The Letter

The worthless pulp arrived yesterday. The mail. The assortment contained the usual crap that clutters mail boxes. But this rubbish does create jobs.

Jobs are important in this depression. In the Brunswick post office, the clerks perpetuate their jobs in a unique way. They have a dance, ‘the mailman shuffle.’ You’re familiar with this, right? It’s found in most government offices where civil service and tenure are assured. There’s a wonderful side effect of this ‘Dancing-with-the-Clerks’ charade…it slows time to a crawl. We get a short, well, ok, a long, break from a fast-track world.

I examined the day’s refuse. One envelop appeared unlike the slick, colored ones that find File 13. It had no return address and an American Flag stamp. Being patriotic, I pitched it on my desk. It laid with other litter, soon to be a reject. I often feel sorry for junk mail. It’s like picking over apples at Winn Dixie. Imagine being an apple, fondled, dumped back into the pile…a reject. Sometimes I’m a bleeding heart. But not often.

Many letters seek to separate us from money. We call these ‘bills.’ I had a friend once named Bill. He always tried to separate me from something. He succeeded in separating me from my high school sweetheart. She became the ‘Miss Betty Crocker of Alabama.’ Some separations are good! These bills profile our profligate ways, which Google circulates to every human on the planet.

Recently I received a letter from an old nemesis. He’s known by his initials, IRS. He works for a nefarious organization whose CEO is a computer. It makes all decisions. The computer needs money to survive. It shakes down everyone who has a number for a name. The only escape is death.

This particular letter, or summons, demanded the immediate payment of $31.25, or else. I’m familiar with ‘or else.’ It’s my wife’s expression of endearment. It referenced tax year 1942, the year of my birth. A shuffling sleuth discovered my parents didn’t declare me as living. Penalty and interest had accrued. Failure to pay would result in writs and seizure of everything, including children.

It went further. Fine print warned that failure to pay would result in criminal penalties, audits and lengthy jail time. I’m familiar with audits. Agents show up with badges, guns and greasy hair, wearing unwashed clothes. A peculiar odor follows them, reminiscent of a landfill.

I called the 800 number. A computer answered, saying, “Welcome to the IRS.” It announced that representatives were helping other ‘customers,’ and the wait time might exceed 24 hours, but not to hang up. The call may be recorded for training purposes and would be answered in the order received. In other words, take a number and pray! All the while background music played, “and another one bites the dust.”

“Customers?” it said. More like ‘prisoners,’ or according to my notice, ‘criminals.’ It added the cheery words, “Thank you for being a loyal customer.” I remembered Ayn Rand’s prophecy in, “Atlas Shrugged.” It read,

“We are fast approaching the stage of the ultimate inversion, the stage where the government is free to do anything it pleases, while the citizens may act only by permission, which is the stage of the darkest periods in human history, the stage of rule by brute force.”

After three days of waiting for the next customer rep, I gave up. A Taxpayer Advocate finally solved the problem. Computer glitch, she said. Best to pay the computer and it’ll go away, she advised. I asked how I would know if the computer were satisfied. She said if men in black don’t show up, you’re safe.

Back to my letter. It had a cellophane window. Inside it read, “Time is running out, Bud Hearn. Act by 11/12/10.” I opened it in haste. The New Yorker magazine offered a special savings for renewed subscriptions. I rejected it, did the next best thing…renewed my Rolling Stone magazine. At least I can keep up with Lady Gaga. If my time’s running out, I want to be reading something worthwhile.

Which is more than you’ve been doing if reading this absurdity. But in a flash of reality, friends, if time is running out…I surely hope it’s not today! Let the good times roll.

Bud Hearn
November 11, 2010