The State of Notaxes
copyright © 2004
by Robert L. Blau
What a relief it was to cross the border into
the great state of Notaxes. It had been a long journey down from
Massataxes, where the only thing certain was death by taxes. At
last, Marge and little Johnny and I could breathe free again.
One of the first things I did was get the ol' SUV
registered. I was in for a bit of a shock there.
"This car is already paid for," I explained. "I just
want to register it."
"Yes, sir," said the lady. "That will be $2000."
Ok, so I had
heard her correctly the first time. I narrowed my eyes.
"This isn't a tax,
by any chance?" I asked.
"Tax?" she trilled. "Oh, heavens, no! This is
the state of Notaxes, you know. But it isn't the state of
Nofees. Vehicle registration is a fee. Those can be as
ubiquitous and outrageous as we like."
"Oh, ok," I sighed in relief. "Just so it isn't a
tax."
I guess it wasn't so exorbitant, after all.
The safety inspection was $800, so registration, proportionally, was
lower than in Massataxes.
When I got home, some workmen were just finishing
off the toll booth in my driveway.
"And just what is this
supposed to be?" I asked, quite companionably, I thought.
"Why, this is your very own, personal toll booth,"
they said. "It'll be 50 cents every time you enter or leave the
driveway. Very reasonable."
"You can't do that!" I fulminated. I have to
admit I was angry at first.
"Already have," they said. "Look, all your neighbors
have them, too. How else are we supposed to pay for all the
roads? You wouldn't suggest taxes,
would you?"
"God, no!" I cried. Well, I could see where
this was a reasonable accommodation, as long as it kept the government
from raising taxes. I even thought I had a solution for me and
the family.
"That's fine," I said. "We'll just park on the
street."
"We wouldn't suggest that," said the workmen. "Five
hundred dollar fine, first offense. Five hundred dollars plus
towing, second time. That doesn't include the fee for recovering
your car."
"Well, ok, then," I capitulated. "Just so there's no
taxes involved."
When I walked into the house, my property tax bill
was waiting for me. That could have cost me a bundle in home
repair,
because I almost hit the ceiling when I read it.
I wasted no time in getting the county tax office on
the phone. (It only took me an hour and 27 minutes to get a human
being on the line.)
"Just what is the meaning of this?" I
demanded. I seemed to be spending a lot of time trying to figure
out the meaning of things. "This is the state of Notaxes, and yet this
bill looks like a very high tax
to me!"
"Sir," said the voice, "this may be the state of Notaxes, but it is not the
county of Notaxes. We
have to pay for the education of the children of this county
somehow. Or, more commonly, for the education of the children of
some completely different county. But just think how lucky you
are to live in this tax-free state."
Well, that was true. Or maybe it wasn't.
Anyway, I went over to visit my neighbor Harley. He could always
give me a better perspective on things.
"Harley," I said, "I need a pep talk. I'm
getting depressed about all the fees and non-state taxes and
stuff. Could it be that this no taxes stuff isn't as good as it
looks?"
"Bite your tongue!" said Harley. "Hey, I've got
something to cheer you up. It's about the state Child Protective
Service. Now, everyone knows that public employees are leeches on
the body of society."
"Of course," I agreed.
"Well, a few years ago, there was a big,
across-the-board budget cut, complete with layoffs. It was part
of the annual
multi-billion-dollar-deficit-reduction-without-any-new-taxes."
Harley paused for breath. "The state employees, including CPS
employees, had to do more with less. We told them this very
clearly. And yet, they persisted in doing less with less.
Since they weren't doing their jobs, we had to punish them with another
massive budget cut. Well, we just found out that they were
screwing up royally. You know, kids dying because the case
workers were asleep at the wheel. Of course, they whine that they
don't have enough budget or people, even though we told them they had to do more with
less. Well, you can bet the governor is launching a full
investigation."
"And this is supposed to cheer me up ... why?" I
asked.
"Because at the very least, those good-for-nothings
are sure to get punished with more layoffs and budget cuts!" beamed
Harley. "That's good news for all citizens!"
"I see," I said.
