at the rack

vince's eyes drift up from the map to the photo of president carter--even four years ago, you could see the burdens of choice and fear on his face--and vince knows.

a single moment can sometimes connect you to your time. president carter stares in solemn agreement. it's like this: you're out there living your own life, and then, every four years, they give you a say--a tiny say in how this moment should proceed, and it is both real and abstract, like the black borders around the states, a creation of the very thing it is--a small say in which incremental direction we will go, and sure, it's a cynical process: reactive, reductive, misguided--but goddamn it, if every four years it does nothing more than make you stop and realize that you're part of something bigger, then maybe every time it's a tiny fucking miracle.

--from citizen vince by jess walter