The jinn appeared out of nowhere, materializing, it seemed, out of the steam from my Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. The apparition—rare, especially in the suburbs—gave me a fright, causing me to spill some of my coffee. But the sight which made my jaw drop, and a clump of half-eaten doughnut along with it, was the costume the genie was wearing. It was a stars-and-stripes ensemble right out of Uncle Sam’s wardrobe, though instead of a top hat, the genie had on a red-white-and-blue turban.
“What th—!”
“I give you tree choices!” declared the genie, in a thick Chicago accent. “You pick one, I granite to you, no charge. Choice number one—a townhouse in Naperville. Tree bedrooms, two bats widda finished basement. Choice two—two hunnerd gold coins, one ounce each, tweny-four karats.”
“Hmm,” I wondered, sipping what remained of my coffee. “The townhouse would be nice. But the assessment fee would be substantial, the property tax confiscatory, the traffic horrendous, and some of my neighbors’ attitude would be a pain. I’d be contributing to urban sprawl, global warming, class warfare, the spread of obesity, and the desensitizing effect of mega-churches.
“Gold bullion, on the other hand,” I continued, looking at my chocolate-covered fingers, “is sweet and simple. No sales tax, no transfer documents. Very liquid, yet never leaks. Hedge against inflation, for when Naperville becomes the Weimar Republic. And what’s the third choice, O—uh— Patriotic One?”
“I transport you!” cried the genie—and here a flying carpet whizzed into view, as quiet and eager as a Prius. “To Indiana,” the genie intoned, “where taxes are low, and government is well-run.”
“Oh, yes,” I exclaimed. “Take me there!”
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