Samara Town Hall
After the microphone had been opened, an old man stood up. He was a nicely dressed, balding gentleman with the Southern, named Montgomery, classy appearance. He walked up with a cane and with the far-off, on-edge supervision of his children, who were middle-aged themselves. He tapped the mic with his finger and smiled when Samara turned to face him.
“G’afternoon, Senat-ur.” The man said, tipping his head politely. “Mah name is Charles Davidson, am a proud Bay Stater of ferty years, Georgian for thurty years befoh. I amma Republican of man’ decades, howevah am willin’ to switch mah vote for tha right candidate. Mah main quarrel with tha Democratic Party is naught that ya don’ support aborshion, guns fer all, or that ya do support gays, immigrashion, welfare. Wat I don’ like is how ya don’ show patience nor pay respect to those who do an’ don’. Ya have painted yaself as a New Democrat, sumone who’d redefine what a liberal is. Does that include endin’ this...reign o’ hatred an’ contempt put unto us Republicans by ya type of people? Because, if ya can promise me that mah children an’ their children an’ their children can walk tha streets, ‘spousin their views like ya ‘spouse yers without bein’ shunned, I might consider votin’ Democrat for tha first time in my life.”
He gave Samara a few moments to process his question, especially through his accent, and walked back to his seat with frail, quick steps so he could rest his old legs.
