We may know the results of the Mayor’s election tonight, but it’s far from certain, given the Registrar of Voters’ leisurely approach to vote counting.
You’d think the Registrar, Tim Dupuis, would be furiously counting votes as fast as he can, but when I ran into him, earlier this morning, at the Oakland Hills Tennis Club, he was relaxed. He was there to have breakfast before his doubles match with his partner, Brandon Harami, which was set to begin at 10 a.m. I asked Tim why the counting was taking so long.
“It’s complicated!” he told me. “We have to open envelopes, which can take a while, and you can get serious paper cuts. And then we have to find a pencil to record the votes, which is a problem because my staff is always stealing pencils. And sometimes the computers are down. I hate when that happens because I have to call Tech Support and they put me on hold while I’m forced to listen to elevator music.”
“Nothing you can do about that,” I sympathized.
“Exactly. So I wish my critics would STFU.”
A prim young woman came over to Tim’s table and whispered something in his ear.
“Oh really?” Tim frowned, then said to me, “I just learned my origami sensei has canceled my afternoon appointment. Bummer. I was just learning how to make tulips.”
“You would have had time to study origami today instead of counting ballots?” I asked.
“Oh, I have minions for counting. I’m the Registrar. I don’t bother myself with such trivial pursuits.”
He pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. It beeped a few times, and then I heard a scratchy voice come out. “Sheng? This is Tim. Can you do me a favor and see if you can schedule me a haircut today from Mr. Warshaw? My origami is cancelled so I should be free between three and four. Thanks, sweetie.” Dupuis tussled his hair. “It’s so hard to keep it neat when you’re as busy as I am.”
“To tell the truth, and I say this respectfully, you don’t seem very busy,” I told him.
“Oh, but appearances can be deceiving. You wouldn’t believe how busy I am in my mind.”
I told him that I’d heard there might be a public furor if, by tonight, he still hadn’t determined the winner. Dupuis leaned across the table, cupped his mouth with his hand, and whispered, in a conspiratorial voice, “Look, between you, me and the fern, it doesn’t really make a tinker’s difference who gets elected. Tweedledum and Tweedledee. All the same, if you ask me.”
“That’s a very cynical attitude for a Registrar of Voters to have.”
“Well, when you’ve worked as long as I have in politics, you tend to get a little cynical. Remember, I was Registrar in the first Dellums administration. And after that I worked for Desley Brooks.”
“That explains a lot,” I smiled.
“Anyway, I do intend to announce the results tonight at 8 p.m.”
“Do you know now who won?”
“I do,” he grinned, “but I can’t tell you.”
“You mean you can’t, or you won’t?”
“It would be against the law.”
“Can you give me a hint?”
“Well, let’s put it this way,” Tim said. “Nerol Rolyat.”
“Excuse me?” I said. Was he speaking in a foreign language?
“Nerol Rolyat,” he repeated. Then: “You’ll have to excuse me now. I’m later for my doubles match with Brandon.” And, grabbing a half-eaten croissant, Registar of Voters Tim Dupuis stood, dusted his lips with his napkin, and left the dining room, leaving me puzzed. “Nerol Rolyat”?? What could it mean?
Steve Heimoff