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So, there was this couple.
Both of them were annoying. You don’t get to be imperious and strident when you’re taking advantage of a free service, at least not when I’m the one providing the free service.
The were filing, Married, Filing Separately, which is absolutely the worst tax status you can possibly choose, so naturally we had to lecture them on the disadvantages of that.
“A lawyer told me to do it!” said the man. He had abnormally light eyes, a very pale blue, and walked on the balls of his feet as though at any moment, he might start bouncing up and down like he was riding an invisible pogo stick.
The woman just looked incredibly tired.
I got stuck with the woman.
As soon as I looked at her income documents, it was obvious why she had such a staggering IRS debt: She was having absolutely nothing taken out for federal taxes.
“Do you guys pool your money?” I asked.
“No, no,” she said. “He pays the rent; I pay everything else.”
“Ummmm,” I said. “Well, you’re a grownup. I’m not going to lecture you on what you should or should not be doing. I assume you’re choosing to do what you’re doing for a reason. Although I will say that if you were filing jointly, you’d have a much larger standard deduction, more of your joint income would be sheltered. It’s likely you’d owe less to the IRS.”
“I’m going to be paying off the IRS for the rest of my life,” said the woman. She wasn’t bitter; just resigned.
Just then, her husband came bouncing over to the table and ignoring me completely, said to the woman, “Hey, hey—so this guy just tells me—“
“Excuse me,” I said. “You don’t get to barge in here and interrupt a conference I am having with my client—“
“What the fuck is wrong with you, lady?” the guy said, turning his weird, furious eyes upon me. “I’ll talk to my wife whenever I want to—“
“Not when she’s in the middle of talking to me,” I said grimly.
“You don’t tell me what to do—“
“I am, now,” I said.
The guy went off on me. Actually raised his fist and waved it menacingly in my direction.
I’d like to see you try, asshole, I thought.
Of course, my Tai Kwon Do days are far behind me. Still, I was pretty confident I could take the fucker—although I’d probably tear my ACL doing it.
I actually wanted to hit the guy. It would have given me great pleasure.
Instead, I called over to the site coordinator, “You need to take over this assignment. Because I am not going to work under these circumstances—“
“Stop it, Reg. Just stop it,” the woman said to the man. If she’d been lukewarm to me before, now she just LUVVED me with a giant pink animated emoji of a beating heart. I had stood up to her husband! I could do no wrong.
Of course, it all got ironed out without physical violence.
The site coordinator led the man back to his tax preparer.
The site coordinator assumed I was protecting the sanctity of the preparer/client relationship.
Confidentiality ensured!
But actually, I was pissed off by the guy’s rudeness, by his assumption that the service I was providing was of so little value, it could be interrupted at any time, on any whim.
###
“That man was really scary,” said my next set of clients. They were married, filing jointly; they had been sitting in the waiting area watching the incident.
I just rolled my eyes and shook my head. “We get all sorts.”
That was the only blowback from the incident.
None of the other TaxBwana preparers even mentioned it.
And I was actually kinda surprised that I had none of the adrenalin side effects that intense interactions usually bring on—trembling hands, tears. I was cool as a cucumber.
It did make me feel that I was very different from the other tax preparers. They would probably have done nothing when the guy bounced over to the wife. They would have let him hector her. The outcome would have been just the same.
So why did I do something?
I guess because in some basic sense, they’re bureaucrats, and I’m street.
I don’t like disrespect.
Most disrespect is institutionalized, and you can’t avoid it. But when you can avoid it, you should.
###
Else?
I’ve been sneezing practically nonstop since I got back from Tburg. I don’t think I have a cold, so it must be allergies. I’ve never really had bad allergies before. It’s very annoying.
The next two weeks will be the final phase of the Great Work Blitzkrieg. Between the car repairs, the Rutger demise expenses and the self-employment taxes I owe—I always forget about those, and there’s simply no way to write them off—I had to come up with many thousands of dollars between February and April. I could have put them all on a credit card, but I just didn’t want to. That way leads to the paycheck-by-paycheck life! Better just to break your ass, get rid of the debt and plan better for next year.
If you drive an elderly car, you can always count on spending at least $3,000 a year on repairs.
If you work for yourself, you are always gonna have to pay 15% of what you make toward social security taxes.
Rutger, I couldn’t have planned for.
Poor Rutger.
