Shhhh. Be very, very quiet. It’s election night and I’m trying to go unnoticed.

Earlier, at about 4 p.m., an editor scuttled over to my desk holding two sheets of paper. On either side of her stood burly men in white coats, each with meaty arms crossed. These hulking strangers were in attendance in case I lost control.

I wasn’t concerned about the burly men. I was concerned about those sheets of paper. Printed on them were elaborate grids and various data written in a text from another galaxy. Information about charters, and candidates; referendums and wards. There were blank spaces where numbers would need to be scrawled by some hapless schmuck who would be coerced into…

Light dawned. I tried to rise rocket-like from my desk and flee, but the burly men held me fast. Actually, it was the editor who did it. In my defense, she is a freakishly strong woman.

So, I would have to go over to the polls and collect numbers. This would mean waiting agonizing hours in a city building for the figures to trickle out like frozen fish guts rolling up a hill. It would mean going into a web of elbows belonging to other reporters who want those numbers more than their next breaths. It would mean being involved in the slowest part of the political machine and hating every minute.

I’ll admit I wept a little, and without shame. But I never gave up. Maybe, I thought. Maybe there would be mayhem in the streets, and I would be freed from the mind-freezing task of collecting numbers. Why, a downtown block could go up in flames. A madman could run amok with a chain saw or a spork. An elephant could escape from a passing rig and stomp through Kennedy Park.

I was indulging in such fantasies when another editor (this place crawls with the things, like beetles under a log) snuck over to my desk. She tied a half-dozen red, white and blue balloons to the back of my desk and then crept away, like an alley cat who has marked her territory.

Try forgetting about Election Day when balloons assail you every time you turn your head. I attempted to roll back into my elephant fantasy (after all other means had failed to subdue the rampaging beast, the intrepid reporter LaFlamme launched himself onto the back of the giant and wrestled the bewildered pachyderm to the…)

Some wit who saw that I was deep in daydream passed by my desk and punctured a balloon directly behind my head. The explosion was deafening. And yet, my first impulse was not one of fear, oh no. It was this: “Wahoo! I’m getting shot at! This will surely get me out of going to the polls!”

The wit rushed away giggling and the dead balloon lay on the floor, as deflated as my hopes for a poll free evening. And then the hour came, and it was time for me to go. I moped my way over to Auburn City Hall to collect the numbers. I sulked my way up the spiffy new stairs (I didn’t break anything, so don’t blame me if stuff starts collapsing) and went inside.

One of our other reporters was there and met me inside. He had the numbers well under control, he told me. I was not needed. Which was a fine thing because I had forgotten those sheets of paper with the grids and the alien text.

I buzzed over into Lewiston and entered the more aesthetically pleasing city building. Our reporter there was peering up at the numbers. With no sweat on his brow, he was punching them into a palm pilot. Me, I held a ragged notebook and a pen that was almost out of ink. I was not needed there.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I’m essentially ballast on Election Day. For most reporters, it’s Super Bowl Sunday. For me, it’s a night to mope around and wait for something to ignite. Nothing ever does. My big job is to listen to the scanner and try not to annoy the political reporters working under intense deadlines.

But I’ll admit something now that I will never admit again. I do get a certain thrill working election night. It’s a vicarious thrill. I wander around and watch the others in the unrestrained madness of the moment. They shout numbers, information about candidates, late-breaking developments and things I don’t understand across the newsroom. Tempers rise up and then smooth when sheets of paper are delivered. People who don’t normally cuss are swearing like sailors. In short, it’s the way a newsroom should feel. It’s as though lightening struck the roof of the building and all the inhabitants buzz with electricity of it. It’s journalism at its finest.

As I write, most of the numbers are in. The swearing and screaming has mostly come to an end. I’m watching the reporters and editors and clerks wind down like drunks at the end of the hard-drinking night. And I’m still remaining very, very quiet. Because I could always be asked to do something at the last minute, and shreds of those two sheets of paper lie scattered on the floor at my feet with the corpse of the dead balloon.

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