The first Tuesday in November is Election Day in Ranesville. Why they picked a Tuesday in one of the wettest months in the year has been the subject of discussion for thirty years. We are stuck with it because, if the day were changed, even less voters would remember to show up at the fire station on polling day than they do now.

Our town’s bylaws say we must elect the mayor by a simple majority of the votes. For the last seven years it’s been a race between Dom O’Riley and Chuck Smith because they are the only candidates who file. O’Riley runs a construction company in town and Smith owns half the buildings along Market Street. O’Riley has won by a small margin five times out of the last seven years. As the first red and blue “Vote for” signs appeared in front yards this year, the regular congregation in Harry’s Bar looked forward to another dull mayoral race.

“I see Dom O’Riley is running again,” said Joe as he held up the wine glass he’d just polished and squinted through it.

“Yeah,” said Henry Isaacs. He turned to Des who was sitting at her usual spot at the end of the bar. She was wearing a pink T-shirt with a picture of little, furry dogs with ribbons in their hair on it. Her black high-heels were hooked over the top rail of the barstool. “You going down to vote this year, Des?”

“’course I am”, she said with flip of her hair. “You seen the pecs on that new fireboy with the blond hair?”

There was a chorus of disgust from me and Dave Prescott and Henry as we pushed our glasses forward on the bar for a refill.

“Be nice if old Smithy won for a change,” said Dave. “Trouble is, with a name like Smith there’s not much to attract attention. O’Riley is more…”

“Colorful?” I ventured.

”Yeah, more colorful.”

There was silence for a while as we all sat looking at each other in the etched-glass mirror behind the bar.

“I’m going to vote by absentee ballot,” said Henry. “It’s been pissing down with rain every polling day for three years. I hate the rain” He spun around on his barstool to check out who was sitting at the tables behind him. Nobody. Happy hour was still two hours away.

“That’s about all the exercise you ever get,” said Des as Henry returned to his drink. “One day you’ll fall off that seat and break one of Joe’s Waterford Crystal beer mugs.”

When the laughter subsided, Joe turned from pulling another pint of ale for me and rested his hands flat on the bar. “There’s a little space for a write-in candidate on the absentee ballot”, he said quietly. “What if we was to write someone’s name in?”

“You mean split the vote and swing the election towards Smithy!” cried Dave. “It might work.”

I pulled a newspaper from the rack and turned to page three. “It says here that, at the last election, out of twelve hundred and sixty registered voters in Ranesville, only three hundred and seventy actually voted.”

“And Dom O’Riley keeps winning by a small margin,” said Dave.

“Seventeen votes last time.” I closed the paper. “Who could we get to run as a spoiler?”

Des turned broadside to the bar and stood. She was shorter standing up than sitting down. “We need someone who everybody knows but wouldn’t vote for. Someone like Igor.”

“Igor Blamey?” asked Joe. “Come on, Des. He’s not the brightest star in Ranesville. Barely makes it with that landscaping business of his. Who’d vote for him?”

“Precisely,” said Dave. “We only need about two dozen votes. We can get that many between us and our friends. I’ll twist a few arms down at the Elks. We’ve got a meeting next Monday.”

“Igor cuts the lawn for some of the girls at the hairdresser’s. They think Igor’s kinda cute,” said Des. “A few of them’ll write him in”. She fixed Henry with an eagle eye. “What about the guys at the hardware store, Henry? Most of them have been eligible to vote for a hundred years.”

“OK,” grunted Henry. “I’ll lean on ‘em. But I can’t promise.”

Igor belongs to the Ranesville Masonic Lodge so I said I’d call around and talk to the members.

Over the next three weeks we hinted and cajoled without much apparent success in getting people to write-in Igor Blamey for mayor. The campaign heated up and “Vote for Smith” and “Re-elect O’Riley” signs proliferated along the streets of Ranesville. A few hastily-written signs reading “Blamey for Mayor” showed up. The major candidates held meetings in the town hall. They sat wearing old, out-of-fashion suits and ties while waiting patiently for someone to show up and ask a question. Igor got on with cutting grass and trimming trees.

It rained on polling day and a few stalwart citizens braved the cold wind to push open the door of the fire station office and make their mark on the ballots. The bars around town filled up and Irish coffee flowed like wine.

Des, Dave, Henry and I sat in Harry’s Bar on Wednesday morning watching television for the results of local elections around the state. Ranesville, being one of the remotest towns, didn’t announce its results until noon. The coifed and orange-painted announcer picked up a sheet of paper and smiled toothily into the camera.

“And now we come to the results of the mayoral election in Ranesville.” He paused and turned to his female co-announcer. “That’s out somewhere on the coast isn’t it?” He turned his teeth back to the audience. “Charles Smith, one hundred and twenty nine. Dominic O’Riley, one hundred and seventeen…” The bar erupted in whoops of victory. The announcer continued. “Igor Blamey, one hundred and forty one.” Mr Blamey is the new mayor of Ranesville.

There was a deep silence in Harry’s Bar for, maybe, twenty seconds. Then the peals of uncontrollable laughter could be heard across the street in the police station.

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