Death and Taxes

 

(Tax time is always a bitch.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 11 a.m. because I had to get my taxes done. So I got into my brand-new Hyundai Venue and scooted twenty minutes up the road to the nearest H&R Block. Those of you who read my drivel know that my current tax guy is a hillbilly named Larry. I had seen him last week, and he had become all confused because I was living in South Korea last year. Therefore, I brought the proper paperwork this time. All he needed to do was copy from my previous filing.

When I got to the office, he was busy with another customer. So the plump receptionist told me to take a seat and then she gave me some Easter candy. It was in a Tupperware bowl.

She said, “This stuff is too dangerous around me.”

I smiled at her. “It’s dangerous for me, too. I dropped sixty pounds not too long ago.”

“Really. How did you do it?”

“I drank raw eggs for breakfast and lunch. Then I ate fish for dinner. I did that for fourteen months. It was pure hell. I also took up smoking again.”

“I guess it’s better to look good than to feel good.”

“To be honest, I don’t look good. Nor do I feel good. It’s just that the weight was giving me all kinds of physical problems. Especially in my knees.”

Anyway, Larry called me back to his cubby about fifteen minutes later. He had a hard time getting the job done, and he dealt with his stress by continually muttering to himself in disgust. But I have to give him credit. He never used any profane language.

Instead, he said stuff like this: “C’mon, you God-darned mother-blubber” as he tapped away on his computer.

When he finally finished, he flashed me a brilliant smile. “You owe the government $195 dollars.”

“OK. One hundred and ninety-five dollars. I can do that.”

“And you owe H&R Block another $230.”

Then he printed everything out and placed it in a big manila envelope. “Would you like to make an appointment for next year?”

I shook my head. “No. I don’t even know if I’ll be alive.”

As soon as I walked out the door, I got a message on my phone saying that my tax return had been accepted by the IRS. Yet I feel that a mistake has been made. This is the first time that I’ve ever had to pay a dime. Which makes sense. I’ve been living out of the country, and I don’t make anywhere near $108,000 a year…the threshold for an expat to pay federal money. But why argue over $195? I simply don’t have the energy.

Later that night, I arrived at the Waffle House at 9 p.m. I was working with Dallas. She’s the girl who is eight months pregnant and has an African boyfriend. She recently totaled her car by running it into a tree, and she was filled with aches and pains. Consequently, I did most of her side work. I mopped the floor. I filled up the ice containers. I dropped the sink.

It cut into my tips because I didn’t have a lot of time to wait on customers. Yet I didn’t mind. I’m not going to let some popping future mama do all kinds of physical shit. After all, I’m not a Philistine.

With that said, it was only a five-hour shift, and I did manage to make 93 bucks. So it wasn’t a total loss.

I clocked out at two, and I heard the cook say something quite insensitive.

These were his words: “Don’t use your pregnancy as an excuse to get lazy on me.”

Dallas almost started crying.

This particular cook is very young, and he simply doesn’t know that he’s an idiot.

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