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Authors: Rebecca M. Hale
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nomination had sailed through with unanimous approval.
The city was still adjusting to the idea of Mayor Monty.
He was an odd choice for the caretaker position. With no previous governing experience and very little practical business knowledge to fall back on, he was ill prepared for the task of running such a large metropolis.
Beyond that, everyone thought him a bit weird.
But then, San Franciscans had grown accustomed to eccentricity from their mayors. The last man to hold the position had famously admitted to a lifelong frog phobia (following an inexplicable amphibian invasion of City Hall). Part of his psychological recovery had involved hiring a personal life coach, a slot that had been filled by the then-unknown Jackson Square art dealer Montgomery Carmichael.
It was one of the most bizarre stepping-stones into elected office that anyone could remember, even in the unorthodox history of Northern California.
Mere moments after the board of supervisors confirmed his appointment, Monty had been filmed in a wet suit and flippers, being chased out of San Francisco’s Mountain Lake by an albino alligator who had escaped from the Academy of Sciences.
With that introduction, no one knew what to expect from Monty’s brief tenure.
Even though the last two months had passed without incident, few expected the status quo to last.
But whatever shenanigans ensued, most viewed Mayor Carmichael as nothing more than a paperweight meant to hold down the position until the next round of formal voting could be held in the fall.
The Bay Area’s political pundits gave him no chance of winning that election.
Of course, this was no deterrent to Monty.
• • •
MAYOR MONTY APPROACHED each spring day with the same zeal that he had applied from the start of his mayoral term. He was a blind optimist, one of those unique individuals who managed to view every stumble and fall as a success.
There was no fence he couldn’t hurdle, no mountain he couldn’t summit. Obstacles were simply ignored or imagined away.
In Monty’s mind, he was the most popular mayor in San Francisco’s recent history and the unquestioned front-runner in the upcoming election.
He stood in front of a mirror inside the second-floor apartment above his Jackson Square art studio and gazed at his reflection with smiling approval. He held up a wrist, admiring the frog-shaped cuff link attached to his dress shirt. Then he hooked a finger around the collar of his suit jacket and casually threw it over his shoulder.
“Who’s that handsome guy?” he asked, striking a last pose.
With a tight pivot, he bounded down the stairs. The flat soles of his dress shoes slapped against the steps as he answered the question.
“Me!”
—
DESPITE HIS OVERWHELMING confidence, Monty wasn’t taking November’s upcoming election lightly. He had eight months left in office, and he planned to devote every waking moment to his campaign.
Monty had devised a number of slogans and strategies that he was fine-tuning for imminent release, but his primary election scheme was to gain public support and approval by affiliating himself with San Francisco’s upcoming sailboat regatta. It sounded like a harebrained idea, but, to be fair, in the city’s colorful history, mayors had been swept into office using far more absurd propaganda.
Later that summer, the America’s Cup would be staged in the San Francisco Bay for the first time in the championship’s history. Monty intended to plant himself front and center in every photo, video, and other publicity-related opportunity that arose.
Preparations for the event were well under way, thanks to the efforts of the last mayor, who had drummed up financial support for the necessary infrastructure along the city’s shoreline and strong-armed supervisors to ensure the venue received the requisite permits to allow construction of the related pavilions.
In other words, the political heavy lifting had already been done.
The city was still adjusting to the idea of Mayor Monty.
He was an odd choice for the caretaker position. With no previous governing experience and very little practical business knowledge to fall back on, he was ill prepared for the task of running such a large metropolis.
Beyond that, everyone thought him a bit weird.
But then, San Franciscans had grown accustomed to eccentricity from their mayors. The last man to hold the position had famously admitted to a lifelong frog phobia (following an inexplicable amphibian invasion of City Hall). Part of his psychological recovery had involved hiring a personal life coach, a slot that had been filled by the then-unknown Jackson Square art dealer Montgomery Carmichael.
It was one of the most bizarre stepping-stones into elected office that anyone could remember, even in the unorthodox history of Northern California.
Mere moments after the board of supervisors confirmed his appointment, Monty had been filmed in a wet suit and flippers, being chased out of San Francisco’s Mountain Lake by an albino alligator who had escaped from the Academy of Sciences.
With that introduction, no one knew what to expect from Monty’s brief tenure.
Even though the last two months had passed without incident, few expected the status quo to last.
But whatever shenanigans ensued, most viewed Mayor Carmichael as nothing more than a paperweight meant to hold down the position until the next round of formal voting could be held in the fall.
The Bay Area’s political pundits gave him no chance of winning that election.
Of course, this was no deterrent to Monty.
• • •
MAYOR MONTY APPROACHED each spring day with the same zeal that he had applied from the start of his mayoral term. He was a blind optimist, one of those unique individuals who managed to view every stumble and fall as a success.
There was no fence he couldn’t hurdle, no mountain he couldn’t summit. Obstacles were simply ignored or imagined away.
In Monty’s mind, he was the most popular mayor in San Francisco’s recent history and the unquestioned front-runner in the upcoming election.
He stood in front of a mirror inside the second-floor apartment above his Jackson Square art studio and gazed at his reflection with smiling approval. He held up a wrist, admiring the frog-shaped cuff link attached to his dress shirt. Then he hooked a finger around the collar of his suit jacket and casually threw it over his shoulder.
“Who’s that handsome guy?” he asked, striking a last pose.
With a tight pivot, he bounded down the stairs. The flat soles of his dress shoes slapped against the steps as he answered the question.
“Me!”
—
DESPITE HIS OVERWHELMING confidence, Monty wasn’t taking November’s upcoming election lightly. He had eight months left in office, and he planned to devote every waking moment to his campaign.
Monty had devised a number of slogans and strategies that he was fine-tuning for imminent release, but his primary election scheme was to gain public support and approval by affiliating himself with San Francisco’s upcoming sailboat regatta. It sounded like a harebrained idea, but, to be fair, in the city’s colorful history, mayors had been swept into office using far more absurd propaganda.
Later that summer, the America’s Cup would be staged in the San Francisco Bay for the first time in the championship’s history. Monty intended to plant himself front and center in every photo, video, and other publicity-related opportunity that arose.
Preparations for the event were well under way, thanks to the efforts of the last mayor, who had drummed up financial support for the necessary infrastructure along the city’s shoreline and strong-armed supervisors to ensure the venue received the requisite permits to allow construction of the related pavilions.
In other words, the political heavy lifting had already been done.
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