I had a freshly minted Oklahoma driver’s license and a new voter ID card sitting in my wallet, and they were starting to feel impatient.

I wasn’t about to run a stop sign just to manufacture a reason to flash them at law enforcement. An election seemed like the safer route for everyone involved.

Springtime in Oklahoma usually means there’s a primary or some hyper-local issue pulling citizens to the polls. Moore was holding one — a single item on the ballot: permission to raise the sales tax a full percentage point. Effectively, a quarter more every time someone off I-35 feeds their family at the Chick-fil-A. The city thought they made a compelling case. A tax is a tax, and I rarely play along with these schemes.

My polling place turned out to be a church connected to the walking track I use most mornings. Despite my brave outward appearance, I am a fragile creature held together by avoidance and minimum human exposure — which is why I walk the track instead of the neighborhoods, where barking dogs and leaf blowers would require constant earbud adjustments, and I’d arrive home worse than I left. But this felt elegant: leave the path mid-walk, vote, return home on foot. Zero carbon emissions. Maximum civic righteousness. Superior plan.

The church was a ghost town.

The only sign of life was a janitor with LED spelunking gear strapped to his forehead. Because Oklahomans are terminally friendly, he didn’t just tell me the poll workers hadn’t shown up — he shared his entire political manifesto. Didn’t see any signs when he came in, which told him everything. Votes absentee. Not a fan of tax increases. Voted against it himself. Since this was a City of Moore issue, he suggested I contact them directly.

Back home, I worked through the list of alternate polling locations. When clarity remained elusive, I called. The receptionist needed some convincing that an election was actually happening today. Once she accepted the premise, she reflected, “I did see a few extra people around.” A few questions later, I had my answer: my zip code says Moore, but my street address only piggybacks on it. I live in the county. Not a Moore resident.

My credentials never left my wallet.

New working theory: if I’m voting on anything state or national, the church on the walking track is my spot. If the ballot involves Moore taxing out-of-towners — well, the measure failed 56 to 44. They didn’t need me. The chicken sandwich survived.