Noble

a West Wing Tax Shelter

by Speranza

Josh sat up. "You thought of something?"

"No." Sam jerked away from the doorframe. "No, I didn't, I'm sorry."

Josh got up and came around the desk. "Yeah, you did; you totally did."

"No. No, really, I—"

"You thought of something, I can see it on your face. Plus it's a mean thing."

"It's not a mean thing," Sam protested.

"Yeah, it is."

Sam crossed his arms and looked away, as if he were posing for the cover of his biography, Sam Seaborn and the Redemption of The American Political System. "I don't have mean ideas—"

"Yeah, you do."

"—you have mean ideas. I have noble ideas."

"And by noble you would mean...?"

"Nothing," Sam said slowly. "Just. I was thinking about taxes."

"What about taxes?"

Sam put on his glasses. "Cutting them."

"We can't cut taxes."

"I know we can't cut taxes."

"So you're thinking about how we can't cut taxes?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "And I think we ought to take more of a public position on that."

Josh tilted his head sideways. "Okay, so maybe you didn't get the memo on this, but—traditionally, Republicans cut taxes. We raise them. It's kind of a sore spot, actually."

"Which is why we should publicly deny that we're considering a tax cut." Sam ripped his glasses off and pointed the earpiece at an imaginary reporter. "Yes. Allen?" It was actually a fairly creditable impression of C.J. "No, I have no reason to believe that the President is considering a tax cut. No, as far as I know, it's not on the table. There's no way we could cut taxes and still support this magnificent list of programs. List of magnificent programs," Sam amended, pocketing his glasses. "It's the programs that are magnificent, not the list. Never mind. I'll work on it."

"The magnificence isn't the problem! The problem is—wait, tell me the mean part."

Sam looked surprised. "It's all the mean part."

"Yeah, to me!" Josh yelled, nearly jumping up and down, "like to my health and my ability to sleep, like ever again—"

"Is there a tax cut on the table?" Sam demanded.

"No! There's no—"

"Sure there is, there is now, because the White House is denying it." The faraway look was back. "So we get to look like we're considering tax cuts while we're actually selling our agenda to the American public."

Josh jammed his hands into his pockets and sighed. "''Yet again,'" he chanted, "'a liberal Democratic White House is refusing to cut taxes while spending our hard-earned dollars on unnecessary programs—'"

"Magnificent. You meant magnificent programs."

"I meant—"

"Because they are. That money goes to help people. That money feeds poor children, hires teachers and policemen—it's the same money, it's money for programs that people want. Tax money is program money, it's the same money. And we do great things with it. We do what the American people asked us to do with it."

Josh scratched his head. "That's pretty noble."

"Well, not really." Sam stepped closer and lowered his voice. "The Republicans won't challenge us to cut taxes if they think we might actually do it. That's their one issue." He smiled a little and added, softly: "I got the memo, Josh. In fact, I wrote the memo."

"You want to co-opt the issue," Josh mused.

"Yeah. They'll be apoplectic." Sam's eyes glinted. "They won't know which way to—"

Josh grabbed Sam's face and pulled until they were nose to nose. "I love you when you're mean."

"Noble."

"Whatever. Let's pitch it to Leo."

(597 words)

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