Confessions of a Tax Collector Read Online Free PDF Page A

stands for Mainly a Bullshit Attitude,” Gina leaned in and whispered, then clapped her hands with delight. Henry scowled. She said, “Henry’s family business is embalming.”
    “There’s more to it than dead people,” Henry said.
    There seemed to be nothing to do but nod.
    “Why you want to be a RO?” Henry demanded.
    “Revenue officer,” Gina translated for me.
    “That’s right,” Henry said. “Rev-eh-new off-ih—sir.”
    “I need stable employment. I’m a little tired of freelancing.” And, I might have added, there was a reckoning coming.
    “Well, lemme tell you somethin‘,” Henry said. “If they hire you they gonna go over your file with a fine-combed toothpick.”
    “With a—a what?”
    “This is just between me and you and the stop sign, but when you come on board they sniff you out. Gonna audit you, you know.”
    Gina said helpfully, “That’s standard for all new-hires. We audit your past three years’ 1040s.”
    “And they find
anything
wrong…” He drew a finger slowly across his throat.
    “Where are you from, Rick?” Gina asked.
    “Lakeside. I’m a native.”
    “You don’t meet too many of those,” Gina said.
    “Why would an actor want to work for the IRS?” Henry demanded. He was troubled by the concept.
    “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the rent needs paying,” Gina said.
    “They look at that, too,” Henry said. “They look at everythin‘. And you don’t have all this together,” he patted his stomach, “they fire you.”
    “Henry exaggerates,” Gina said.
    He folded his arms across his chest and sat back in his chair. For some reason I have never understood, he said, “And you can put that where the moon don’t shine.”
    On Monday of the following week, I was called for a second interview. This time I left the flannel at home. I had trouble with the tie and the coat hung loosely on me; it drooped from my shoulders and bunched into folds between my shoulder blades; I had lost weight in the six years since I had purchased it. I said to Pam, “I can always tell how a jacket in the store is going to look on me: the same as it does on the hanger.” Pam did not think I was funny.
    “Your tie’s crooked,” she said. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
    “What’s wrong with this?”
    “I don’t have a good feeling about it.”
    “You’re right. I should rely on other people to take care of me the rest of my life.”
    The interview was conducted by Gina Tate and Melissa Cavanaugh, the thin, pinched-faced woman with the teased bottle-blond hair. They sat on one side of the conference table and me on the other. Gina opened by wondering aloud why someone with my background would want to work for the IRS. I answered I had not grown up dreaming of being a tax collector, at which point Gina laughed and Melissa scowled. Then I added that I felt it was time to settle into something more stable than the arts; that I needed a good job with good benefits (and government benefits were superb); that the job itself sounded interesting, exciting, challenging, different from your average nine-to-five, blah, blah, blah. The women across the table made copious notes. I would not know until much later that the Service required all interviewers to record
every single word
of an applicant’s answers. Recording devices were not used, on the assumption they might inhibit the respondents.
    “Don’t get me wrong, Rick,” Gina said, perhaps in reaction to my slightly defensive tone. “It’s just we don’t usually get applicants from people of your—background.”
    “You got an English degree,” Melissa reminded her.
    “I
have
an English degree,” Gina corrected her.
    “I’m glad you said that,” I said to Gina. It brought the desired response: she laughed, but Melissa did not. Melissa, it was clear, had taken an instant dislike to me. It was as if she thought this artsy-fartsy guy was trying to pull a fast one on her.
    I did very little talking in this