I bang my finger against the wet newspaper. "Lookit this! 70% of the 2.2
billion dollars Bush is asking for is going for jails. *Jails*, Harriet.
Like that's really going to help poor, underprivileged addicts. 'War on
drugs', ha! It's more like war on poor black teenagers from the
She rolls her eyes, and I pace, shaking the water out of my hair with the hand that isn't still clutching the paper. I wonder, and not for the first time, how she can be so calm about things like this. Her political sensibilities must not be as astute as mine. If she really cared, she'd be outraged.
"This is the same President who wants to lower the capital gains tax and who used to be the head of the CIA, remember. And have you heard he's got two sons who want to follow in his footsteps? One of 'em's in Florida state politics, but he's going to be governor someday, and the other one's a Texas oil baron who ran for Congress. Goddess save us all."
"'Fess up, okay?" she challenges. "This isn't really about President Bush. You're still upset about having to walk home in the rain."
"Well, if this country has so much money that we can stop taxing the earnings of self-made millionaires, maybe we can spend some of it on government-sponsored cabs that actually stop when you try to flag them down," I mutter.
"Read my lips," she says dryly. "No new taxis."