A story by Ron Harper, Jr., Editor of 5thEstate.com, with apologies to Charles Dickens. Reproduced with permission.
The icy wind blew across Lemon Street. The Mayor reflected on the argument he had with someone about the hotel tax.
“It’s not fair to take money from a businessman’s customers and use it to support that business’s competitor!,” the Mayor retorted, “Don’t be so short-sighted, every hotel will benefit with all the business that the convention center will bring. And besides, the city needs help.”
The Mayor put on his nightshirt and crawled into bed. His last thoughts were of how angry he was at the hoteliers for fighting the convention center. He drifted off to sleep with his wife by his side and his faithful dog at the foot of the bed.
“Mayor! Mayor! Arise!” The Mayor was startled by the large, white- robed figure standing by the door.
The Mayor reached for his loaded Walther PPK .380 in the nightstand. “Take one step and you’re a dead man!,” the Mayor threatened, “I can have 10 cruisers down here in a matter of minutes.”
“Ha-ha,” laughed the ghostly figure, “Bullets and cops only work on living people!”
The Mayor asked nervously, “Who are you?”
“I am the ghost of Christmas Past,” answered the white-haired, full-bearded figure.
“Why are you here?,” challenged the Mayor as he put the safety back on the PPK.
“Touch my robe and come with me.”
The ghost of Christmas Past and the Mayor flew through the window and into the night air. The snow was falling as they flew toward the center of town.
The Christmas lights lined the stores and the streets and hundreds and hundreds of people walked in and around the shops. The sidewalk was so crowded that some men stepped into the street to let the ladies pass.
The Mayor responded excitedly, “This is the Lancaster of my boyhood! Look at the hustle and bustle!”
“Yes, it’s 1952,” said the ghost of Christmas Past, “But the city has changed. Park City and the outlets has taken all typical shopping to the suburbs.”
“It will never be the same—downtown can’t compete with the suburbs,” said the ghost, “Instead of trying to compete—they need to differentiate.”
“But how?,” asked the Mayor.
“Pay attention,” said the ghost.
The ghost and the Mayor flew back to Lemon Street.
As the ghost of Christmas Past disappeared, a new ghost came into view. “Hello Mayor!,” said the new apparition, “I am the ghost of Christmas Present.”
“Oh boy,” said the Mayor sarcastically, “where are we going?”
“Take hold of my sleeve,” said the ghost.
The Mayor soon found himself on Green Street.
“Honey,” said a black woman to her little girl, “You need to keep your head down in case a bullet comes through the window.”
“But mommy, why are those men shooting guns?,” asked the girl.
“Wait a minute,” said the Mayor, “We are increasing neighborhood policing and trying to solve the crime problem. When the convention center gets going, the city will be turned around.”
“Will it?,” asked the ghost, “Let’s go.”
Soon the Mayor found himself hovering over a large, empty building.
“Where are we?,” asked the Mayor.
“We’re in Orange County, California,” said the ghost of Christmas Present, “and this is their convention center.”
“Has it helped revitalize the area?,” asked the Mayor who was not sure where all of this was going.
“Actually, they are having trouble getting people to come here. Even though they have John Wayne airport, taxis and all the infrastructure, this great big building sits empty most of the time—just like all convention centers. Still, the convention center has drained millions and millions and millions of dollars without giving a return,” said the ghost. “Let’s go!”
The Mayor and the ghost soon found themselves in the back of a college classroom.
“Convention center demand is down all over the country, but there are dozens of cities building a convention center to compete for fewer and fewer customers,” said the professor. The “Prof” was articulating reasons and facts why convention centers end up raising taxes and having no benefit to the surrounding neighborhood.
The Mayor was not happy. “Who does this guy think he is? What makes him think he knows so much?”
“Well,” said the ghost, “his name is Dr. Heywood Sanders and here at the University of Texas he has studied convention centers all over United States. He is the foremost expert on the subject. He hasn’t found one example where a convention center has lived up to its expected results. In fact, even the Pricewaterhouse Coopers expert that you relied on for going ahead with Lancaster’s convention center has their doubts. They were recently quoted in a trade magazine saying that the lack of business coupled with the increasing amount of competing centers ‘will be a real problem for second-tier cities.’ That means your city, Mayor, will have a real problem. Let’s go.”
The Mayor found himself back in his Lemon Street bedroom. Suddenly, another large, bearded and robed figure appeared.
“Mayor! Mayor! Come with me!,” said the new ghost. “I am the ghost of Christmas Future!”
“Oh, boy,” said the Mayor, this time with real sincerity, “Can we see how the convention center is doing?”
“We will, Mayor. We will.” Responded the ghost.
The Mayor found himself on the corner of Vine and Queen.“Wha..Whaa What has happened here?,” stammered the Mayor. “Why are all the windows boarded up?”
“Its 2032. The Thaddeus Stevens Convention Center has failed miserably,” said the ghost. “The hotel has gone bankrupt four times and they never did pay back any of the loans. Worst yet, county taxpayer’s had to bail the convention center out so it wouldn’t hurt the county’s bond rating.”
“I can’t believe this!,” said the Mayor. “Didn’t the surrounding neighborhoods get better?”
“To the contrary,” said the Christmas Future. “They got increasingly worse. At one point the governor had to call up the Pennsylvania Guard to quell a riot.”
“Wha…what are the leaders doing about this?,” pleaded the Mayor.
“Senator Armstrong is asking the state to come to the rescue,” answered the ghost.
“Armstrong—is that Gib’s boy?,” asked the Mayor.
“No,” smiled the ghost. “It’s Senator Courtney Armstrong. That’s Senator Gib Armstrong’s granddaughter. She’s really doing a great job. But you know what?”
“What?,” said the Mayor.
“She says the convention center idea was short-sighted and lacked vision. She says that civic leaders should have come up with a solution that was creative rather than copying what dozens and dozens of other communities were doing.”
The Mayor hung his head as the ghost transported him backed to Lemon Street.
“Does it have to turn out this way?”
“Well Senator Courtney is well loved,” answered the ghost.
“No, no… I mean the convention center!,” answered the Mayor.
“Well,” said the ghost of Christmas Future, “It up to you. You can continue to support a project that will make a few people—in the short term—wealthier, but—in the long term—will not help the city at all. In fact, the project will cost the county taxpayers millions of dollars. Or…”
“OR WHAT?!,” yelled the Mayor.
The ghost was grim. “Or you can come up with a really creative solution. One that takes into account the city’s changing face and helps dozens of businesses get started. It’s really up to you.”
The ghost disappeared. Just then, the Mayor’s wife stirred. “What are you doing?,” she asked.
“Just going to take the dog for a walk. I gotta lay off that egg nog,” said the Mayor.
