Three Conservatives Walk Into A Bar

At Claremont’s Crow Bar, Spencer, Nock, and Goldwater trade Socratic questions with Lola—and leave a seven-point plan.

Smoke curled at the threshold of the Crow Bar on Opera House Square as if some backstage machine had misfired. The manager, who had seen his share of theater across the street, merely grinned and held the door. Out of the gray stepped three men in incongruous suits: one with a Victorian beard and a walking stick, one with the stoic face of a mid-century essayist, and one with the grin of a sun-belt senator. He greeted them as if they were regulars who had only been away a century or so, then led them past the worn brick and warm wood to a carved mahogany table surrounded by deep, forgiving chairs.

Herbert Spencer set his hand along the table’s edge, feeling the polish. “How commendably club-like,” he said, voice crisp as folded linen. “The appointments would not dishonor Pall Mall.”

Albert Jay Nock swept his eyes across the room, attentive to the human weather of after-work conversations. Barry Goldwater tilted his head toward the tall windows as if about to comment on light and air, then thought better of it and sat.

A waitress approached with a practiced balance of menus, water, and a pencil. “I’m Lola,” she said. “Welcome to CrowBar Hardware. Questions before you get settled?”

Her name tag said the same thing, with a small sticker of a cartoon chick beside it. She was twenty-five, with the alertness of someone who knew exactly how many tables could be kept spinning before one plate fell. A three-year-old’s crayon scrawl peeked from her order pad’s back page. She set the menus down and waited, unhurried.

“Questions?” Spencer said, smiling. “That seems a most propitious beginning.”

“We came for good talk as well as good whiskey,” Goldwater added. “So yes, may we start with yours?”

Lola glanced toward the bar, then back. “I’ve got plenty. I’m new off SNAP, food stamps, but we’ve been okay since I started here, and my boyfriend’s hours picked up. Still, the district’s talking about deficits again, and everybody says test scores are ugly. They’re also saying SNAP might get suspended. This town, around 15% of folks rely on it, depending on how you count.ƒ And I’ve got a daughter who will hit kindergarten before I’ve paid off my tires. I want better for her than I had. So… questions? I’ve got them. Answers, not so much.”

The manager reappeared with a nod that said conversation was part of the house service. Lola stayed.

“Let us keep the old scaffolding,” Nock said mildly. “Three walk into a bar. The punchline had better be useful.”

Spencer cocked his head. “What, precisely, is a ‘district deficit’ in your town’s case?”

“Gap between what the school district planned to spend and what it has,” Lola said. “Costs up, revenues not enough. They spend the year patching holes. Everyone points fingers. It comes back on property taxes or cuts. Depends on which meeting you attend.” She paused. “I’m not a policy person. But I can read numbers. They’re not good. The last report said a shortfall of $5 million.”

“Property taxes are the lever?” Goldwater asked.

“Yeah. Landlords pass it along. Or they don’t and sell. Then rent jumps anyway.”

Goldwater drummed the table with two fingers. “Let me guess, you still haven’t abolished the Federal Department of Education.”

Lola blinked, then laughed despite herself. “That’s not how the meetings go, no.”

Sidebar: Barry Goldwater
Barry Goldwater (1909–1998), Arizona senator and godfather of modern small-government conservatism, argued that healthy self-government relies on decisions being made closest to the people affected. He prized federalism, dividing power between national and local governments, and what he’d call subsidiarity: decisions taken at the lowest competent level, where knowledge is freshest and accountability is sharpest. Bureaucracies, he warned, grow like ivy on old brick, shading out sunlight. For Lola, Goldwater’s lens matters because school finance and control sit at a junction of federal rules, state formulas, and local budgets, precisely the kind of tangle where distant incentives and nearby realities collide.

“So you’d shrink D.C. to fix my daughter’s classroom?” Lola asked.

“I’d start by asking who actually knows your daughter’s name,” Goldwater said. “Is it the person drafting a federal regulation, or your principal, or you? If the answer is you and the school down the street, arrange authority and money so the people who know things can do things.”

“Authority and money,” Lola said. “They travel together.”

