Ohio Redistricting map politicians dished up is hard to swallow
The Republican members of the Ohio Redistricting Commission went to bed one night secure in the knowledge that they had thwarted democracy once again by producing a bizarre, gerrymandered map of legislative districts.
But overnight something changed.
They realized it at a celebratory brunch the next morning at a Columbus restaurant that had long been called the Power Hungry Diner. Its name had suddenly changed to the Karma Cafe.
First, they were seated at a table full of odd angles and curves. The menus weren’t square. The sugar packets were unwieldy things shaped like amoebas and amphibians.
When one of the five was unable to find the restroom, the server handed him a convoluted map with a highlighted route that wriggled and squirmed to a toilet in Wapakoneta, then returned to the cafe by way of Washington Court House, with a sudden dip to Hillsboro for good measure.
The legislator, who really had to pee, looked up in disbelief.
“Sorry, “the server said. “But it’s just sooo hard to draw sensible maps these days.”
Then the committee members were told the cafe had just run out of eggs and coffee.
“Well there’s a supermarket right next door,” said one of the powerful politicians. “I’ll go get you some.”
“Oh, no, you can’t use that grocery store,” the server said. “To buy eggs you have to travel south to Circleville, then go east to Zanesville by way of Glouster and Crooksville, with a quick jog north to pick up a couple of precincts in Dresden.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said the frustrated politician. “And unfair, too.”
“Sorry,” the server replied. “We thought you folks, of all people, would understand.”
“Let’s go somewhere else,” another member said as he impatiently googled ‘breakfast near me’ on his phone and announced that he’d found a Waffle House two blocks away.
Then he squinted at it in disbelief. “What the @#$&!” he said. “GPS says to get there it’s an eighthour drive through 11 counties, and in one spot you have to literally drive through someone’s backyard.”
A glance out the cafe window revealed that a formerly octagonal stop sign now had 17 sides, and a nearby convenience store had strangely bulging walls, as if viewed through a funhouse mirror. Even credit cards had lost their rectangular shape. An eerie feeling crept over the group.
“Are we living in the Twilight Zone?” one asked. “I don’t even recognize this state anymore.”
The server laughed bitterly. “The rest of us have been saying that for years.”
Joe Blundo is a Dispatch columnist. joe.blundo@gmail.com
@joeblundo