No Box for Equivocation

Her shrill voice over the telephone was insistent, “Fill in the empty boxes, sign the return and fax it back if you want to avoid jail time. The last drop at the post office is in fifteen minutes, I’m tired and seriously considering murder…yours!”

It was my favorite accountant, gone berserk, on this, the last day of tax filings for procrastinators like me. I knew it’d happen, but then again I wasn’t worried…she says the same things every year. Plus her office is 15 miles away, and in Atlanta, 15 miles is an eternity!

I’ve finally put her “in a box” and know her moods. However, given closer proximity, and a sufficient quantity of alcohol, she just might make good on that threat. Only fools push women to such extremes! Which is why legislators are, or should be, considering a total ban on alcohol sales to women on the eve of tax-filing day.

Procrastination won’t make tax problems go away, it just prolongs the inevitable. The inevitable? Why, having to declare “under penalties of perjury” that the boxes on your return, and the name you have signed are true and accurate. Which recalls Pilate’s question, “What is truth?” Believe me, the IRS has a different view of truth than you do!

This year, the boxes on our business returns, line 22, “Ordinary business income (loss)”, contained either a 0 or a loss bracket. I could finally declare the truth with absolute impunity.

Fortunately for me alcohol sales were not banned, and I sat comfortably, sipping on a very tall mood-enhancer, thinking of the boxes I’d filled in over the years. And wondering what boxes I’d been placed in by others. It’s dangerous to think along these lines. Sooner or later philosophy enters and convolutes reason. But reason saved me tonight when the phone rang. A friend’s voice muttered sadly, “Hey, man, got a minute? I’ve got a dilemma.”

What’s new, I thought, he always has a dilemma, especially where money and women are concerned. “OK, Bobby, which is it, money or women?” Silence. “That hurt, man, has she already called you?” he said. I now had the answer, but asked for more. “Which ‘her’ is it this time?” I questioned. “New one, you don’t know her. It’s different this time.” His certitude was suspect.

“Different, huh? Care to explain?” I laughed… love travails of others are always funny, unless they’re mine! “I’ll try, long story short,” he said. “Things went well for a while, we were perfect for each other.” I interjected, “Define ‘a while’ and ‘perfect,’ please… these concepts confuse me.” He hated my directness.

“OK, so not like THAT long, just a week, and I probably misused the word ‘perfect,’ since nobody’s exactly perfect.” The truth inched closer. I listened. “She’s forced my back to the wall, putting me in a box, demanding I declare my intentions. Said I had to decide…Now!” I rolled my eyes, and asked, “Well, Bobby, just what are your intentions?” More silence. The question stunned him.

Finally he spoke, “It’s like the tax return I signed today, where all the boxes had to be checked, yes or no, truth not lies, or else. No wiggle room…hell, maybe she’s an accountant. You think?” Enhancing my enhancer, I asked a stupid question, “Well, did you bother to ask her ‘line of work’?” He answered just as stupidly, “In time, man, I was getting around to that. First things first.” Not hard to see why Bobby had dilemmas with women.

I answered, “Seems simple, like the tax return, just check the box that applies. If she’s OK, check that box. If not, then the other box. Like you said, ‘no wiggle room,’ let the chips fall where they may.”

He lamented, “Easy to say, hard to do. Problem is, I just don’t know. Relationships are organic, transitional, so how is it possible to ‘box’ them once and for all? There should be a box that says ‘Maybe,’ that allows for change.” Creative, but improbable.

The discourse dragged on until nothing was left of my enhancer but dregs, which was pretty much how I saw Bobby’s life ending up with this “new one.” The boy just had a hard time facing up to the truth, whatever that is in such a world of subjectivity. We finally said goodbye. Nothing was solved.

That night I dreamed about the tax returns and relationships. Somewhere in the dream a ball and chain appeared. I took that as a warning, vowing to neither procrastinate nor perjure myself in the future on either.

As for Bobby, who can say? Perhaps he checked the correct box and this “new one” will be his last one ~ then, maybe he can lose my phone number!


Bud Hearn
September 17, 2009