“Who pays, decides,” Goldwater replied. “If you want local accountability, you need local discretion, and a chance for families to choose. Competition is not a cure-all, but it is a disinfectant.”

“Define ‘choose’ without the brochure,” Lola said.

“Education savings accounts, ESAs, are one way,” Goldwater said. “That’s a tool where a portion of public education funds is deposited in an account that parents control for eligible education expenses, tuition, tutoring, microschools, and special-needs services. The point is not to punish a district but to make funding follow the student, not the system. Then districts must persuade, not compel.”

Lola made a small note: persuade, not compel.

Spencer leaned in. “On compulsion, allow me a definition. The law of equal freedom means each person is free to do whatever they will, so long as they do not infringe the equal freedom of others. Compulsive monopolies, whether for letters, bread, or schools, are suspect because they crowd out voluntary cooperation and learning by experiment.”

Sidebar: Herbert Spencer
Herbert Spencer (1820–1903) was a Victorian thinker who argued that social progress emerges from voluntary cooperation rather than centralized compulsion. He coined the “law of equal freedom” and warned that state monopolies, especially when joined to favored industries, freeze innovation and dull responsibility. Spencer is relevant to Lola because her town’s challenges hinge on whether education and aid are structured as one-size-fits-all systems or as plural arrangements that allow families, associations, and enterprises to adapt. His constant refrain: let improvement grow from the bottom up, and keep money honest so policy gimmicks don’t quietly tax wages.

Lola tapped her pencil. “Voluntary is nice on a poster, but kids show up daily. Teachers need plans; buses need gas.”

“Certainly,” Spencer said. “The question is whether one apparatus must do everything. When many schools and associations are allowed, charters, microschools, mutual-aid tutoring, small errors remain small, and good practices spread. That is plural provision. The alternative is a single apparatus making large, slow errors.”

Nock raised an eyebrow. “Before we turn the bar into a school-board forum, Lola, you mentioned SNAP and neighbors. What precisely worries you?”

“The rumor mill says benefits might pause or shrink,” she said. “When they do, I’ll be okay, we budget hard now, but some families aren’t. You can hear it in line at Price Chopper: ‘If they cut it, I’ll skip meals before the kids do.’ Our town’s reliance is about 15% of residents receiving SNAP at some point in a year. Even a short suspension ripples.”

Sidebar: Albert Jay Nock
Albert Jay Nock (1870–1945) was an American essayist who thought the state is very good at centralizing power and very bad at forming character. He coined “the Remnant” to refer to the minority who preserve and transmit the best ideas, crafts, and virtues through hard times. He emphasized civil society, churches, clubs, and voluntary associations as the real school of responsibility and help. For Lola, Nock’s relevance is a sober caution: policies can relieve symptoms but cannot manufacture the habits that make communities resilient. Parallel institutions, built by neighbors, are often sturdier than politics precisely because they ask for participation, not merely compliance.

“What does your ‘Remnant’ have to do with groceries?” Lola asked.

“The Remnant,” Nock said, “is my name for those in every generation who keep living knowledge alive, the people who mentor, repair, teach, console. Even the best policy cannot supply that fabric. You can design smoother benefit delivery; you cannot legislate neighborliness. When assistance must tighten, the Remnant fills gaps, pantries, shared meals, emergency childcare, skill-shares, because they answer to a face, not a file. If you want resilience, nourish those parallel institutions before the crisis arrives.”

“I like the sound of strong neighbors,” Lola said, “but I’ve also watched how a missed paycheck becomes a missed rent, becomes a move, becomes a new school, becomes another slide in reading. People need stability.”

“Here I will steelman the opposite view,” Nock said. “There is a case for policies that reduce volatility, predictable rules, transparent appeals, and quicker eligibility checks. A smoother machine can reduce collateral misery. But machines, even well-oiled, cannot raise children or teach thrift. For that, you need people you can disappoint and who will forgive you anyway.”

Spencer set down his glass. “This brings us to wages. What is happening to real pay here?”

“Feels flat,” Lola said. “The prices know how to climb stairs two at a time; my paycheck takes the elevator and stops at every floor.”

