Sunday, December 22, 2002
Copyright © Las Vegas Review-Journal

COLUMN: Steve Sebelius

What's to-day, you ask? Why, it's Christmas Day!

"Marley was dead: to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that."

-- Charles Dickens, "A Christmas Carol"

Yes, Marley was dead, which made his recent appearances to several members of the Business Representatives Group something of a mystery. But sure enough, more than one member had seen him, clanking along the deserted halls of the Las Vegas Chamber of Commerce late one night, gird with a chain that looked as if it were made from the keys to safe deposit boxes, armored cars and bank vaults.

That's why the various members of the group had decided to meet in the board room at Wells Fargo. Dead or not, no one was getting in here.

And that was important, after all, since Marley had told them they would be haunted by three spirits. As odd as it was, it wasn't half as disturbing as the rest of his message, something about attending to the business of the common welfare, charity, mercy, forbearance and benevolence. Although they'd tried, no one could recall his precise words.

"Well, what should we do ..." began one of the gray-suited members, his voice trailing off. There, in the center of the room, stood the first Spirit. Later, they would not be able to agree on a description; some would say it was old, and the others would report it was like a child.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas past," the spirit declared, as the lights suddenly came down, and the projector sprang to life and images began appear on the screen.

"Behold your past," the Ghost said, as images taken from the now-familiar Price-Waterhouse study of Nevada's tax system flashed on the screen. "This was your opportunity!" The voice was firm.

No one spoke. On the screen, the image shifted to the Legislature's long ago-debate about a business tax, and the stalemate that ended in the so-called "head tax" compromise. Then, the sight of state mental health facilities being closed, would-be patients turned away.

"Stop it!" one of the group cried. "Show us no more." The Ghost simply shook its head, and was gone.

Some time passed, although no one spoke. Before they knew it, there was a knock at the boardroom door. Although no one rose to get it, the door opened anyway, and a man that some would later swear looked like Kenny Guinn walked in. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," said the Spirit. "Look upon me!"

"Our times are dire," he began. "Our revenues few. If we are denied what we need, how will people suffer! The children in their schools, the elderly, sick in their homes! You have it within your powers to stop all of this!" The screen once more showed pathetic little wretches without schoolbooks, and elderly people counting coins while pouring over stacks of bills. "Is this `fair and equitable'?"

One of the members of the business group cringed, to hear his own words quoted by the Spirit. The Phantom pursued: "Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like these poor children!"

And with that, the Spirit was gone.

More silence. More contemplation.

The knock came, and it was the last Ghost. It was shrouded in a black garment that concealed its face and head, and left nothing of its body visible save for one outstretched hand. The monitor sprang once more to life.

On it, terrible images flashed: A classroom with 60 students, most of whom were asleep. A low-paid teacher, trying vainly to keep order. The scene shifted to senior centers, where oldsters huddled around a fire lit in a trash can. On the streets, crime ran rampant as officers dashed about, responding to only the most dire emergencies. Cars jammed the narrow, cracking streets. Parks languished as children searched in vain for places to play. Hospitals were overcrowded with the sick.

The Spirit turned to the group, its outstretched hand now an accusation, and it melted away.

The mouths of even the hardest-hearted members of the group were agape.

"What should we do?" the first man to speak had found his voice once more.

There was no answer from his fellows.

Steve Sebelius is a Review-Journal political columnist. His column runs Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday. Reach him at 383-0283 or by e-mail at ssebelius@reviewjournal.com.