Flag Coming Down:
What it was like to be there when Roy Moore rode his horse to vote.
By Will Bevis
This is the second time I've gone to the little town of Gallant, Alabama to watch the Ten Commandments Judge ride his horse to the polling station to vote.
The first time was a couple of months ago, when the Republican run-off vote took place. I wrote about that too, but haven't published it yet. It'll have to wait. Because by the end of this day, something truly astounding may happen, no – probably will happen:
Roy Moore, Jr., will be a United States Senator.
I had to be there today, though I didn't want to be.
The same as the last time, I go in fear that I will be discovered as a Liberal, and some good ol' boys will kick the ever-loving s*** out of me.
It didn't happen last time so I feel I am pressing my luck going this time.
But I go anyway.
And I saw nothing different from my last trip there through the wilderness except an oddly out of place pink Corvette in front of an old house, and when I turned left on Gallant Road a very evil looking and sinister skinny snowman left over from Friday's unexpected three inches of snow.
Then I was at the volunteer fire station where the area's voting takes place.
I looked up the drive and it was five times more crowded than the run off vote.
Then I drove on by. I did so because out all the crowd I recognized some body,
a truck driver who used to work where I still do.
I didn't want to talk to him, because I had just seen him last week and he had told me something that had broke my heart. He had told me his teeth were hurting so bad he couldn't hardly stand it. I stupidly asked him why he didn't go to a dentist. He answered that he didn't have to money to go to one.
If you think there is no poverty in Alabama you're wrong.
I felt bad for the man but what could I do? I am not the President, nor even a Senator.
I also felt bad for him because he worked 15 years straight without a day off.
When I saw him I realized this must be where he voted as I remembered he lived near here.
I drove on down the road and turned around and came back and parked at the tiny post office. As I got out a man was walking toward me. "What?" I asked him, thinking he was going to say I couldn't park there.
He didn't. Instead he said, "Nothing. I'm over here because I don't to be on camera."
I didn't ask him why.
I crossed the street and walked up the fire station drive.
There was a crowd of about 75 people there, broken up into about three lines, all three lines facing toward where Moore and his would come from.
Did I mention that it was cold as hell?
The first line was the still photographers –those with the big thick lens – all bundled up against the icy stiff wind.
The second line was the news crews with cameras on tri-pods, not as well dressed against the cold, but better dressed fashion wise anyway.
The third line was the county police, keeping their eyes on the rest off us.
And lo and behold, who was now in that line than the guy who said he did not want to be on camera.
I sidled up to the first line, in spite of having no big lens.
It was now just a very cold waiting game.
The photogs were chatting amongst themselves. They all seemed to know each other. One said. Moore's the only guy in Alabama who wears a cowboy hat. The others chuckled. I didn't. Roy Moore Junior is no laughing matter.
I kept myself occupied by looking around. I counted the photogs and video people. About fifty could I see, but there were more down the road and even up against a house using it for a windbreak.
And more were still coming.
A young guy of I believe Pakistani descent got out of a car with Illinois plates and walked by me. He was very well dressed but had no coat.
Another guy came from behind and started chatting up a female photog in front of me. He told her he was from London.
Another guy walked by speaking German into his cell.
And a woman behind me was speaking in something I didn't know what the hell it was.
A guy from a newspaper stopped to talk to me. I asked him if he would be going to Montgomery after this was through. He said no, that he was going to do as little as possible today.
A very polite and well dressed gentleman asked anybody who might answer, "Are we allowed to walk on the grass?"
Nobody answered.
He and his crew stayed on the road but switched positions.
I noticed two of the photogs had on shades- one one his face, and one on the top of his head - even though it was soup gray outside.
One said I got my first job because I was so tall.
Another said I wonder if Moore w ill ride in like Putin does, without a shirt.
I look away. To my right up a hillside, a bunch o f cows graze.
Suddenly someone says "There he is!" and everyone goes into action, jockeying for better position.
Moore has turned a corner from behind a little hill but something catches my eye behind him: two dump trucks loaded with bright red Alabama dirt going God only knows where.
Moore comes across the open field and suddenly turns into the tree line and rides thorough the trees, his wife coming much slower.
He breaks out the trees and rides to a wooden fence to tie his horse up and is immediately THRONGED by the press while his wife waits at the edge of t he tree-line.
He tries to make to the front door as they crowd him and bombard him with questions. Finally he gets in where they can not go.
Then the wife makes to the side door which the bodyguard has opened so forcefully the screen door has torn off the top hinge and is just hanging there as his wife goes in to vote as well. Then the door is shut behind her.
And I notice they have left the horses completely unattended, and some guy is over there talking to them and taking pictures.
There is a moment of calm then a police man comes out the front and says your welcome to take all the pictures you want, but the judge will not be making a statement.
Then he went and came right back out. Change of plans. The judge will be making a statement, he now says. And another cop says "Everybody! Take one step back!
Then Moore comes out but I hear no statement – I only the talking heads yelling out question after question, like, What are you going to say to Putin?
Then it was over and they crushed him, still trying to get answers til the last second, and all running around at me full speed – one guy whacking me in the back with a huge video camera in his haste.
Even when they got to the horses they crowed in until the horses themselves got spooked until I heard the Judge's wife yell out "Hey, get away from the horses!"
And the press obeyed her.
And they allowed her and her husband, to ride through the gray into a future sunset.
And when had disappeared the media disappeared as well...
Leaving me almost alone there.
For I can not back to London.
My home is here.
That's when I noticed something I don't think anyone else noticed.
It was that the American Flag flying over the Fire Station...
Was flying at half mast.
I immediately walked over to a fireman and asked why,
And he gave me a reasonable answer.
But I prefer what I thought when I first saw the flag at half-mast:
It's a sad day for America.
