Dear Diary:
Like Blanche DuBois, exit pollers depend on the kindness of strangers. I’d never done an exit poll before and was winging it â€" poorly. Within one minute, a policeman had banished me across 100 feet of No Man’s Land.
The polling place was in the middle of a side street. It was Nov. 5, and I was on Broome Street in West SoHo.
My method was this: I stationed myself across the street, pacing for warmth, and waited for the exiting voter to go east or west. Once he veered, I would walk parallel to him on my side of the street, and then cross after I reached a certain spot by a few garbage bags. After dozens of iterations, the routine of pursuit felt sort of creepy. My brain instinctively looping a poorly rendered version of the theme from “Jaws†as I crossed the street seemed to confirm this.
Another voter was leaving. He went left. “Jaws†music, garbage bags â€" and then I saw a woman sitting on a stoop, smoking a cigarette, watching me. I was caught, absurd stalkerish ritual exposed. I conducted the next poll and walked back across the street. I awaited her judgment, this stranger. It had already been a rough day, for other reasons. I couldn’t help grinning stupidly â€" that happens when I’m nervous.
“You have a really nice smile,†she said.
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