It was my first election as a poll worker and there I was, sitting next to this little old lady who had been a poll worker for years. Her job was to find the voter’s name and have them sign the roster. My job was to cross the person’s name off the secondary street index, and hand them their ballot.
So here comes a voter:
“May I have your name?” the old lady asks sweetly.
“Katherine Stanton,” the voter says.
“Huh?” the old lady says, cocking her head. “What was that? Sampson?” Her hands hover uncertainly over the roster.
“Stanton,” the voter repeats, more loudly.
“Phantom?” the old lady asks incredulously. “Your last name is Phantom?”