If Congress can move President's Day, Columbus Day and, alas

Title: The Day We Forgot to Vote

Host: The city was asleep, except for the rain — thin, steady, unrelenting — whispering over the empty streets like a confession the world had stopped listening to. The neon signs outside flickered through the wet glass, throwing fractured light across the narrow café, where a television in the corner replayed the news in hushed tones: campaign promises, opinion polls, apathy.

Jack sat at a table near the window, his coat dripping on the tiled floor, a stack of half-read newspapers beside his coffee. His grey eyes tracked headlines with quiet irritation, the kind of weariness that only comes from believing once — deeply — and losing faith in slow motion.

Jeeny entered, closing her umbrella with a shake. She scanned the café until she saw him. He didn’t look up. She sat opposite him, her hair damp, her expression alive with that same mix of conviction and compassion that had always unsettled him.

Jeeny: “Andrew Young once said — ‘If Congress can move President’s Day, Columbus Day and, alas, Martin Luther King’s Birthday celebration for the convenience of shoppers, shouldn’t they at least consider moving Election Day for the convenience of voters?’”

Jack: (gruffly) “Convenience. There’s a word politicians never really understood.”

Host: His voice was a low murmur, like gravel beneath a river — worn, heavy, unyielding.

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who’s given up on the system.”

Jack: “I didn’t give up. It gave up on me.”

Jeeny: “You always say that — as if democracy’s some ex-lover who stopped calling.”

Jack: “That’s exactly what it feels like.”

Host: The rain intensified, splattering against the window, turning their reflections into blurred ghosts.

Jeeny: “You know, Young had a point. If we can rearrange history for shopping sprees, we should at least make democracy easier. Why not a weekend? Why not a holiday? Why not meet people where they are?”

Jack: “Because apathy doesn’t need more excuses to sleep in.”

Jeeny: “You think not voting is apathy?”

Jack: “Sometimes it’s exhaustion.”

Host: She leaned forward, her eyes bright with defiance.

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s disillusionment — the kind you feed every time you tell yourself your vote doesn’t matter.”

Jack: (bitter laugh) “Jeeny, when the same corporations own both sides of the aisle, my little checkmark is about as useful as a paper umbrella in a hurricane.”

Jeeny: “Then why not fix the storm instead of throwing away the umbrella?”

Host: The television flickered with footage of an empty polling station, the image drenched in irony — rows of voting booths waiting like church pews for believers who never came.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when we were kids? My father used to take me to vote with him. He’d dress in his old suit, like it was sacred. Said democracy was the one thing that made ordinary people matter.”

Jack: “Yeah, well, ordinary people don’t feel like they matter anymore. They feel like extras in someone else’s movie.”

Jeeny: “Then they should take back the script.”

Jack: “You think it’s that easy? People are working two jobs, raising kids, trying not to drown. You tell them to show up and wait three hours to cast a ballot, they’ll choose rest every time.”

Jeeny: “Which is why Young’s quote matters. If we can rearrange holidays for sales, why can’t we rearrange democracy for fairness?”

Jack: “Because fairness doesn’t sell.”

Host: A pause. The rain softened. The sound of distant traffic filled the space like the sigh of an exhausted civilization.

Jeeny: “You know what frightens me, Jack? Not that people don’t vote — but that they’ve stopped believing their voice is sacred.”

Jack: “Maybe it never was. Maybe it was just good marketing.”

Jeeny: “That cynicism is exactly what power wants. It doesn’t need to steal your vote if it can steal your hope.”

Jack: (leans back, eyes narrowing) “You talk like voting fixes everything. It doesn’t.”

Jeeny: “No. But it fixes something. And something is always more than nothing.”

Host: The light caught her face just then — determined, defiant, weary. A kind of quiet fire burned behind her eyes, not the naive flame of youth, but the tempered heat of someone who has learned to fight with faith instead of fists.

Jack: “So what, we move Election Day and everything changes? People suddenly care?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not everyone. But maybe a few more do. Maybe the single mother who can’t take off work finally gets to vote. Maybe the student who can’t find transportation gets a chance. Change doesn’t happen in floods, Jack — it starts with drips.”

Jack: “Drips don’t change anything unless they gather.”

Jeeny: “Then be the one who gathers them.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked — slow, deliberate, marking time that had seen too many wasted elections and forgotten promises.

Jeeny: “You know, Young was a civil rights leader before he was a politician. He walked with Martin Luther King. He watched people die for a right we treat like a chore. If they could march through dogs and batons for a ballot, maybe we can show up, rain or shine.”

Jack: (quietly) “And yet, here we are, debating over coffee, while apathy wins unopposed.”

Jeeny: “Maybe conversations like this are where change starts.”

Host: The rain finally stopped. The air felt cleaner — or maybe just emptied. The TV behind them showed a campaign speech in progress, applause looping like an echo of rehearsed enthusiasm.

Jack rubbed his temples, his voice soft now, almost regretful.

Jack: “You really still believe in it, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Belief is the last civic duty left.”

Jack: “And what if the system’s rigged beyond repair?”

Jeeny: “Then we repair it anyway. Brick by brick. Vote by vote.”

Host: She said it with such quiet conviction that even Jack’s cynicism hesitated. He looked at her — really looked — and something flickered in him: recognition, maybe longing.

Jack: “You know, my father voted every year. Never missed one. He’d put on his cap, walk to the school gym, shake hands with the volunteers like they were old comrades. He said the vote wasn’t for himself — it was for the world he wanted me to live in.”

Jeeny: “And you stopped doing that for him?”

Jack: “I stopped doing it for anyone.”

Jeeny: “Then start again for yourself.”

Host: The words landed softly, but they hit deep — a truth so gentle it hurt. Outside, the clouds broke, and a streak of moonlight touched the wet pavement, glinting like possibility.

Jack: “You think they’ll ever move it — Election Day?”

Jeeny: “Only if people care enough to demand it.”

Jack: (half-smile) “So, never?”

Jeeny: “Not never. Just… not yet.”

Host: They sat in silence, the faint hum of the world creeping back in. The rain had washed the grime from the streets, but the reflections — of lights, of faces, of hope — remained.

Jeeny stood, sliding on her coat. She paused, looking at him with that same steady warmth.

Jeeny: “Next election. You’ll go, right?”

Jack: (after a beat) “Yeah. Maybe I’ll even bring an umbrella.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s all democracy needs — a little preparation, and a little faith.”

Host: The doorbell chimed as she left, her footsteps fading into the damp quiet of the night. Jack watched her go, then turned back to the flickering television, where candidates smiled and promises burned like cheap fireworks.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small voter registration card, creased and worn — the kind of relic that still carried weight.

He stared at it for a long moment, then tucked it gently into his wallet.

Host: And in that quiet act, Andrew Young’s challenge came alive again —
not in Congress, not in marble halls or policy memos,
but in the small rebellion of one tired soul deciding that belief, once lost, could still be found.

Because democracy, like love, doesn’t fail all at once.
It fades when no one shows up for it.

And tonight, beneath the clean sky of a washed city,
one man decided to start showing up again.

The lights dimmed.
The clock ticked on.
And outside —
the morning was already forming.