Confessions of a poll worker

I have been trained for 90 minutes. I know the names of the four jobs at the polling place: roster clerk, street index clerk, demo clerk and ballot box clerk. The following rules have been impressed on me, repeatedly: One voter, one signature. Don't ever lock the polling place doors. Insert all nine header cards into the InkaVote Plus machine before the polls open. A provisional voter does not sign the roster. VBM means voted by mail. VAP means voted at polls.

I can do this. At least that's what I'm telling myself.

On Super Tuesday, I will join thousands of other volunteers across the state and serve as an election clerk for the primary. I've been assigned to work at the Women's Club of Hollywood, which is not my polling place but is close enough to home that I can ride my bike there.

Or maybe not. My bike -- it has a basket. My basket -- it has two bumper stickers. They read: "Peace Out Bush" and "Defend America: Fire the Republicans." Another rule comes to mind: No electioneering within 100 feet of the polls. I will lock my bike to something that is 101 feet away.

Here's how this all came to pass. I signed a volunteer list to work as an election clerk many years ago, and nothing came of it until Jan. 21 at 8:30 a.m. That's when the phone rang. "Is Mary there?" a woman asked. I was noncommittal -- my default position when somebody asks for me by my legal name, not my true name, Ellen. "Maybe," I said. I warmed up when she said she was calling to see if "Mary" wanted to be an election clerk.

Lakesha, an efficient and helpful woman from the county registrar's office, told me about the 90-minute training class, for which I'd be paid $25. She explained that on election day, I'd work from 6 a.m. to 8:30 p.m. and be paid $80. That's 16 hours of work and $105 of pay or $6.56 per hour. I was not dissuaded. I make a modest living writing stories and novels, and I understand that the market is not the best place to measure the value of literary fiction or civic duty.

Lakesha told me that to start work at the polling place, I'd have to sign a loyalty oath. The sound of that made me nervous. "Loyalty to what?" I asked. "It's just so you'll get paid," she told me. OK, loyalty to a paycheck. She also told me to phone my election inspector. His name, she said, was "Peter ... wait, no, it's Michael." I crossed out Peter in my notes, wrote Michael instead. When I called an hour later to tell Michael that I was part of his crew, he said, "My name is Peter, and you're Mary?" "No, Ellen." Democracy is so messy.