Is it integral to the “American Dream?” To hear the people on the street today, a resounding yes. Football represents glorious triumph, and this year the New York Giants won the Super Bowl. Not enough fans went to Disneyland. The Giants’ victory parade thwarted my attempt to vote in the primaries at every turn this morning.

I left the apartment at 8:00 a.m. to vote in a grand old court building less than four short blocks away. But the police had already set up barricades at every corner.

If I really needed to cross the street, one policeman said, my best bet was probably to take the subway to Brooklyn, and at the first stop, cross over and return. Maybe—maybe—the subway station across the street would allow me to exit. Then I would need to cross only one more street to get to the polling place.

I no longer argue with police. They frighten me. I’ve gotten in trouble trying to talk common sense, only to end up sounding like a lunatic. Besides, the police carry guns. Sometimes, around City Hall, they carry machine guns. So I took the subway to Brooklyn. As it happened, however, the exit station on the desired side of the street was likewise barricaded. The police allowed no one to exit there. I walked underground for half an hour before I could persuade a policeman guarding the Chambers Street exit, several blocks north of where I hoped to vote, to let me onto the street.

Circling through Chinatown, I managed to get to Park Row. If I ran along the yellow line, as far as Centre Street, and managed to cross that, I could vote. Of course, even with the responsibility of maintaining so many barricades, the police soon noticed me running along the double yellow line. One of them called me over and when I very respectfully told him what I thought I was doing, he suggested the subway to Brooklyn. Having already spoken up, I bravely, softly admitted I had already taken the subway to Brooklyn and back and it hadn’t worked.

Why not then walk three miles west and circle around the southern tip of the island. But better do it quickly—the blue-faced crowd of fans was growing fast.

Please, I begged, seeing the building directly in front of me, please let me cross the street like those four guys that just raced past with their Giants pennants? A crew of policemen and –women formed to see what kind of ruckus I was causing. I showed them my driver’s license and the passport I always carry, in case.

One man wavered. I gave in to tears, because I wept, they let me through. Teary-eyed then, I managed to pull the creaky levers in case they’re actually connected to anything.

The next challenge? Getting home. Working my way beneath Brooklyn Bridge, I attempted to keep even with an elderly woman I anticipated would get treated kindly. But they weren’t fools! Both the police and the woman marked me for the sniveling charlatan I am and told me to turn around.

Just past noon, the crowd pressing from all sides, I found the swell approaching the NYU emergency room. Avoiding the hospital (that could take all week), I sneaked through a Wall St. synagogue, past the Dunkin’ Donuts, and made my way across the street, which the crowd had de-barricaded hours ago. So now I’m in my apartment, though the crowd outside rattles the windows in here. And then, there’s always this: I voted.