I miss him a lot.
Both of them were annoying. You don’t get to be imperious and strident when you’re taking advantage of a free service, at least not when I’m the one providing the free service.
The were filing, Married, Filing Separately, which is absolutely the worst tax status you can possibly choose, so naturally we had to lecture them on the disadvantages of that.
“A lawyer told me to do it!” said the man. He had abnormally light eyes, a very pale blue, and walked on the balls of his feet as though at any moment, he might start bouncing up and down like he was riding an invisible pogo stick.
The woman just looked incredibly tired.
I got stuck with the woman.
As soon as I looked at her income documents, it was obvious why she had such a staggering IRS debt: She was having absolutely nothing taken out for federal taxes.
“Do you guys pool your money?” I asked.
“No, no,” she said. “He pays the rent; I pay everything else.”
“Ummmm,” I said. “Well, you’re a grownup. I’m not going to lecture you on what you should or should not be doing. I assume you’re choosing to do what you’re doing for a reason. Although I will say that if you were filing jointly, you’d have a much larger standard deduction, more of your joint income would be sheltered. It’s likely you’d owe less to the IRS.”
“I’m going to be paying off the IRS for the rest of my life,” said the woman. She wasn’t bitter; just resigned.
Just then, her husband came bouncing over to the table and ignoring me completely, said to the woman, “Hey, hey—so this guy just tells me—“
“Excuse me,” I said. “You don’t get to barge in here and interrupt a conference I am having with my client—“
“What the fuck is wrong with you, lady?” the guy said, turning his weird, furious eyes upon me. “I’ll talk to my wife whenever I want to—“
“Not when she’s in the middle of talking to me,” I said grimly.
“You don’t tell me what to do—“
“I am, now,” I said.
The guy went off on me. Actually raised his fist and waved it menacingly in my direction.
I’d like to see you try, asshole, I thought.
Of course, my Tai Kwon Do days are far behind me. Still, I was pretty confident I could take the fucker—although I’d probably tear my ACL doing it.
I actually wanted to hit the guy. It would have given me great pleasure.
Instead, I called over to the site coordinator, “You need to take over this assignment. Because I am not going to work under these circumstances—“
“Stop it, Reg. Just stop it,” the woman said to the man. If she’d been lukewarm to me before, now she just LUVVED me with a giant pink animated emoji of a beating heart. I had stood up to her husband! I could do no wrong.
Of course, it all got ironed out without physical violence.
The site coordinator led the man back to his tax preparer.
The site coordinator assumed I was protecting the sanctity of the preparer/client relationship.
Confidentiality ensured!
But actually, I was pissed off by the guy’s rudeness, by his assumption that the service I was providing was of so little value, it could be interrupted at any time, on any whim.
###
“That man was really scary,” said my next set of clients. They were married, filing jointly; they had been sitting in the waiting area watching the incident.
I just rolled my eyes and shook my head. “We get all sorts.”
That was the only blowback from the incident.
None of the other TaxBwana preparers even mentioned it.
And I was actually kinda surprised that I had none of the adrenalin side effects that intense interactions usually bring on—trembling hands, tears. I was cool as a cucumber.
It did make me feel that I was very different from the other tax preparers. They would probably have done nothing when the guy bounced over to the wife. They would have let him hector her. The outcome would have been just the same.
So why did I do something?
I guess because in some basic sense, they’re bureaucrats, and I’m street.
I don’t like disrespect.
Most disrespect is institutionalized, and you can’t avoid it. But when you can avoid it, you should.
###
Else?
I’ve been sneezing practically nonstop since I got back from Tburg. I don’t think I have a cold, so it must be allergies. I’ve never really had bad allergies before. It’s very annoying.
The next two weeks will be the final phase of the Great Work Blitzkrieg. Between the car repairs, the Rutger demise expenses and the self-employment taxes I owe—I always forget about those, and there’s simply no way to write them off—I had to come up with many thousands of dollars between February and April. I could have put them all on a credit card, but I just didn’t want to. That way leads to the paycheck-by-paycheck life! Better just to break your ass, get rid of the debt and plan better for next year.
If you drive an elderly car, you can always count on spending at least $3,000 a year on repairs.
If you work for yourself, you are always gonna have to pay 15% of what you make toward social security taxes.
Rutger, I couldn’t have planned for.
Poor Rutger.
I miss him a lot.
