The Voting Machine

Don't Tread on Me

I rang the front door of Zeke's house, peering in through the front door window panels at the opulent interior. The foyer led to a staircase beneath a dazzling chandelier. Legend was a wealthy man. During the past decade, he made a fortune as a gold investor.

He'd go to dental offices where broke patients had old gold teeth yanked to sell for walk-around money. Zeke would also visit pawnshops a few miles east of the Strip, and snatch up wedding rings and family heirlooms. Las Vegas never had any shortage of dumb, desperate people willing to exchange their possessions for emergency cash. Once Zeke collected enough gold from these second-hand sources, Zeke would melt it into ingots to resell on the commodities market.

Zeke answered the door in his bathrobe. He was a husky, vigorous man in his sixties with a white goatee. Huge gold chains dangled from his neck.

"What is it?" he said in a gruff voice.

I introduced myself and explained I was walking door-to-door for the Salinger campaign.

He grinned with uncontained delight, exuding unshakeable confidence. "Of course you are! Come on in, my friend. Let me get you a cup of coffee."

"I don't want to bother you, sir."

"Please," he said, beaming, "I insist."

He led me into a living room on the right-hand side of the foyer.

"Temo Cuahtehmoc McCarthy. That's a beautiful name. Is it Mexican?"

"Mexican and Irish."

"My family's Scotch-Irish. Made the journey across the pond a decade after the Declaration of Independence. We're all immigrants in this great land. I think some people misunderstand me on this issue."

I shrugged. He set a plate of donuts on an oak coffee table.

"You help yourself to these Krispy Kreme's," he urged. "Doctor tells me to stay away on account of my heart."

He set down a pot of fresh coffee on a silver tray with a bowl of sugar cubes and pitcher of cream.

"I'll let you decide how you like your coffee," he said, laughing. "Free enterprise and small government! Let people make their own choices."

I chuckled and sank back into his plush sofa. He was a warm, expansive host. He hardly resembled the man I'd seen at Founding Fathers rallies, the ranting demagogue who spewed hatred about anyone different from his followers.

On the mantle beyond the coffee table, there were large, color photos of Zeke and other old men dressed in the costumes of Yankee minutemen and British redcoat soldiers. They were engaged in mock battle with muskets and cannons. I knew Zeke was a history buff who organized wide-scale enactments of battles from the Revolutionary War.

Another enormous yellow snake flag covered the wall above the photos, the same flag I saw outside on the Founding Fathers placard.

Don't Tread on Me

"That's the Gadsden flag," he said as I mixed my coffee. "The flag of the first US Continental Marines who helped George Washington drive the British back to the ocean."

Legend gazed at the giant rattlesnake on the flag above us. His face became fiery and passionate.

"'She never begins an attack, nor, when once engaged, ever surrenders,'" he recited. "That's what Benjamin Franklin said. He believed the snake was a fitting symbol for our country in its infancy. A rattlesnake never closes her eyes. She never lets down her guard."

By the fireplace, I saw another photograph I hadn't noticed before. It was a young man in a Marine uniform who I assumed to be Zeke's son.

"That's Zeke Junior. Went over to Iraq to keep us safe from the terrorists. My campaign work is a tribute to him. Without the valor of our soldiers, we wouldn't have the luxury of elections in this country. The communists and the drug lords and ayatollahs, they have one thing in common: they want to take away our freedoms."

"We're all grateful for the sacrifices of your son and the other men and women in uniform," I said. "I think you and I have a lot in common, Mr. Legend. We care about this country."

"Please call me, Zeke," he said. "I believe we do share a love for this great nation. But we're on different sides of the issues, Temo. Nothing troubles my heart like a good man like you seduced by the wrong ideas. I believe if you were part of my organization, you'd realize it was the best place for a man of character like yourself.

"You see for me, Temo, the foundations of my life are like a three-legged stool. There's my wife and family. I've been married to the same lovely woman for forty years. She's out at a bridge game right now.

"There's also my trade. I've been a successful entrepreneur since I was a young man.

"The third part of the stool is my faith. I worship at a church right here in Henderson and have accepted Jesus as my personal savior." He sipped his cup of black coffee.

"My family, my business, and my religion are the foundation for my work in politics. That's the way it should be, don't you think?

"A man should make sure he's built his own three-legged stool and made that solid, right? That way he's already established a life worth preserving, he's a model for others. It's only after a man gets his own house in order that he can serve society, don't you think?"

"I think that's one way to do it."

"Well, how about you, Temo, if you don't mind my asking? You're married, right? A fine, young man like yourself... She's probably home getting lunch ready for you and the children right now."

"My wife and I aren't together right now. She's back in LA with my daughter."

"What do you mean you're not together? Divorced?"

"Separated."

"How about work?"

"I lost my job in LA."

"So you're not doing anything?"

"I am working in the campaign."

"I mean real work, for money."

"I have none at the moment."

"What about faith, Temo? Surely, you're a church-going man. You're Mexican and Irish, right? When's the last time, you attended Catholic Mass?"

"I don't remember. I am not very religious."

"You're not painting me a very promising picture, Temo. Are you happy right now? Are you proud and content with your place in the world?"

"No, I am not. I am not any of those things."