MY FIRST, AND THUS FAR ONLY, POLITICAL campaign began around eleven in the morning, May 21, 2002. I would have slept later, but it was a primary election and I had to vote. When you’re a Supervoter, you jealously guard that status – if you lose it, you don’t get junk mail from the parties anymore.

I don’t know who came up with the term Supervoter, but I like it. It means you always vote. I know most of the Supervoters in my district from hanging around the polls as a kid.

I went down to the polls and ran into Sal Desimone, the Democratic County Committeeman for the eleventh district of the seventh ward. I live in the twelfth district, a little triangle bordered by Shady, Penn and Fifth Avenues. We have some old houses and a couple of schools. Sal’s district has a school and an armory. We are a well educated and well armed neighborhood.

Before voting, I realized that no one held, or was running for, the Democratic Committee seat in the twelfth district. Unacceptable. How could I, a Supervoter, allow my little triangle to be unrepresented? Also, I didn’t work that day and it’s illegal to serve booze while the polls are open, so I had nothing else to do.

The seat was a family affair. My father held it, but resigned when he supported a Republican, the estimable Jim Roddey, for County Executive. My mother holds the counterpart seat. You would think I would get the seat automatically, and possibly a cushy job in the prothonotary’s office. No. I actually had to get people to vote for me. I started by voting for myself.

So, with the first vote cast for me at 11:30, I had to get to work. As a write-in candidate I needed fifteen votes to be elected, so I had to convince fourteen members of the Democratic party to write me in.

Sal and I teamed up. He was also running, so we accosted everyone who came by.

“Are you a Democrat?” If no, let their Republican asses by. We did stop one Libertarian, who was voting for god knows what.

“What district do you live in?” This one stumped people. It seemed Sal and I were the only Supervoters who knew our assigned districts. The people who live in the districts that share our polling place usually just go up to one of the tables and ask if their name is on the list. If not, that means their district is represented by the other table. To straighten things out, we’d ask where the person lived. In most cases, Sal had been in school with someone who had lived in the Supervoter’s house. He would say things like “Is the avocado refrigerator still in the kitchen?” and “I put in the railing on the back porch.”

“Would you vote for me?” The answer to this one was usually “Sure, why not.” Some people were tougher. One woman asked Sal where he stood on abortion, as if the Democratic Committeeman of the eleventh district of the seventh ward of Allegheny County had the power to appoint Supreme Court justices. Apparently Sal, a good Catholic who listens to the Pope, answered incorrectly. Neither that woman nor her girlfriend voted for him.

When the polls closed, I used my insider’s power to check out the rolls of paper from the voting machines. I don’t know if that’s legal or not, but 22 years of hanging around the polls had its benefits. I got a total of seventeen votes for me, and one against. That was the decision of the officials, although I am pretty sure that whoever voted for “The guy outside” intended to vote for me.

I’ve held this office for two years and I stand behind my record. My first act as Committeeman was a meeting where local pain in the ass Barbara Ernsberger, a lawyer who hopes for a judgeship, was running for re-election as seventh ward chair. I supported the “anybody but Barbara” ticket, but we lost. No one else wanted the job.

For the rest of 2002 and most of 2003 I did nothing for the committee but ignore Barbara Ernsberger’s letters inviting me to inconvenient meetings. A meeting came along that I was able to attend, to discuss our Christmas card.

My mother couldn’t make it, so I took a golf club to stand in for her. I thought about putting a wig on it, but I didn’t have one.

“Is that a golf club?” the photographer gasped.

Well, of course it was. It was a driver from the Sheriff’s auction. With attention drawn to it, Barbara objected.

“You can’t have a golf club on the Christmas Card.”

Why not?

“Because I say so.”

Why?

“Because it’s stupid.”

I called for a vote on the inclusion of the club. Despite a strong show of support from the photographer, who either liked the club for some artsy reason or had been overcome by the traditional instant dislike for Barbara Ernsberger, I lost the battle. The club was put aside, and no other sporting equipment was allowed.

On the strength of this record, I’ll be running for re-election in two years.

Reserve your lawn signs now.