The Screens and the Barriers

By nine o’clock, Cody’s feet had gone numb.

He shifted from one leg to the other and tried not to stare at the security fence between him and the stage. Beyond it, under the cold November sky, a blue backdrop stood between American flags. Clear protective panels flanked the lectern. The stage looked ready for someone who had not yet appeared.

Cody could see only pieces of it.

People pressed close around him, holding small flags, campaign signs, and cups of hot chocolate. Some wore Obama buttons or blue campaign caps. Others had scarves over their mouths and noses. The crowd stretched through Grant Park and beyond the clearest view of the stage. Estimates were already moving through conversation, growing larger each time they were repeated. There were tens of thousands, certainly. Perhaps far more in and around the park. No one could see the whole thing.

The rally was controlled by tickets, barriers, and security checks. Cody and Lena had made it into the public crowd, but not to any good sightline. A tall man in front of Cody wore a campaign shirt damp with sweat across the back.

— Your toes are turning blue, Lena said.

— They match the stage.

— That is not how medical care works.

She handed him a paper cup. Steam rose from the hot chocolate. Cody held it between both hands until warmth reached his fingers.

A large screen stood several yards ahead. It carried television coverage, switching from anchors in a studio to maps of the United States. The crowd reacted to colors. A favorable state call brought a cheer that moved through the park in a wave. Then people settled again, eyes fixed on the screen.

It was strange, Cody thought, to attend a public event by watching television.

— It’s the most democratic thing I’ve ever seen, Lena said, as if she had read his mind. Everybody staring at the same rectangle.

— Except the rectangle is smarter than most of the people in this crowd.

— Careful. The rectangle has been wrong before.

Cody smiled, but his attention had returned to his phone. A message from his supervisor waited on the screen.

Back in at eight tomorrow. We’ll talk about the server problem. Don’t forget.

He read it twice.

The server problem was ordinary. The company’s customers could not log in, and Cody’s job was to help them discover that the problem was usually their own password. He had done the work for nearly two years. His employer sponsored his H-1B visa, which meant the job was not simply a job. If the company dismissed him, his right to remain in the United States would become a question with a short, frightening deadline.

He put the phone away.

— You heard from work? Lena asked.

— Apparently the republic can wait, but the server cannot.

— Servers are very sensitive. They need constant reassurance.

— My supervisor says eight.

— Then you’ll be there at eight.

Cody looked toward the blue stage. “Will anything be different tomorrow?”

Lena did not answer at once. She taught civics at a public high school on the Southwest Side. She was good at explaining complicated systems to teenagers who believed every system had been designed personally to annoy them. Tonight, even she seemed careful with her words.

— Some things, she said. Not everything.

— I don’t mean the office.

— I know.

Cody had voted in no election that night. He had followed the campaign, argued about it, and learned the names of counties he had never visited. He could not enter the voting booth. His life in the country depended on forms, deadlines, and the continuing approval of an employer.

He had come to Grant Park because a private room felt too small for the moment. He wanted to see whether the country could make room for him, even if the law still described him as temporary.

— I want it to change more than the presidency, he said.

Lena looked at him.

— I want it to make my place here feel less conditional.

A man beside them turned slightly. He was in his late fifties, with a gray mustache and a dark knit cap. He had been trying to find a clear path between shoulders and signs.

— Excuse me, he said. Either of you know if the screen by the lake has a better picture?

— Probably, Lena said. Everything by the lake is colder, though.

The man considered this. “I’m already paying for the hot chocolate with my circulation.”

His name was Marcus Reed. He had retired from the transit system and had come from the South Side. He kept checking his phone, waiting for a call from his grandchildren.

— They’re watching at my daughter’s house, he explained. They want me to tell them what it looks like.

— Tell them it looks like Chicago, Lena said.

— Chicago has better parking.

Marcus laughed. He raised his phone, then lowered it when the screen showed another state map.

A cheer broke out behind them. The sound rolled forward, and Cody found himself cheering too, though he had not yet understood what had happened. The crowd moved as one body. Flags lifted. Someone shouted, “We’re almost there!”

