Tommy and Johnny: The Election

Tommy ‘Big Nose’ McQueen had two offices. On warm afternoons, Tommy held court on the wrought iron bench outside of Peterson’s Barbershop beneath its red and white striped awning. On rainy or cold afternoons, he occupied one side of the ancient checkerboard table inside the shop across from the ever-agreeable Johnny Perkins, a postman who simply liked playing checkers.

Tommy had acquired the nickname ‘Big Nose’ by the dozens of men who stopped at the barbershop because he began every discussion with the phrase, “it doesn’t smell right.” No one knew what trade, profession, or religion Tommy practiced, or even if he was married. The man, in fact, didn't have a large nose. In their world of Peterson’s Barbershop, you didn't need the Internet or a newspaper to find out what was going on in the world – you simply asked Tommy a question, and twenty minutes later you knew what he thought was worth knowing. Rarely did Johnny Perkins question Tommy’s opinions. This Saturday, however, Johnny wasn’t going to accept what Tommy was spewing.

“What’s bothering you Tommy?” Johnny asked.

“I thought my candidate was winning. Now, hundreds of thousands of ballots show up that need to be counted. Most of these ballots seem to be for the Democrat.”

“Maybe your optimism got the better of you. You can’t call an election until all of the ballots are counted.” Johnny said.

“Something doesn’t smell right. My guy was leading in five swing states and now he might not hold his lead in any of them.”

“It appears mail-in voters favored the Democrat and people who voted in-person favored the Republican. If they’re counting the mail-in ballots last, then this makes sense.” Johnny could see that his explanation wasn’t going to soothe Tommy’s ruffled feathers. “Maybe I can give you some perspective. I have walked the same postal route for twenty-five years. I know who likes to chit-chat, and who likes their privacy. I know when people died, and I know when families are blessed with new additions. My job isn’t complicated. There are pink and red cards for Valentine’s Day, white envelopes for bills and government matters, bright-colored envelopes for birthdays and graduations, and all types of Christmas cards. The only real changes that have occurred is that most packages are delivered by FedEx and UPS nowadays, personal letters are less common, and once every two years I deliver ballots which are returned to me a day or two later.”

“What does that have to do with the election. They stole votes. It’s a conspiracy, I tell you,” Tommy proclaimed.

“You’re not listening. Elections, like people, like the postal service, are predictable. A lot of people didn’t like this President. Lots of people were looking for change.” Johnny could see he had done little to assuage Tommy’s anger. “Okay. Who did this horrendous deed?”

“It’s obvious that operatives for the Democrat Party slipped thousands, if not tens of thousands of ballots into the counting process in Georgia, Pennsylvania, Wisconsin, Michigan, Nevada, and Arizona.”

“Slipped?” Johnny asked.

“You heard me. Slipped!”

“Give me an example.”

“Do you mean to say that some precincts in Milwaukee had a one-hundred-percent return by registered voters and that in some of those precincts every single vote went for the Democrat candidate? No way do I believe that. And the state had an eighty-nine-percent voter turnout, which is twenty-three points higher than any other year and higher than almost any other state. Hell, you couldn’t get those numbers unless there were hundred-dollar bills stapled to the ballots.”

“So, now you’re saying the voters were bribed. It’s not logical.” Johnny said less than politely.

“It’s possible.”

“Anything’s possible. Who bribed them?”

“People like Bloomberg and that Lincoln Project group. They spent hundreds of millions trying to unseat the President and get their guy in. Look what was spent on the Senate races in Georgia and Kentucky.”

“So, people walked around Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Milwaukee, Detroit, Atlanta, and Las Vegas and a hundred other places and handed out money so that people would fill out their ballots a certain way. How does that account for Republican candidates winning the Senate in those two states?”

“No. The operatives filled out the portion of the ballot for the Presidential race.”

“This doesn’t make sense. You’re saying that only the Democrats did that?”

“The Republicans didn’t do that.”

“What about a state like North Carolina? Your guy is winning by seventy-five thousand votes. Did his operatives buy votes to get him over the top?”

“He didn’t need to. North Carolina almost always votes Republican.”

“So, there were no shenanigans when Wisconsin went for the Republican candidate in 2016 even though Wisconsin’s votes have leaned Democrat for decades?”

“What about the software program that uploaded thousands of votes for the President to the Democrat side? That doesn’t smell right.”

“What about it? The mistake was detected and corrected.”

“What about the reports that postdates were changed?”

“As you know, I have worked for the postal service for twenty-five years. We’re not part of some grand conspiracy. We pick up the mail and deliver it.”

“I didn’t mean you.”

“I am exactly who you are talking about. I put the letter ‘a’ in slot ‘b’. That’s ninety percent of my job. I cast my vote – like you. I cash my paycheck – like you. I watch football on Sundays – like you. And I get my haircut at Peterson’s Barbershop once every two weeks – like you. Who are these people who believe they should change the outcome of elections?”

“It's not the rank and file. It’s the election supervisors who let the fake votes slip in.”

“So, hundreds of thousands of postal workers stood by and watched as operatives inserted thousands of illegal votes into the voting system.”

“That’s right. It doesn’t smell right.”

“You know what doesn’t smell right?”

“What?” Tommy said with a tinge of anger in his voice. He expected Johnny would continue poking holes in his arguments.

Instead, Johnny calmly replied. “I pretty much know who is going to return their ballots and who isn’t. After twenty-five years of delivering and picking up the mail from the same people, I know who votes and who doesn’t. I know who goes to the voting booths and who could care less about the elections. Not everyone, but people are predictable.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that when the polls say that one candidate is going to win by seventeen points and he wins by three, we need to pay attention. When it takes states weeks to count all the ballots, we need to pay attention. When poll observers are denied access to counting rooms, we need to pay attention. When states resist recounts, we need to pay attention. And, when the television networks declare that one candidate is the President-elect when they know full well that either the incumbent needs to concede or the votes need to be certified by the states before a candidate can be declared the President-elect, then we need to pay attention.”

Tommy hesitantly asked his next question. “Then you agree with me that something doesn’t smell right?”

Johnny had resisted agreeing with Tommy for years and years. He quietly acquiesced. “Yes. Something doesn’t smell right. Now, could you please make your first move?”