Washington, D.C. · June 21, 2230
The notice outside Civic Hall read: TONIGHT: DECIDE WHETHER THE PEOPLE MAY REMOVE THE MAYOR.
By supper, someone had added a second line in smaller writing: THIS IS NOT THE VOTE TO REMOVE THE MAYOR.
The smaller line had been underlined twice. The first underline belonged to the clerk. The second belonged to a resident who had brought a ruler.
Inside, the petition table stood between two groups who agreed on very little except that the table was too narrow.
One group wanted a recall mechanism written into the city charter. If enough voters signed a petition, the mayor’s continuation in office could be put to a vote. The other group wanted the charter left alone. A mayor already faced an election; they said a permanent campaign to unseat one would turn every hard decision into a countdown.
“I’m not asking you to vote him out tonight,” said the woman holding the first stack of forms. “I’m asking whether we should have a door if the room catches fire.”
A man from the other side moved his chair away from the door. “I’m asking whether every argument gets to be called a fire.”
The clerk tapped the notice. “Tonight’s question is whether to create a process. It doesn’t remove anyone. It doesn’t review a decision. It doesn’t tell the next voters what to do.”
“So we’re voting on whether we’re allowed to vote later on whether we want to vote?” asked a baker.
“Not exactly.”
“Good,” the baker said. “I was afraid it was simple.”
The proposed process had a signature threshold, a deadline, a question for the ballot, and a rule for who would hold the office if voters said no. Every line had been added because someone could imagine the line missing. Every line had been challenged because someone could imagine who might use it.
The woman with the forms wanted a way to act before four years had passed. The man with the moved chair wanted the city to finish something once before beginning the next campaign. Neither called the other foolish. This made the meeting take longer.
A clerk passed around the draft. At the bottom, beneath the signature instructions, the final box asked what people wanted recalled.
“The mayor,” said one voice.
“The mechanism,” said another. “We’re deciding whether to have it.”
“Can the mechanism be recalled?” the baker asked.
The clerk looked down at the form. “That would require a different mechanism.”
A drip from the hall’s ceiling struck the corner of the petition table. The stack slid. The man who had moved his chair caught it before the wet spot spread. The woman held the pages flat while he fetched a jar from the water station.
They set it under the leak together.
The jar filled slowly. The meeting continued around it, with each side now careful not to knock the table.
On the way out, the clerk took down the notice and replaced it with the exact question that would appear on the ballot. It was longer than the wall space. The baker held one end while the man with the chair held the other.
Nobody mistook this for agreement. The paper stayed up anyway.
The jar stayed under the leak.