"But that's not all!" continued Harley. "There's a
good chance they're going to privatize the whole operation!"
"Oh, that is
good," I admitted. "Everyone knows that business is better than
government. But can CPS actually be profitable?"
"Glad you asked!" beamed Harley. "I work for a
company that's bidding on the child protection business. We've
done a feasibility study and discovered some interesting things.
Sure, some of the population will not be profitable. That would
only be the poorest 20 or 30 per cent . Once we eliminate the
unprofitable segment, we figure we can make between 50 cents and a
dollar per kid. But listen to this! If we move the
operation to Myanmar, we can quadruple our profits!"
"Wow, that is
good!" I burbled. "Thanks for cheering me up!"
We put little Johnny in Purvis Middle School.
Good ol' PMS, as they called it. The second day of school, he
came
home with his first fundraiser. It was a Christmas wrapping paper
sale to
support school events, such as fundraisers.
"Why are they sending this home the second day of
school?" I asked.
"Because," said Johnny, "on the first day, they sent home all those
forms you had to sign."
"Oh, yes," I recalled, "those would be the ones
where I swore I read hundreds of pages of rules and understood them all
and promised you would never break any, but if you did, I understood
that you would be handed over to the Purvis Independent School District
Inquisition for Radical Attitude Readjustment."
"So, how much wrapping paper do you want to
buy? If I sell a thousand dollars worth, I get a free whistle!"
One week after we'd finished intimidating the
neighbors and relatives into buying Christmas wrapping paper in August,
Johnny came home with the next two fundraisers.
"Don't worry, Dad," he said. "I'm not even going to try to do the Physical Education
Rubber Goods fundraiser. Mr. Bipkiss begged us to concentrate on
the Band Air Freshener sale."
"In my day, we used to sell candy for the band," I remarked.
"So, are they planning to take a trip to a big band competition?"
"Not exactly."
"Oh. A bowl game?" I suggested.
"Um, instruments, actually," he said. "And sheet
music, if we do well."
Ok, that sounded a bit odd, but new state, new
school. I figured there were bound to be some peculiarities to
get used to.
A couple of weeks later, Johnny came home laughing
and excited.
"Good day at school?" I asked.
"Wow!" he gushed. "You should've seen it! Perkins knocked out
Murphy with a right hook just after 4th period. Broke his nose!"
"Fighting at school is a very serious matter," I
intoned severely. I was about to launch into my best lecture on
the matter.
"I didn't know she had it in her!"
This took some of the wind out of my sails.
"Uh, she?"
I sputtered. "Perkins is a girl?
Well, it doesn't matter, fighting is still bad. Remember those
rules we claimed we'd read? This probably broke a dozen of them."
"Ms. Perkins isn't a girl," said Johnny. "She's the
Language Arts teacher."
I was speechless for a moment.
"Do you mean to tell me that a teacher struck a student?" I gasped.
"Oh, no," replied Johnny nonchalantly.
"'Course not. Mr. Murphy is the Science teacher."
I can't remember what I said next. I don't
think it was intelligible, but Johnny apparently extracted from my
raving the question of what caused two teachers to duke it out in the
halls in front of the entire 6th grade.
"Their fundraisers were scheduled for the same
week," he explained. "Perkins accused Murphy of stealing her week, and
Murphy said Science was more important than Language Arts. That's
when Perkins decked 'im."
"And what are these fundraisers for?" I asked.
"I dunno," said Johnny. "Books, beakers, bunsen
burners..."
"Hmm," I mused. "I can see where the science guy
probably has a greater need..."
"Salaries...," Johnny continued.
"Wait a minute, wait a minute!" I spluttered. "I
just paid an exorbitant property tax that was supposed to pay for
education. I'm going to find out the meaning of this!"
There was that phrase again.
I stormed into the PMS office the very next morning.
"I demand to speak to the Principal!" I demanded of
the secretary. "Not only do you have too many fundraisers, squander my
hard-earned property tax money, and tolerate teachers fighting in the
halls, but you allow panhandlers to operate on your grounds! I
passed one on the way in!"
"I'll call him," said the secretary brightly.
