The Voting Machine

Civil Discourse

I called 911 and told them to hurry. Zeke wasn't breathing. I was worried he wasn't going to make it. I tried to remember the moves they taught us in the CPR class in the Passion call center after my co-worker Olivia had a massive heart attack. I placed my palm flat on his sternum and started pumping against his rib cage.

If Zeke died while I was in his house, I knew I'd get blamed. The cops would find the smashed coffee cup, the photo, and the signs of struggle in the living room. They would start looking into by background in LA and dig up the arrest record.

Zeke had to hold on until the paramedics arrived. Failure was not on option. I continued pressing his chest for a minute, until he finally opened his eyes.

"My nitroglycerin pills," he whispered. "In the kitchen. Next to the lawn jockey."

I ran back to the kitchen and scanned the vast expanse of countertops and cupboards. Next to the microwave, there was a small, porcelain statue of a black man with bulging eyes and red lips dressed in servant's clothes. I grabbed the nearby pills and took them to Zeke with a glass of water.

When I returned from the kitchen, Annabelle and David were at the front door, worried over why I was taking so long. I waited with them until the ambulance transported Zeke to Saint Rose's Hospital. He received an emergency angioplasty. It was his third heart attack in the past five years.

Police questioned me in the aftermath. Why was I in Zeke's house so long? Why did the paramedics find his gun nearby on the carpet? I tried to keep my answers as vague as possible. I explained I was doing door-to-door voter outreach. Zeke invited me in and was friendly at first, but then he began acting strangely. It was all true and it was easy to imagine. Everyone in Las Vegas knew Zeke Legend was an emotionally explosive personality.

Within a couple weeks of the angioplasty, Zeke was back on his feet and rapidly recovering. He was a strong and determined man. Despite my fears, he never pressed formal charges against me for "assaulting" him in his home.

A month after the incident, Zeke walked into our campaign office and asked for a private word with me. I insisted that David join us in the meeting room.

"I don't want to be alone with that guy ever again," I told David.

"Cuauhtemoc McCarthy, I've come here to tell you two things," Zeke said. "First of all, I want to thank you for saving my life. Without the CPR and the nitroglycerin pills, my heart would've stopped. I'd be dead right now."

"You're welcome," I said. "What's the second thing you want to tell me?"

"Here's the second thing I want to say: Nothing else changes! I stand by every word I said to you in my living room. I despise your candidate, your campaign, and everything you stand for. People like you are a cancer on this country, McCarthy. I will do everything I can do to defeat you."

I was too shocked to speak. His face was flush crimson with righteous anger, just like in his living room. He'd lost none of his fire. If anything, he was more intense now than before.

"When you come close to death, it makes you think even more deeply about the time you spend on this earth. It's like a message to make sure you're spending your life on the right priorities. So this was a reminder to me to focus on stopping people like you, Temo. I swear to God, I will spend every waking moment working to make sure your side loses this election. I will defend this country from your invasion until my last dying breath."

My fist clenched under the table. I was ready to take another swipe at him. David put a hand on my shoulder and it had a calming effect.

"Zeke, your anger has no place here," David said softly. "Temo helped you in your home because that's what we believe in. We could've used this incident against you. We could've told the police you tried to shoot Temo."

"He attacked me!"

"I don't believe that. Where is the proof of that? If Temo attacked you, where are the scars? Why didn't you go to the police? I wonder how you can explain that."

Zeke had no response, but he was smarting.

"Relax, Zeke. I want to put this behind us. After all, this is all my fault," David said.

"Your fault?" I said. "What do you mean?"

"I sent you into his home, Temo. I believed in trying to engage Zeke in civil discourse was the right thing to do. Well, I was wrong. We're not going to be patient and turn the other cheek with your people anymore, Zeke. I don't want you or the Founding Fathers coming to our campaign rallies. I don't want your people playing dirty tricks or stealing our lawn signs. If you're doing something illegal, I am going to find out and report you. On a personal level, I don't want to see you again, Zeke, ever. I am an old man. I have precious time left. I don't want to waste another minute of it spending time in your presence."

"I feel the same way," Zeke said. He got up abruptly and stomped out of our campaign office.