Spencer’s smile tightened. “I guess you’re still letting the State and its friends control money?”

Lola frowned. “What do you mean, exactly? Define it plainly.”

“Sound money means a currency that holds its purchasing power over time, resisting political manipulation,” Spencer said. “When money is managed for convenience, by the state allied with privileged banking, it does what you just described: quietly taxes wage-earners by reducing the worth of their pay. Some variance is unavoidable in a complex economy, but the pattern of depreciation is a policy choice. Prices have their reasons; money should not be a trick.”

“Sounds above my pay grade,” she said, “but I can spot the trick at the gas pump.”

“The trick,” Goldwater said, “feeds bureaucracy as well as deficits. When dollars slide, budgets bloat, and the chase begins.”

Lola nodded, then returned to the first problem. “So, schools. If it’s not one machine, what is it in Claremont? We have the district we have. The district deficit, the gap between appropriations and actual costs, doesn’t care about theory. It wants a check.”

“Transparency first,” Goldwater said. “Make every line visible and legible, vendor contracts, staffing ratios, benefit obligations. Sunshine is not punishment; it is a map. Then ask: which decisions can be moved to a level where knowledge is fresher? That is subsidiarity, the principle that decisions should be made at the lowest competent level. School leaders close to classrooms usually spend better than committees far away.”

“Unions and bureaucracy?” Lola asked, voice careful.

“Bargaining is part of American life,” Goldwater said. “But when rules ossify, they choke. I favor negotiation that honors good teachers while leaving room for new arrangements, career ladders, differentiated pay, and partnerships with outside providers. Let money follow students to programs that work. If the district is good, it will keep them because it deserves them.”

“Some families can’t shop for schools,” Lola said. “Car is dying. Shifts change weekly. I don’t want the best options to belong to the family with the newest Subaru.”

“A fair worry,” Nock said. “A generous pluralism must not become a gated community. That is where the Remnant’s sense of honor is tested: scholarships, carpools, neighborhood pods so that access is not priced by commute.”

“Pods?” she asked.

“Small, local tutoring pods run by trusted adults,” Nock said. “Not to replace school necessarily, but to shore it. If reading proficiency has sagged to less than 30% you cannot wait for the next strategic plan.”

Her pencil moved again. “We’re told the scores reflect poverty and trauma, not teaching.”

Spencer leaned back. “Poverty and trauma are real; so is the knowledge of letters. Beware theories that treat learning as a by-product of income. Teaching reading is a craft with known methods, measurable progress, and daily habits. A compassionate society must relieve distress and refuse the soft bigotry of low expectations.”

Lola met his eyes for a beat longer than politeness required. “You’d get in trouble saying that at certain meetings.”

“I have been getting in trouble since 1850,” Spencer said dryly. “Practice has improved my manners, not my convictions.”

The manager drifted by; the table had turned from inquiry to planning. Outside, tail-lights traced red on the square.

“Let’s make this concrete,” Goldwater said. “You want your daughter to read well, live in a town that doesn’t price you out, and belong to a neighborhood that won’t leave you alone when trouble knocks. That means action in layers.”

“Layers?” Lola said.

“Household, neighborhood, school, city, state,” Goldwater said, ticking them like bar tabs. “You do what you can at the smallest layer, and you only push up when you must. Otherwise, you breed dependence on distant miracles.”

“Okay,” she said. “Make me a bar-napkin plan.”

“First, a gloss of terms so my friends don’t accuse me of sermonizing,” Spencer said, smiling. “Subsidiarity: decide at the lowest competent level. ESAs: accounts that let families steer a portion of public funds to education expenses. District deficit: the shortfall between budgeted spending and revenue actually available. Sound money: currency that resists political debasement. The Remnant: the minority who keep the lamp of civilization lit when fashion says otherwise. Law of equal freedom: freedom bounded only by equal freedom for others. If we keep those in view, we will not get lost.”

“Keep going,” Lola said.

“On the district budget,” Goldwater said, “push for a line-item dashboard: salaries, benefits, contracted services, transportation, debt service, per-pupil trends, over five years. Post it in a place people actually read. Add a plain-English note for each spike. If you must raise taxes, at least let people see why.”

