My wife and I decide to go to Cliff’s Pleasant View Bar, which is at the end of West 9^th Street near the Strait in Benicia. The Carquinez Bridge glows in the sunset; wispy clouds streak the peach and lemon sky. We order hamburgers and fries. The TV program "Who Wants To Be Rich" is just starting.

Philis Regbin welcomes the next guest, a young man who won the chance to play by determining that, as a percentage of income, a single mother of two, working three jobs, pays more income tax than a game-show host, who pays more than a CEO of a large corporation, who pays more than a 25-year-old software engineer with billions in stock options.

Lights flash and music surges as the camera zooms in first on the contestant, uncomfortably squirming in his seat, and then on Philis’s brilliant, white-toothed smile.

"Bill Standup, from Topeka, Kansas, state of enlightenment, is in our hot seat," Philis says, beaming. "Welcome to our show."

Bill looks straight at the camera, his eyes wide, as though he has just been caught shoplifting.

"You’re single and own your own business. You’re a—"

"I’m an estate planner," Bill says, stuttering slightly.

Philis leans back in her chair and carefully examines the back of her hand, as though she’s looking for something. "That explains how you knew my boss pays less tax than I do."

"Well, really. I don’t know anything about your—"

"And you live at home with your mother?"

Cut to a scowling elderly woman in a faded blue dress. She is emaciated. "That’s my Bill," she says. "And he better win big or there’ll be hell to pay."

Cut back to Philis, who is looking stage-left. "Yes. I see," she says, turning back to the camera, trying to recover her smile. "Perhaps we should get right to the game. You know the rules, Bill, so here it is," she says, pointing at the camera. "Let’s play Who Wants To Be Rich!" Lights flash. Music crescendos.

"For $100—Oh, this is interesting. It’s another tax question. If the inheritance tax is abolished, when the single mother dies—here we go again with this darn single mother," Philis says, looking off-stage, her mouth tightly drawn. She clears her throat. "When she dies, will her children get: A) nothing; B) $100,000 less; C) $100,000 more; D) The old Buick."

Cut to Bill and then to Philis and then back to Bill, whose forehead glistens with beads of sweat.

"I think I can safely eliminate D," Bill says. "After all, we don’t know that she even has a Buick."

"You do too know I have a Buick," Mrs. Standby says. Cut to Bill’s mother. "And you won’t even get its tires when I die." She turns to the man next to her, who leans back in fright. "I already gave him all my money when he told me that if I didn’t the government would take it when I died."

The camera cuts back to Philis. "Please, Mrs. Standby. We must have quiet."

"I haven’t eaten since yesterday." Cut to Bill’s mother, who is grabbing the arm of the man next to her.

Cut back to Philis, who is drawing her finger across her neck. She drops her hand quickly and smiles at the camera.

Cut to Bill, who is squirming. "And certainly I can eliminate answer A, because even a mother who has nothing leaves so much to her children."

A rustling sound can be heard, like people moving quickly. There’s a muffled yelp as the music gets louder. Bill turns around to look at the audience and then back at Philis. He’s smiling. He looks more confident.

"And certainly we can eliminate B," Bill says. "Why would her children get $100,000 less if the inheritance tax were repealed. So I’ll pick C. Her children will get $100,000 more."

Cut to Philis. "Is that your final?"

Cut to Bill. "Yes. C is my final answer."

Cut to Philis, who looks worried, glancing off-stage again. "How can this be?" she says, her face contorted. "No one gets the $100 question wrong!" She presses her right hand against her ear, listening intently. "What do you mean only the wealthy like me pay inheritance tax?" she says, looking again off-stage. "How dare you say she’ll pay even higher taxes because I won’t pay anything!"

Philis stands up rigidly, her fists raised. She walks briskly toward stage-left. The camera follows her—

Lights. Music. Cut to a commercial.