Reno woke up on May Day to a parade of citizens who had bravely laid down their tools, their timecards, and in some cases their employment prospects to march for the dignity of labor. It is a fine old tradition, honoring work by taking the afternoon off and hollering at City Hall until it agrees to rearrange somebody else’s money.
At the head of the procession was a lady with a bullhorn and a grievance, Miss Tara Tran, who declared that the “elite” have been taking the people’s money and spending it on violence and other disagreeable hobbies. It is a serious charge, and one that always lands well, because nobody in the crowd has ever met the “elite,” though everyone is certain they are terrible company and worse accountants.
Now the City of Reno, being a modest outfit with a $24 million hole in its pocket, proposes to spend $9 million more on policing, which would make up 37% of its general fund. This figure was recited with the solemnity of scripture and the horror of a bar tab discovered too late. The protesters, being of a charitable disposition, have offered to address the problem by allocating the same funds to housing, parks, community centers, veteran services, and other worthwhile causes, all of which sound appealing when spoken through a megaphone.
It is a remarkable system. The city has too little money, so the solution is to spend it differently, preferably on everything at once.
The march included several organizations with names that sound like either reform movements or experimental jazz bands, like the Reno Sunrise Movement, CODEPINK Reno, Family Soup Mutual Aid, the Northern Nevada DSA, and the Reno Sparks Tenants Union. They proceeded down Virginia Street toward the J Resort, which is an establishment well acquainted with the mathematics of hope exceeding resources.
Along the route, there was much discussion of a recent police shooting, which the crowd insists was mishandled, under-handled, or wrongly handled altogether. These matters are grave and ought to be examined with care. But in modern customs, they are first examined with slogans, which are quicker and require no paperwork.
Several protesters lamented that the City Council does not listen to them. It is a long-standing complaint in American life, rivaled only by the Council’s own complaint that the public does not agree.
Each side attends the same meetings, speaks into the same microphones, and leaves equally convinced of the other’s moral deficiency. One speaker suggested the Council is more attentive to private developers than to citizens.
This may be true. Developers, unlike citizens, tend to arrive with blueprints, financing, and a plan to produce something that can be taxed, which gives them a certain conversational advantage.
The principal demand of the day was simple and included no increase to the police budget, and a reallocation of funds to “what the community actually needs.” The phrase is as sturdy as an anvil and just as vague, which is to say that if you ask ten citizens what the community needs, you will receive twelve answers and a fistfight.
The City, for its part, issued a statement encouraging civic participation, which is the governmental equivalent of smiling politely while checking the clock. They promised to consider all views as they prepare to make decisions that will displease at least half the town, possibly more, if they do it right.
So the march concluded, the chants faded, and the workers returned, some to their jobs, others to their principles. The budget deficit remained exactly where it was, resting comfortably like a cat that knows it will outlive every plan to remove it.
And thus ended another International Workers’ Day: a holiday devoted to labor, observed chiefly by not doing it, and by insisting, quite earnestly, that someone else should do more.
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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