Tyler and Taxes
Feb. 7th, 2016 09:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_camera“Just so you know,” Kurt said when he called his mother up to tell her the new baby’s name was Tyler, “I did not name the baby after the dog.”
Kurt’s dog throughout his childhood and adolescence was Tyler.
The Kurts dropped by on Three Kings Day. Their yearly visit to his mother’s house. I perched on the couch next Mrs. Kurt, and we watched the human Tyler – now four years old – play with a really loud and obnoxious toy car. Tyler is the type of kid they used to describe as “all boy” before identity politics rendered such characterizations suspect.
“I always dreamed of having a blond-haired, blue-eyed son named Tyler when I was growing up,” Mrs. Kurt said fondly, watching the boy.
“And it didn’t really matter who the father was so long as you got him, right?” said Ed.
Mrs. Kurt just laughed. She’s an attractive woman in her late 30s with regular features and a small nose, particularly prized among us Southern Italians because we tend toward exaggerated features and noses that just get sharper and craggier as we age – a Pinocchio Effect, no doubt enhanced by the number of lies we’re forced to tell over the course of our lifetimes.
This memory came up because I accompanied L to her granddaughter’s basketball game yesterday. Tyler’s big sister. And saw Kurt again. And seldom have I seen a human being who was not being waterboarded or locked up in a penitentiary look more desperate and miserable.
It startled me.
This is the American Dream, right?
We’d given up on the American Dream when I was Mr. and Mrs. Kurt’s age, but lately the Dream’s made a resurgence – oddly enough at a time when it’s growing increasingly economically impossible to participate in it.
The lovely home. The lovely wife. The stable job. The attractive children. And good genetics – though Kurt could stand to shave off 25 pounds.
But really, I got the idea that if I’d be doing Kurt a favor if I shot him through the head.
And I looked around at the maybe 40 parents and grandparents sitting in the Catholic school gymnasium – St. Mary’s of the Perpetual Innovation – surely, I’ve gotten that name wrong – studying the moves of their eight year olds on the basketball court. Living through the moves of those eight year olds on the basketball court.
How to describe it?
It isn’t wrong, of course. God knows, after Max declared himself a jock, I went to every single one of his football, basketball, baseball, and soccer games. ‘Cause that’s what you do when you’re a parent.
And in DNA terms, of course, biological destiny is essentially through with you after you reproduce. Humans have preternaturally long dependency periods, so naturally some measure of our coded proteins are invested in carpooling our kids to school basketball games and hovering over them.
Still.
It chilled me that there was – that there is – nothing beyond that. Not really.
Outside the 3.5 degrees of separation that connect these people to their families, to their Facebook "friends", to that high school pal who OD’d after he moved to Colorado 15 years ago, most people have no relevance at all except as consumers – of beer, of new cars, of football games, of e-insurance, of gym memberships that they’ll never use, of electoral politics.
I should have been a lot more irresponsible and had a lot more fun when I was beautiful enough to have had other opportunities, right? There’s certainly no inherent virtue in living otherwise.
###
One of my clients Friday was a repressed matron straight out of a Todd Haynes movie, a woman struggling so hard to keep her exterior intact she was practically catatonic.
“Hello, Mrs. Roblee!" (Not her real name.) "I’m Patrizia –“
“Miss Roblee,” she snapped.
Most of my clients almost immediately begin telling me their life stories within two minutes of settling down across the table. I don’t know why that should be. W2s and 1099-Rs inspire confidence, I suppose. That day, I’d already made the acquaintance of a woman who lived off the royalties that still trickled in off photographs taken by her mega-famous photographer father, a vet who was bitter about having had to leave New York City for the Hudson Valley’s far cheaper lifestyle, and a really nice couple that had fallen in love when she was a cop and he ran the Poughkeepsie City jail.
But Miss Roblee wasn’t playing that game.
I began poring over the various forms, and it instantly became clear to me that no one was advising Miss Roblee properly. The financial institution that had played guardian to her IRA hadn’t taken a single cent out for taxes when they disbursed her retirement money. Likewise her state pension was severely undertaxed, and the result was that her Social Security income now was taxable.
For a single senior citizen living alone, Miss Roblee’s income was pretty handsome.
But she owed a lot of money to the IRS.
I did the calculations three times to make sure I’d gotten them right.
Miss Roblee drummed her fingers on the table. “Can you hurry it up? I have somewhere I need to go at one.”
“Just a minute!” I said brightly.
We always get another person to review our calculations as a quality assurance check.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve done these calculations correctly,” I told my checker. “But I’d be happy if you could find a mistake.”
There was no mistake.
When I told Miss Roblee how much she owed, she just sat there for a minute or two, speechless.
And then she had a complete and total meltdown.
It was horrifying.
She was crying. She was keening.
And there was absolutely nothing I could do. No “there, there,” pat on the shoulder was going to solve this. Besides, it would have been completely inappropriate since all I am in this situation is an IRS factotum.
Moral of the story? Make sure that at least 10% of your income is in some kind of fund marked "Render unto Caesar."
Kurt’s dog throughout his childhood and adolescence was Tyler.
The Kurts dropped by on Three Kings Day. Their yearly visit to his mother’s house. I perched on the couch next Mrs. Kurt, and we watched the human Tyler – now four years old – play with a really loud and obnoxious toy car. Tyler is the type of kid they used to describe as “all boy” before identity politics rendered such characterizations suspect.
