“Pennsylvania! Yes!” shouted Kevin. “That’s 23! I
kick ass! How many points do I have now, NiNi?”
“Um…a hundred and forty-six.”
“You still need a hundred and fourteen more,” said Mel.
They were playing the license plate
game, election 2000 style. Each plate was worth its state’s number of electoral
votes. Pennsylvania was a tidy little victory for Kevin. Of course, if anyone
got Florida, they won immediately.
Mel and Kevin were kneeling at the
back window, furiously studying the cars before they passed us (and they all
passed us—Saint NiNi was driving). I, doing my best not to participate in the
strangely compelling game, was ironing my linen shirts.
“Ha! Illinois! That’s 24 for me!”
crowed Mel.
“Actually, Illinois had 24
electoral votes until 1991,” said Kevin. “They only have 22 now.”
“Liar! They have 24!”
“Erin?”
“I’ll have to back you up on this
one,” I replied. “They lost two votes. Did anyone bring any spray starch?”
“So, 22?” asked NiNi.
“Yes, 22,” said Kevin. Mel fumed
silently. I could see her willing someone from California to drive by. She had
already snagged New York, but Kevin was still ahead.
“D.C.,” she said.
“Ooh, three big points for you,”
said Kevin.
“I thought they would have more
than that,” I said.
“The whole state of North Dakota
only has three,” said Mel.
“I know, I just thought there were
a lot more people in D.C. than there were in North Dakota,” I said. “Did you
guys hear me earlier? Anyone bring any starch?”
“No,” they chorused
unenthusiastically.
“Iowa,” said Kevin. “That’s seven.”
“I already have Iowa,” said Mel.
Time passed. The votes from all of
the Midwest states had been counted. Kevin and Mel stayed poised at the
windows, waiting patiently for a visitor from a populous state.
“Does anyone want me to iron
anything of yours while I have the iron out?” I asked. “Kevin? Your flannels
look pretty wrinkly.”
“What the hell do you have that
thing plugged into, anyway?” he asked.
“The cigarette lighter—duh.”
“Oh, of course, I should have
known. My mom always irons in the car, but never until after she’s lit her
cigarette.”
“Well, do you want me to iron your
stuff or what?”
“CALIFORNIA!” Mel shouted. I
jumped. “California, california, california,” she crooned.
“Dammit, Erin, you distracted me!
Goddammit! Look what I missed!” Kevin shot me a look of pure evil from behind
his bangs.
“Well, look, she made me burn
myself,” I said. A long pink line was rapidly puffing up on my forearm.
“That’s FIFTY-FOUR for me,” crowed
Mel. “You don’t have a chance now.”