“On learning,” Spencer said, “insist on a reading plan with daily measurement, not quarterly myth. Volunteers can be trained in a single Saturday to run decoding drills. That is plural provision: district plus association, not district versus association.”

“On SNAP,” Nock said, “prepare the human buffer. Map every pantry, church supper, and mutual-aid group. Build a shared calendar so help arrives before cupboards echo. Encourage neighborhood kitchens to take turns hosting a weekly ‘stone soup’ night. It keeps people fed and known, which is better than being fed and forgotten.”

Lola scribbled, then paused. “Some folks say the federal department’s strings prevent flexibility. Others say without those strings, you’ll get chaos or favoritism.”

Goldwater nodded. “I respect the fear. Here’s the steelman: federal rules can set minimum standards for fairness, civil rights, and transparency, so locals don’t backslide into parochialism or exclusion. But the default should be local experimentation within guardrails, not centralized experimentation with local compliance.”

“Guardrails, not cages,” Lola said.

“Exactly,” he replied.

Spencer glanced at the windows again, as if measuring time by light. “The wage problem will not yield in one city. But Claremont can blunt it. Encourage employers to post skills-first pathways with paid training and a day-one childcare credit. When money cannot be made perfectly sound, shorten the tunnel between training and higher pay.”

“Childcare is the bottleneck,” Lola said. “A sitter can vaporize a shift.”

“Then treat childcare like work’s front door,” Nock said. “A rotating cooperative, four families, four evenings, one host, can cover swing shifts. Churches often have underused rooms; insurance is the real problem, so you need a sponsor with backbone. The Remnant has backbone.”

The conversation looped through details: rental spikes after tax increases, the need for honest benefit projections, the temptation to treat every meeting as a penance service. They kept returning to scale, to who knows what, and who decides.

A server floated by with the check on a small black tray. Lola placed it near Goldwater, as a tease, then hovered. “I appreciate the talk,” she said. “You’ve made big ideas feel small enough to carry home. But the bill is not a metaphor.”

Goldwater lifted the leather and whistled. “Government has nothing on craft cocktails.”

“I’ll get this,” Spencer said, patting his vest as if searching for a sovereign or two. “Regrettably, I remain solvent mostly in quotations.”

Nock reached for his wallet with the air of a man reaching for epigrams. “I have a note of Castellammare due to me whenever Naples remembers.”

Lola folded her arms. “Cute.”

Goldwater grinned and reached for a card. “All right, all right.”

But before the card touched the tray, a scent of matches rose. The three exchanged a look so practiced it felt like liturgy. The air around them thickened with that familiar smoke, as if the bar had a secret clause for philosophical exits. On the black tray, instead of a signature, small strings of letters and numbers flickered like fireflies, bitcoin addresses nested where a tip line should be. The manager, returning with a cloth, only smiled. The bill had been marked paid.

Lola exhaled, half-laugh, half sigh. On the back of her order pad, beneath the crayon scribble, she wrote her napkin list:

1. Push for a public, line-item budget dashboard with five-year trends.

2. Organize a volunteer reading pod network with short, daily drills.

3. Lobby for ESAs access so funding follows students; build a scholarship fund so access isn’t gated by cars.

4. Map and coordinate pantries/meal nights with a shared calendar; recruit the Remnant.

5. Partner with employers for skills-first, paid training and childcare credits.

6. Start a swing-shift childcare co-op using underused rooms; find a sponsor with insurance.

7. Advocate subsidiarity in school decisions, move decision-making closer to classrooms, and preserve civil rights guardrails.

She tore the page free and tucked it into her apron. Outside, the square glowed with the tired light of a town that endures. She had not been handed a miracle; she had been handed homework. That felt, to her surprise, better.

At the door, the manager turned the sign from OPEN to SEE YOU SOON and raised an eyebrow at the vanishing corner. Smoke and math had cleared. On the table remained three empty glasses, a paid bill, and the faint echo of a line that doubles as a rule for towns and tabs alike: who pays, decides. Then the night reclaimed the bar, and beyond the tall windows, Claremont waited for morning.