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Tallahassee's relaxed ways are upended by the unending election.
By JEFF KLINKENBERG
© St. Petersburg Times, published December 6, 2000
TALLAHASSEE -- Sure, Tallahassee is the seat of Florida government. Yes, it is the center of the political universe right now. But in a way it's a small town, too.
And it's feeling a little schizo.
Even the cardinals sense it.
A couple of males -- you can tell by their vivid colors -- are fighting oddly in a shiny magnolia tree.
Here at ground zero, the presidential rassling match has every living thing on edge.
Below the magnolia, on the sidewalk in front of the Florida Supreme Court, reporters jockey for position like territorial redbirds.
Some guy is wheeling two big files down the sidewalk.
"What do you got?" an alert reporter shouts.
"Something important," the file guy replies.
TV lights pop on. Out come the microphones and notebooks. The cardinals flee as cameras flash.
"Just kidding," calls out the file guy to the newshawks. "I'm delivering bond paper and paper clips."
You gotta have fun with these city types.
Late fall should be a sleepy time here. Folks with small-town values slow down. They don't want to worry about the next amicus brief or whether they will find a parking space downtown or whether their favorite restaurant will be invaded by the big cheeses of mass media. They'd rather protect their camellia bushes from the cold or visit Bill "Stormy" Storm for firewood.
Storm is a garrulous guy. Usually, in the fall, he would chat about football or hunting with his clients. Ever since the election a month ago, his chilled customers have wanted to chew the fat about politics.
"All I want to do is keep Tallahassee warm," he says with a sigh. "Now it's Bush this or Gore that or what's on the news. I was watchin' on TV those vans bringing the votes up here from South Florida. And it felt like I was watching O.J. all over again. I'd rather be fishin'."
Frankly, that's what a lot of Northwest Florida folks would rather be doing. Or they might open their Tallahassee Democrat to the sports page and read about Bobby's 'Noles over breakfast, preferably at the Lunchbox Restaurant, where a necktie or a briefcase looks out of place.
But when a city is under siege, traditions falter. Out-of-town lawyers and journalists come hunting for comfort food, maybe a nice bagel and cream cheese, or a freshly baked croissant.
"These strangers don't even like grits," says waitress Sam Brown, trying not to sneer. "Oh, these folks are nice and polite and all. But I wish it was all over. I'm embarrassed for Florida. I heard a song on the radio the other day. Know The Devil Went Down to Georgia by Charlie Daniels? Somebody put out one, Al Gore Came Down to Florida -- to steal votes."
The chamber of commerce says putting up with political madness has been worth more than a half-million bucks a week to local merchants. Somebody has to wash shirts and iron socks and clean hotel rooms. Somebody even has to shuck extra oysters.
"Well," says David Garber, knife flashing at Barnacle Bill's, "we're seeing more people than usual. It's gotten crazy. You don't want to go downtown unless you have to. It's a different world down there."
After the last press conference of the evening, downtown shows up at Barnacle Bill's. That's when a fellow called Big James might be summoned to solve problems. No, he is not a $200 an hour attorney or a political boss. He's the fastest oyster shucker north of Apalachicola.
"He makes 'em fly," David Garber says. "He finished third in the southern oyster shucking regionals last time."
Nothing is messier than a tray of raw oysters -- unless it is ground zero, the Capitol, where one can hardly see the moss-draped oak trees for the forest of television trucks.
Television cables snake through buildings like the roots of the planet's largest strangler fig.
Most Tallahassee residents who are not on government payroll know enough to stay away. Still, there are the curious. With dark come the college students.
"I want to be on CNN, man," declares Isaac Brunk, an FSU freshman. He lurks near big-time CNN reporter Susan Candiotti, who waits for news to happen at the Supreme Court.
"You've accomplished your goal if you get on TV," says Brunk, who hopes to major in education. "Really, I'm kidding. I'm here to give voice to my support for George Bush."
He carries a placard. So does his pal, John Wilson, a political science senior at FSU. What has Wilson learned from watching democracy in action? What will he do when he graduates in a few weeks? "Like most political science graduates, I guess I'll be waiting on tables for a while," he says.
Disappointed with the lack of action, the FSU commandos head for bright lights on the horizon. But as they arrive at the federal district court, the TV lights go out there, too. Resigned, they depart for home and study.
Experts say the end is probably near. Experts, shmexperts. Tallahassee folks remember that only a month ago network experts called the election wrong.
Perhaps the media bigwigs should have sought out Bob Foresman and Roscoe Williams. They work in Tallahassee and make a living putting up big tents and taking them down. Tents big enough to shelter TV cameras and crews.
On Tuesday morning, they are poised to take down some tents. Even though the Supreme Court has given Gore another chance, they feel what's coming in their bones.
"I know they say it ain't over till the fat lady sings," Foresman says.
"But she's hummin', baby," Williams says. "I can hear her hummin'."