The back story on this tale can be found below. And now, the story.
It all came down to little pieces of paper. If someone poked a card in a certain way, this little rectangle would sort of hang there. What's worse, if that little rectangle flips the wrong way in a machine, it doesn't count. Frankly, no one usually cares about those little discrepancies. This year it's different. Every little punch card counted.
Each hole represents a vote, either for one guy or another. She became responsible for deciding what punches were made that a machine could not recognize. It was simple, really. If the paper rectangle was pushed out at one or more of the ends, someone poked the marker through but didn't finish the job. Obviously, they should be counted. She was glad to make sure that these votes were counted.
Everyone had an opinion, though. One side, her side she would admit if pressed, asked for this count. The other side did all they could to prevent it, even deciding not to bother counting in places that would probably help them.
Her side was just smarter. It was a matter of playing the odds. If 70% of the counted votes went to someone, then 70% of the uncounted ones would too. It might not seem fair to count some and not others, but each side had the chance to ask.
Now the battle had taken a new dimension, literally. She wanted to count cards only dented in certain areas, where no kind of puncture had been made at all. She saw it as only fair. It wasn't that hard to tell if it were marked in that way. The added benefit was that it could overturn the predicted winner. "Wouldn't that be something," she thought. "My decision could make the difference."
The weight of that responsibility might have kept her awake had the day not worn her out so thoroughly. She went to sleep that night with confidence and a clear conscience.
She awoke in confusion. She got up to find herself in a white room with a half dozen entranceways.
A voice echoed into the room. "Ah, you're awake."
Startled, the woman looked around, finding no one. With a trembling voice, she asked, "Who are you? Where are you? Where am I?"
"You can call me Chad," the male voice said. In her state, the woman did not remember the other meaning of that name. "As for where you are, it's a kind of maze. Each door leads somewhere, another room, more doors, maybe the exit. If you can find your way out, you're welcome to leave."
The woman tried all the doors first. One swung open normally. Another seemed to open like a pet door, with hinges at the top. It took an effort, but she could push it open and squeeze through. One door was supported in a single corner, but could still be moved enough to get through. Another entrance had not so much a door as a flap. It was completely immovable with the exception of one corner, allowing her to get through.
One path was completely uncovered. It was just an archway where she could pass through. The last door wasn't a door at all. It wasn't anything. It looked sort of like a metal door that was dented throughout its entire surface area. It wouldn't give at all. It was basically a dented wall. She didn't care, there were a number of ways to search.
She approached it logically. The first way led to another room of "doors." She tried the first door there. It led to another door, then another, then a wall, one of those dented doors that wouldn't open. She backtracked to the other room.
Soon, she found a pattern. One door led to another, then another, then another and eventually a dented door. She had backtracked to the first room so many times now that she only had one real door left. She made her way to what seemed like the millionth dead end dented door. She finally spoke. "You said these doors led somewhere. What is this?" She pounded on the door shaped barrier, somehow knowing he would see her actions.
"It's a door," he said.
"No it isn't," she cried. "It won't move!"
"Sure it is. It's a rectangular slab, there's an archway. What more do you want?"
"It's stuck. I can't go anywhere."
"Oh, that," Chad said matter-of-factly. "That's because it's hinged on all sides."
"Then it's not a door, dammit!"
"Hey, I didn't hear you complain about those other doors. I mean those flap ones are hardly doors at all. And there's no 'door' on those archways. You're pretty picky."
The woman made an exasperated sound and continued back. Soon she found herself at the last barrier. "You lied! There's no way out!"
"Yes, there is. Can I help it if you don't like those dented doors."
"They're not doors!"
"Oh, come on," he said. "They're the same as the others. Some are fastened in one place, others in two, some in three. This one is fastened in four places."
"It's not the same!" She started to scream hysterically. "It's not the same, it's not the same," she said over and over, finally breaking into sobs and slumping against the door fastened on four sides.
She woke up then, tears streaming down her face.
Chad sat watching the television. The reporter was excitedly talking about the breaking news. "In a surprising reversal, the chair of the canvassing board decided not to allow counting of the so-called 'dimpled chads.' These, of course, are ballots fastened on all four sides yet bearing an indentation. This will likely seal the victory for candidate..." He switched off the TV.
A man wearing a suit spoke to Chad in a southern accent that was much less pronounced than when he spoke in public. "Good work, son," he affirmed.
The man who would not be calling himself Chad for much longer replied. "Of course. But you guys know that there's no way you'll win the next election."
"We'll worry about that later," the southerner said. "Besides, I'll
still have your number in four years."
Comments? e-mail
me
Title: Dimpled Chad
Pitch: A ballot is a ballot is a ballot. Or is
it?
Story behind the story: A friend wanted to see some of my political
satire. One night, I came up with this very Twilight Zone idea, chads as
doors. You can only find the story here, as it isn't quite long enough
for the EMCSA.