I didn't know if she meant the Principal or the
panhandler. She meant both.
The Principal put down his cup and cardboard sign
and extended his hand. I could now see that the sign said, "Will
administer public schools for money. Any amount will help."
"Good morning," he said. "I'm Mr. Terwilliger, the
Principal. How can I help you?"
I was having a good deal of trouble remembering what
I was going to say. I tried the usual.
"What is the meaning of this?"
He jiggled his cup in front of me. "If you
could spare some change, it might help me explain," he suggested.
I gave him a quarter.
"What happened to all that money I paid for property
taxes?" I screamed. "Here I am in the state of Notaxes, and I have to
pay a huge property tax,
supposedly for education, and my kid brings home fundraisers every week
to pay for the most basic needs! What's going on?"
Mr. Terwilliger nodded patiently while I screamed.
"Well, first of all," he said, "you must know that
this is not the county of Notaxes. However, it is the county of
Bond Issues for Education Over My Dead Body. It is also one of
the richest counties in the
state."
"Richest," I mumbled. "Is that why you have to sell
tupperware for textbooks? And beg money on street corners?"
"Exactly," said Mr. Terwilliger. "You understand."
"Um, no, I don't."
"The rich counties have to help out the poor
counties, you see," Mr. Terwilliger explained. "It's not fair for some
counties to have so much, while others have so little. So, this
way ..."
"Yes?" I prompted.
"Everybody
is equally broke!" he finished triumphantly.
"Oh, well. That does sound perfectly insane," I
admitted.
"But," he
continued, "a solution is in the works!" He brushed his nose
knowingly with an index finger and winked.
The fundraisers continued. There was the Lip
Balm for Math fundraiser, the Hygiene Products for Geography
fundraiser, the Motor Oil for Recess fundraiser, and many others.
From time to time, I spotted Terwilliger working the various street
corners around town. But there was no hint of the "solution" he
had hinted at.
Then one day, Johnny didn't come home from
school. By the third day, Marge and I were starting to get
worried. We started calling other parents. None of their kids had come home, either.
The next day, I went back to PMS. There had
been some changes. There was a high barbed wire fence around the
school. Armed and uniformed guards manned the gates.
The guard at the front gate eyed me suspiciously as
I approached. She was a hard-bitten old battle axe.
"Uh, I would like to speak to Principal
Terwilliger," I said.
She rolled a fresh cigarette, even as its
predecessor hung from her lower lip.
"You mean the Warden?" she asked.
"The Warden?"
"Yeah. Warden Terwilliger," she offered
helpfully.
"Uh, there must be some mistake," I fumbled. "The
school ... PMS ... What happened? I want to see my
son."
"School?" sneered the guard. "This ain't no school, Bubba. This here's
the Purvis Correctional Institution for Young Felons."
"But ... but ...," I sputtered, "this was a middle school just last
week! What is the meaning of this?"
"Ok, I'll cut you a break," sighed the guard
wearily. "The lege passed, and the Guv just signed, the Neighborhood
Prisons Act. All of the schools are now correctional
institutions, and all the former so-called students have been declared
felons."
"Prisons?" I mumbled.
"Correctional institutions," she corrected. "Sounds
more respectable. Have some respect."
"Felons?" I burbled. "But ..."
"Every kid is a felon," she said. "Or will be.
Taught 'em for ten years. I know. Cheaper and easier just
to incarcerate 'em now and cut out the middle man."
"Taught them?" I marveled. I looked at her
name tag. It said "Perkins."
"Perkins?" I stammered. "You're Ms. Perkins? The one
with the right hook? The Language Arts teacher?"
"Don't call me that!" she hissed. "I ain't no
teacher. Did that for ten years, and what did it get me?
I'm a screw now. I get respect."
She smiled proudly.
"And a lot better pay," she added.
"But my kid ..." I wailed.
"And get this," said Ms. Perkins. "The correctional
institutions have been contracted out to a reputable private
company. So, no more fundraisers, and your property taxes go down."
So, the little hoodlum is doing 10 to 20 in the Big
House. God bless the state of Notaxes.