come to look for America

I love this place. I left the Diesel munch, where I'd done my bit for the institution of marriage, and walked over to Maschsts Ave to take the bus home. As I was standing under a streetlight, reading an unwieldy paperback copy of _The True Game_, a bicyclist pulled over and asked if I was familiar with the neighborhood.

"Some. What are you looking for?"
"My polling place is supposed to be an old-folks home, somewhere along here, and I can't find it."
"Cambridge or Somerville? I vote in Arlington, but I saw signs for one of the Somerville polls near here." I put the Tepper away and pulled out my book of local maps.
"Cambridge. I don't know the name of the place."
"That's ok. I think I might have seen it, down by Porter. Are you new in town?" Our heads were together over the map, and I recognized the smell of her shampoo over the sweat of exertion and a little anxiety.
"No." She kicked at the ground. "This is just the first time I've voted."
"Good for you!" I pointed on the map. "I think it's around here. Stand up and tell 'em we're here, whoever you're voting for." We smiled at each other, slapped hands, and she rode away.