The Gary Hart pollwatcher

A college kid loped into the polling place about one hour before closing, on primary Election day in 1984.

His high-top gym shoes peeked out from beneath his worn blue jeans. An unzipped jacket and unbuttoned flannel shirt flapped gently against his body as he strode to a spot just inside the building entrance.

He let a weathered back pack slide off his shoulders onto the floor, then reached into it and pulled out a handful of “Gary Hart for President” brochures, which he stuck in his back pocket, and a small paperback, which he immediately started reading, while leaning against a pillar, his back facing the door.

The Presidential Primary, in which Hart was competing, was generally referred to as a “beauty contest” because it had absolutely no impact on the selection of convention Delegates, whose support was required for the party nomination.

The real election was for the Delegates, and the winners were the top vote-getters in the district, regardless of which candidates they had publicly pledged to support (those names were printed on the ballot next to each of theirs).

Hart had no Delegate candidates in this district, so even if won 100% of the vote, he wouldn’t have been awarded a single Delegate.

Candidates pledged to U.S. Senator Alan Cranston, who had recently withdrawn from the race, announced they would support Hart if elected. So, voters who supported Hart had to know they would have to mark a ballot for the Cranston Delegates, a difficult task to communicate under the best of circumstances.

Neither the Democratic precinct captain nor I cared about the Presidential race. He was pushing the incumbent state legislator, I was promoting the challenger. So, the kid had no competition.

The captain and I were both well-dressed, polite, friendly, and poised. We greeted voters, handed them our respective sample ballots, and often chatted with them. We knew everybody and they treated us with respect.

As those folks then walked past the kid, he reached around them from behind, handed them a brochure, and said in a fast voice, “IfyouwanttovoteforHartyouhavetovotefortheCranstonDelegates.”

They seemed shocked to have been so suddenly accosted and didn’t understand a word he had said.

After attempting to speak to voters five times, he packed up his stuff and stormed out of the polls, muttering something about being “done in by the Machine.”

Well, he wasn’t done in by the Machine. He was done in by his own campaign that didn’t appear to have told him how to do his job.