Getting a Shot on Election Day

When I was a child, twice a year, my mother would make appointments with our pediatrician, Dr. Alexander, for me. I had another doctor for my ADHD and another for my stutter, but Dr. Alexander’s job was to keep me alive, which he somehow accomplished.

He was a grand old gentleman with a great shock of white hair, a rough voice, and a gentle disposition. If I was really sick, he’d come to our house and have supper after checking me out. My mother always said she’d run away to Bora Bora or Bali with Dr. Alexander if he ever asked. He never asked. Ironically, my nephew now goes to Bora Bora and Bali a few times a year to photograph surfers and bikini models. Think about that the next time your job gets boring.

Dr. Alexander’s office was a few doors down from my cousin Ben’s optometrist's office. He had this big wooden box filled with safety suckers that had strings instead of sticks. If you were really brave when you got a shot, you’d get a sucker. I didn’t care for shots. In the waiting room, he had Highlights for Kids magazines, but almost always, some other kid used his mom’s pencil on the puzzles. That’s okay; I could still read the cartoons.

I knew in my heart that there was only a twenty or thirty percent chance I’d have to get a shot. I didn’t always get one. The anxiety of not knowing made going to the doctor’s office a miserable experience. My mother would lie to me and say I wasn’t going to get a shot, but I knew she didn’t make that decision, and if Dr. Alexander said I had to have a shot, then I’d get one, often in my butt.

The nurse would come in, measure my height and weight, and ask me to pee in a cup. None of that was terrible, but I knew the chance for something terrible was coming. Sitting on a padded table covered with butcher paper, I sat in my Haines bloomers with my name written on the waistband, no shirt, and no patience, waiting for Dr. Alexander to come in for his part of the examination.

He spoke to me quietly, like an old cowboy speaks to a skittish horse. He had this thing with a magnifying glass and a light that he’d use to check out my nose and my ears. He’d put a wooden stick on my tongue and shine his magnified light down my throat. That’s when I’d start to cry.

“I don’t want a shot.”

“You don’t get a shot today, buddy-boy.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

I’d collect my safety sucker and put my clothes on. No shot that day.

Some people celebrate election day by dressing up like they’re going to an SEC or SWAC football game and making lunch dates with like-minded friends. That was never for me. Even when I felt pretty good that my slate of candidates would do well, the chance that I might get a shot was always stuck in the back of my head.

I like to put on work clothes and go early—too early to see anybody I know. In my first few elections, the only people who knew I voted were my dad and Warren Hood, who voted at the same time, and Charlotte Peets, who was a poll worker for something like thirty years.

For me, that first Tuesday in November is a great time for day drinking. In Mississippi, the primary elections are often more decisive than the actual election. The last time I was worried about a primary election, David Blount was running against the pastor of a mega-church. I like pastors a lot, and I like mega-churches sometimes, but I believe folks should stay in their lane. Using the authority you get as a pastor to mix with politics makes me nervous, no matter who does it. Billy Graham’s son is trying to use the pulpit to influence the ballot box in ways his daddy never would. He doesn’t care what I think about that, but I’d tell him if he asked.

I used to have lunch with David’s mom and discuss the election, then go by John Corlew’s room and see what he thought. It’d been twenty years since I was involved in politics in even the smallest capacity, but it all felt very familiar. David won, so I felt pretty good.

I thought about going to a drinking place and watching the election returns, maybe the fancy-dancy Asian infusion place Damien Cavicchi built and his wife decorated. A few fingers of The Famous Grouse or Maker’s Mark and branch water is almost as good as a safety sucker. They don’t ever mention it, but Hal and Mal’s is pretty famous for its political influence, and so was George Street, The Patio Club, and CS’s. Tico’s Tavern has more photographs of members of the House and Senate in it than steaks.

Staying up drinking and watching election returns until they throw me out is a younger man’s game. I think I’ll stay home. I feel pretty good about the chances for my slate of candidates. It’ll be a squeaker either way. I might cry whether I get a shot or not. That’s ok. I’ve lived through this a lot of times; I figure that tradition will continue.