tablemate. “Hey!” I shout maniacally. “Oh, hey you!” she says. Kelly tells me she was working the tables inside but that it’s totally dead so she decided to walk around and stretch her legs. I learn she’s a single mother of two teenage boys and that she works at a Social Security office. She tells me all about her ex husband and how hard it is to date but that she doesn’t mind because her idea of happiness is a clean house and a bubblebath. The time goes by quickly with Kelly and all of a sudden it’s nine o’clock. Clarice instructs us to tear down the signage and tell the cop to get in line so people know we’ve closed.

9:30 p.m. The other Line Management Clerks and I gather in the middle of the gym and wait for Clarice to dismiss us. We’re in the same awkward huddle we were in this morning, but it feels like years ago. “All my line people, go home,” Clarice says. Without saying goodbye to anyone, I head out into the cold night, pull down my mask, and take a deep, long breath.