If John Mayer were mayor, lateness by cabinet members would not be tolerated. Mayor Mayer wouldn’t fix the trains, though, or even know which trains people were talking about, but he would gift his staff engraved vintage Rolexes every six months. “Lateness is a sin. Freshness is a requirement,” he’d tell Deputy Mayor Dog, one of his deputy mayors, who would be a black Lab. Deputy Mayor Dog couldn’t help his lateness, on account of being a dog, but he would promise to try harder.

If John Mayer were mayor, his first action would be to scatter imported tumbleweeds all over the executive office and to light a stick of palo santo. “I’m excited to learn what exactly I do here,” he would say to his aides, who’d tremble as the flame on the palo santo grew taller. “But first I need to restring these sixty-three guitars.” He would gesture to the sixty-three guitars, which he had hung on the walls after taking down all of the oil paintings of former mayors. “Tomorrow, we jam,” he’d say, readying the first guitar. “Maybe next week we start governing. Depending on how the jam goes.”

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If John Mayer were mayor, all policy updates would be sent via prosaic, slightly wry tweets. “Today, we celebrate small businesses by encouraging all of our residents to shop at small businesses. It’s none of my business if you do . . . but it would be good for business.” He’d delete half of his tweets, insecure about whether his jokes were landing.

If John Mayer were mayor, we the people would have to address him as Mayor Mayer. Mayer himself would love this, but his cabinet would groan whenever they’d slip up and say, “Mr. Mayor,” and John Mayer would correct them, “That’s Mr. Mayor Mayer to you,” while kicking his feet up on his desk and plucking a speck of dust from his otherwise immaculate tailored sweatpants.

If John Mayer were mayor, all press conferences would be a minimum of four hours long. Each announcement would be made via impassioned guitar solo, and each response to a reporter’s question would be delivered in the form of a question. “Mr. Mayor Mayer, should we expect more bike lanes to be installed in 2018?” would be met with, “Travelling by bike—it is a noble way to travel, n’est-ce pas? Very popular in Copenhagen?”

If John Mayer were mayor, his constituents would find their attraction to him simultaneously mystifying and terrifying. Following community meetings, attendees would gather awkwardly around the coffee percolator. “Maybe it’s the formal kimono?” Norman would offer. “I think it’s the spectacles,” Leslie would say, picking at the icing on a stale cruller. Under her breath, Gayle would murmur, “No way. It’s that juicy mouth.”

If John Mayer were mayor, Justin Trudeau would suddenly begin to look like Marty Feldman.

If John Mayer were mayor, every street lamp in the city would be dimmed. In a ceremonial performance welcoming Mayor Mayer into his new role, city residents would drape paisley scarves over any lampshade within reach.

If John Mayer were mayor, fathers and mothers would be required—following a public decree made by Mayor Mayer from a podium festooned with dreamcatchers—to be good to their daughters. All daughters would take an oath to confirm that they would, in return, become mothers.

If John Mayer were mayor, he would eventually learn what the subway was and would decide to take it to work every day. “What a terrifically quaint system. The sounds. The smells,” he’d say to the nearest straphanger. After each commute, Mayor Mayer would take the morning off so he could write a new song about the experience. Later that year, he’d release an album: “Grounded . . . But Still Underground.”