It was supposed to be secret.
We met at Dominick’s pizza, in a far corner of Brooklyn,
near Coney Island, the mayor was sitting in dark corner,
big bodyguards blocking the
light, they frisked me, checked me for a wire, patted my thighs and butt,
tickled me.
The mayor was cutting his pizza with a knife and fork, he looked uneasy.
“So who are you really?,” he asked, cocking his head, “some guy they tell me, with a farm
in upstate New York, a strange writer who does books and a blog? And dogs and donkeys?”
“Yes,” I said, “that’s me, but why am I here, why did you ask me to meet?”
He swallowed his pizza, chewed it carefully, looked around and whispered to me:
“Why does everybody hate the vintage electric cars so much?,” he asked in a soft voice.
“They are eco-friendly. They are cruelty free. We had it all figured out.
Those carriage people are a huge pain in my butt, my people told me they’d roll over.
I was told they’d be happy in their vintage cars. Why won’t they co-operate?
They told me not to visit the stables or there would be no more money,
and my kids could never get a rescue cat.”
I ordered a slice of pizza with some sparkling water. One of the bodyguards went to get it.
The subway rattled the floor of the restaurant, shook the glasses on the table.
“Mr. Mayor,” I said, “with all due respect. I will be honest with you.”
He nodded, looked relieved.
“Sir, a horse is different from a car.” He swallowed, gulped, stared back at me.
“You’re kidding me,” he said. “They never mentioned that.”
“It’s true,” I said. “Horses are animals, they are alive, like us.
They breathe, smell a bit, have big wide eyes, they are warm, they snort, they are
living things. They’ve been around since the dawn of time. Very natural.
Cars are not natural, and I will break it to you – they are not eco-friendly,
not even a little bit, they are sort of wrecking the world.”
He frowned, but his eyes were wide.
“A car is made of metal,” I said, “it needs electric power, it has vinyl
upholstery, rubber tires, it costs $160,000 just to buy one,
and it wears out after a few years. It uses up a lot of resources.”
The mayor checked his Blackberry for messages, but I could see he was listening.
He look around the restaurant nervously. “They would yell at me good if they knew I was here, “he said.
“But I have to ask you something. What does a horse cost?”
“Mr. Mayor, a horse costs $2,000, they live up to 20 years.”
We chewed for a bit.
“And I have more bad news for you,” I said.
“Give it to me,” he said, sighing. “This horse thing is a nightmare. F—— Irish,
stubborn as cement. I’m getting nasty e-mails from children as far away as Brazil.
The papers are all over me.”
Then he turned back to me, ready to listen.
“Mr. Mayor,” I said, “there is nothing more cruelty-free or eco-friendly
on the whole earth than a horse. They eat hay, not electricity.
Nobody with a heart or soul that lives wants
to ride an electric car instead of a horse, sir.”
I paused for affect.
“A horse is very different than a fake vintage electric car, sir.
I thought you should know. That’s why I came.”
The bodyguards shifted uneasily, the mayor looked restless.
There was a long pause.
“You telling me there’s no vinyl in horses? Or rubber?”
“Not a thread, sir.”
“S—,” he said, “they never mentioned that to me. Not once.”