“I always dreamed of having a blond-haired, blue-eyed son named Tyler when I was growing up,” Mrs. Kurt said fondly, watching the boy.
“And it didn’t really matter who the father was so long as you got him, right?” said Ed.
Mrs. Kurt just laughed. She’s an attractive woman in her late 30s with regular features and a small nose, particularly prized among us Southern Italians because we tend toward exaggerated features and noses that just get sharper and craggier as we age – a Pinocchio Effect, no doubt enhanced by the number of lies we’re forced to tell over the course of our lifetimes.
This memory came up because I accompanied L to her granddaughter’s basketball game yesterday. Tyler’s big sister. And saw Kurt again. And seldom have I seen a human being who was not being waterboarded or locked up in a penitentiary look more desperate and miserable.
It startled me.
This is the American Dream, right?
We’d given up on the American Dream when I was Mr. and Mrs. Kurt’s age, but lately the Dream’s made a resurgence – oddly enough at a time when it’s growing increasingly economically impossible to participate in it.
The lovely home. The lovely wife. The stable job. The attractive children. And good genetics – though Kurt could stand to shave off 25 pounds.
But really, I got the idea that if I’d be doing Kurt a favor if I shot him through the head.
And I looked around at the maybe 40 parents and grandparents sitting in the Catholic school gymnasium – St. Mary’s of the Perpetual Innovation – surely, I’ve gotten that name wrong – studying the moves of their eight year olds on the basketball court. Living through the moves of those eight year olds on the basketball court.
How to describe it?
It isn’t wrong, of course. God knows, after Max declared himself a jock, I went to every single one of his football, basketball, baseball, and soccer games. ‘Cause that’s what you do when you’re a parent.
And in DNA terms, of course, biological destiny is essentially through with you after you reproduce. Humans have preternaturally long dependency periods, so naturally some measure of our coded proteins are invested in carpooling our kids to school basketball games and hovering over them.
Still.
It chilled me that there was – that there is – nothing beyond that. Not really.
Outside the 3.5 degrees of separation that connect these people to their families, to their Facebook "friends", to that high school pal who OD’d after he moved to Colorado 15 years ago, most people have no relevance at all except as consumers – of beer, of new cars, of football games, of e-insurance, of gym memberships that they’ll never use, of electoral politics.
I should have been a lot more irresponsible and had a lot more fun when I was beautiful enough to have had other opportunities, right? There’s certainly no inherent virtue in living otherwise.
###
One of my clients Friday was a repressed matron straight out of a Todd Haynes movie, a woman struggling so hard to keep her exterior intact she was practically catatonic.
“Hello, Mrs. Roblee!" (Not her real name.) "I’m Patrizia –“
“Miss Roblee,” she snapped.
Most of my clients almost immediately begin telling me their life stories within two minutes of settling down across the table. I don’t know why that should be. W2s and 1099-Rs inspire confidence, I suppose. That day, I’d already made the acquaintance of a woman who lived off the royalties that still trickled in off photographs taken by her mega-famous photographer father, a vet who was bitter about having had to leave New York City for the Hudson Valley’s far cheaper lifestyle, and a really nice couple that had fallen in love when she was a cop and he ran the Poughkeepsie City jail.
But Miss Roblee wasn’t playing that game.
I began poring over the various forms, and it instantly became clear to me that no one was advising Miss Roblee properly. The financial institution that had played guardian to her IRA hadn’t taken a single cent out for taxes when they disbursed her retirement money. Likewise her state pension was severely undertaxed, and the result was that her Social Security income now was taxable.
For a single senior citizen living alone, Miss Roblee’s income was pretty handsome.
But she owed a lot of money to the IRS.
I did the calculations three times to make sure I’d gotten them right.
Miss Roblee drummed her fingers on the table. “Can you hurry it up? I have somewhere I need to go at one.”
“Just a minute!” I said brightly.
We always get another person to review our calculations as a quality assurance check.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve done these calculations correctly,” I told my checker. “But I’d be happy if you could find a mistake.”
There was no mistake.
When I told Miss Roblee how much she owed, she just sat there for a minute or two, speechless.
And then she had a complete and total meltdown.
It was horrifying.
She was crying. She was keening.
And there was absolutely nothing I could do. No “there, there,” pat on the shoulder was going to solve this. Besides, it would have been completely inappropriate since all I am in this situation is an IRS factotum.
Moral of the story? Make sure that at least 10% of your income is in some kind of fund marked "Render unto Caesar."
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no subject
Date: 2016-02-07 04:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-07 05:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-07 07:17 pm (UTC)Well, we have a progressive tax system in the US. And actual labor income is taxed far more severely than any type of capital gains. You may well be in the 30% bracket.
no subject
Date: 2016-02-07 08:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-07 10:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-08 05:23 am (UTC)Thank you, I'll mention it. I think I'm just gonna go to H&R. Wah!
no subject
Date: 2016-02-08 06:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-08 07:59 pm (UTC)Of course, the financial institution that handled this woman's IRA did not do right by her. Someone really should have advised her of the tax implications of receiving a sum this large. I think it was very irresponsible! Not, however, illegal.
no subject
Date: 2016-02-10 04:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-10 05:09 pm (UTC)Of course, when I start talking hypothetically to some clients, they understand what I'm talking about. :-)
This poor lady, I'm afraid, was too much of a concretistic thinker for that to work.
no subject
Date: 2016-02-10 04:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-10 05:11 pm (UTC)