“We need more revenue to build more affordable housing,” Lee told her campaign managers. Her chief-of-staff, Eric Duong, said, “Yes, but where will the money come from?”
“Easy,” said Carroll Fife, who is Lee’s special liaison to the City Council. “We’ll get the money where we always get it: from people who have it.”
“I don’t understand,” Lee said, looking for a maple syrup donut. “You mean bankers?”
“No, you moron,” Fife said, then, correcting herself: “I mean, Madame Future Mayor. In Oakland we don’t get money from bankers.”
“Oh. That’s how we do it in Washington, D.C.” Lee murmured.
“Welcome to Oakland,” said Lee’s new finance director, Brandon Harami. “But here, we do it the old-fashioned way.”
“Let me guess,” Lee said. “We print it ourselves in the basement.“
“No, ma’am. We tax. And tax. And tax.”
“Who do we tax?” Lee asked, genuinely bewildered.
Duong, Fife, Harami: “THE PEOPLE.”
Lee smacks herself sideways on the head.
“Careful, Madame Future Mayor, you’ll give yourself a stroke!” warned Harami.
“I should have known that. The people! Of course! They always have the money!” Lee smiled widely when she realized that there would always be a gigantic source of free money for her to spend after she’s elected.
“Just a minute,” interrupted Jestin Johnson, the Oakland City Administrator. “May I remind everybody that the people of Oakland are being taxed to death already. They can’t afford higher taxes.”
“Oh, don’t be such a drama queen,” hissed Fife. “They can afford whatever we tell them to. Don’t forget, sweetie, we’re the government.”
“That may be true,” Johnson mused. “But we have a responsibility to treat the taxpayers fairly. Between sales taxes, business taxes, parcel taxes, transfer taxes and all the rest—not to mention the general inflation and the collapse of their retirement accounts—people are poorer than they’ve ever been. I think they need a break.”
“Tell you what,” observed Duong. “Let’s call in a neutral third party. Someone fair and impartial. Then we’ll ask him—”
“—Or her,” interjected Rebecca Kaplan, who had been sitting quietly on the sidelines, reading “Cricket for Beginners.”
“Or her,” agreed Duong. “Might I suggest Loren Taylor?”
“Who?” asked Lee.
“Former City Council member Loren Taylor, Madame Future Mayor. Your opponent in the upcoming election.”
“What election?” Lee asked. “I thought I was already mayor.”
“To be honest, no, you haven’t been elected yet,” said Nikki Bas, representing the Board of Supervisors. “The election isn’t for another week.”
“But I thought getting elected was just a formality,” Lee protested. “They told me that when SEIU backed me, there wasn’t a need for an election.”
“Well, technically there still is,” observed Duong.
“Are you saying I could lose?” Lee asked, indignantly.
All: “No, no, no.” “You’re going to win!” Harami assured his boss. “No doubt about it,” Fife cooed. “Totally!” echoed Kaplan, through her N95 mask.
“I sure hope so,” Lee said, “because if I don’t, y’all are up the creek. You’ll be unemployed. Brandon, honey, will you get me my Tums.”
At that moment, Loren Taylor bounded into the room, balancing a cup of coffee in one hand and his most recent homelessness plan in the other. “Hi everyone,” he said cheerily, “I understand you need my help.”
All: “If Her Future Mayoral Majesty loses the election, will we still have jobs?” they asked.
Taylor: “Of course. There’s plenty of money. We’ll just raise taxes to pay your salaries and benefits. Of course, we’ll do it in an equitable way.”
“Just one minute!” a new voice chimed in. It was Sheng Thao, Lee’s advisor on how to be hated. “What do you mean by ‘equitable’?”
“Well,” said Taylor, “we’ll make sure that everybody has to pay the same amount of tax.”
“That’s not equitable!” Fife screamed. “You can’t make Black people pay as much as White people. White people have to pay a lot more!”
“Why?” asked Lee.
“God, Barbara, haven’t you learned anything after 67 years in Congress?” asked Thao.
“Structural racism,” Fife said. Harami and Duong shook their heads in agreement. At that point, Thao’s pit bull, Seneca, started to howl.
“Can you please keep your dog under control?” Fife asked Thao. “I’m afraid he’ll bite me.”
“You don’t like my puppy Seneca?” Thao asked.
“A 120-pound pit bull is not a puppy,” Fife replied.
At that moment Seneca leaped up and grabbed Fife’s throat. A general melée ensued. The meeting dissolved into chaos when the door burst open and six men in camo gear rushed in.
“FBI! You’re all under arrest!”
“Lord help us,” Lee cried. “Someone call John Burris!
Steve Heimoff