Marcus watched the screen. “Almost where?”

— History, Cody said.

Marcus gave him a sideways glance. “That place has no address.”

The returns continued. John McCain, the Republican senator from Arizona, was losing ground to Barack Obama, the Democratic senator from Illinois. Obama was forty-seven. If he won, he would become the first African American elected president of the United States.

Cody knew the words. He had read them in newspapers and heard them on television. Still, the sentence felt different when it was surrounded by thousands of people who had stood outside in the cold for hours.

Marcus did not speak for a while.

— My grandson is eight, he said at last. He asked me if presidents always looked like the ones in his school books.

— What did you tell him? Cody asked.

— I told him the books were behind schedule.

The screen showed another network anchor. Her voice was almost lost beneath the crowd, but people nearby repeated what they heard.

— Ohio.

— Pennsylvania.

— Virginia.

Names moved through the crowd like small sparks. Each one brought a new burst of hope. The financial markets were in trouble. People knew jobs were disappearing and businesses were afraid. Cody’s company had frozen raises. Lena’s school had lost two teachers to budget cuts. Nobody needed a statistic to understand that the country was worried.

A vendor passed with hot dogs and pizza. Another called out campaign merchandise. Alcohol was not being sold at the event, and nobody seemed to miss it. The crowd was already unsteady without assistance.

At 9:58, the screen changed.

The map disappeared. A network anchor appeared beside a blank space where the state map had been. Producers moved behind her in the studio. Her voice came faster now, though Cody could not catch every word over the crowd.

People began to push closer to the screen.

— What is it? someone asked.

— Nothing yet, another voice answered.

The movement around Cody stopped so quickly that the pause seemed to strike the park. Lena’s hand found his sleeve. Marcus held his phone at his chest, forgotten.

Cody stared at the screen. Two minutes could be a long time when nobody wanted to breathe.

Then the clock reached ten.

The anchor’s voice rose through the speakers.

The banner appeared.

OBAMA PROJECTED WINNER

For one second, nobody moved.

Then Grant Park erupted.

Cody felt Lena’s hand close around his arm. Marcus lifted both hands, not quite cheering, not quite praying. Around them, people shouted, cried, hugged strangers, waved flags, and jumped in place. A woman near the fence screamed, “Yes!” until her voice broke.

At ten o’clock Central Time—eleven o’clock Eastern—the Associated Press and the major television networks projected that Obama had won after West Coast polls closed.

Cody laughed. He had not known he was going to laugh. He hugged Lena, then Marcus, then a man he had never seen before. His hot chocolate spilled across one glove.

— It’s official, Cody said.

Lena was smiling, but she shook her head. “It’s the projection.”

— Everyone just called it.

— The networks called it.

— The networks are everyone.

— No, they are not.

A woman behind them shouted that Obama was the next president. Another man yelled that it was over. The screen showed cheering scenes from other cities, while the crowd in Grant Park cheered the crowd on television.

Cody looked again at the banner. The word projected seemed too small for the noise around it.

— So what are you saying? he asked. That we have to wait for someone in a quiet office to approve what the whole country knows?

— I’m saying the public announcement is not the same as legal certification. Lena kept her voice calm, though her eyes were bright. States still certify their results. The electors vote later. Congress counts those votes in January.

Cody stared at her.

— Tonight, she continued, the media are making a projection based on returns and the Electoral College map. It is decisive in public life. It is not a government proclamation.

Marcus looked from Lena to the screen. “Both things can be true.”

The cheering rose again. Obama’s supporters had waited for hours, following the election through giant screens and network coverage. For many, this was the only way to see what was happening. The stage remained empty. The barriers remained in place. The cold remained cold.

But the park had changed.

Cody looked toward the distant blue backdrop. He had expected the announcement to open a door. Instead, it had revealed another hallway.

— If he has won, he said, what happens first?

Lena glanced at the screen, where the anchor was still speaking over the celebration.

— That, she said, is the question.