Confessions of a Tax Collector (16 page)

“I think so.”

“We can’t report any crime unless we walk in on it in progress T report anything else is a disclosure of confidential taxpayer information I will get you fired. It could also get you prosecuted. I knew this RO. Maitland who reported a taxpayer for child neglect. She lost her job and spent four months in jail.

“You’re going to see things. These things, you’ll have to find some internal way of dealing with them. We see the same things cops see, only we don’t have the luxury of taking it public. Some things you see you can put out of your mind. Other things will sink right into you as far as they’ll go right into your fucking bones. You’ll feel them at night, crushing you, and you can’t tell anyone, except us, your brothers and sisters in the Service.”

* * *

Gina, always attuned to the psychological health of her trainees, took me into her office the next morning, for what passes as an IRS pep talk.

“You look like shit,” she said.

“I’m doing great,” I said.

“Great?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Okay.”

“You’re okay?”

I said nothing, but gave a weak smile. I think if she had smiled back I would have burst into tears.

She asked how things were in my personal life, meaning my relationship with Pam. It was none of her business, so of course I answered immediately.

“Okay,” I lied. “We’re great.” In fact, we had barely spoken or seen each other over the past few days. Pam had taken a job at the local community theater and was gone most nights when I got home. We had begun communicating in little notes. I would come home to find one on the kitchen table, telling me when she expected to be home and I would write beneath it, “Wake me when you come in.” Sometimes she did; most of the time she did not. She had taken to overeating, and her weight was inching upward.

“I was married once,” she said softly. “You’ve probably heard. It’s a good thing, to be married. I recommend it—to most people. I wasn’t married very long, but I wouldn’t go back and
not
get married.”

I said nothing. She continued, “A lot of married people aren’t married by the end of their training year.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re not what?”

“I’m not married,” I said.

“You said you were engaged.”

“I’m still engaged.”

“How long have you been engaged?”

“Almost four years.”

“Have you set a date?”

“Many times. It just keeps getting pushed back.”

“She’s some kind of widow, right?”

“Yes,” I replied, “the only kind, really.”

“Maybe she’s afraid you’ll die on her, too.”

“I will, eventually.”

“How did he die?”

“Embolism. Fell in the kitchen while he was making lasagna. He loved to cook. He was thirty-eight, in perfect health.”

“It fucked her up.”

“Well,” I said. “If you want to get clinical about it.” I was beginning to lose my temper, but there was no way to express it, not to my boss. That was what ROs’ spouses, lovers, children, and “clients” were for.

“When he died she received a big payoff on the life insurance and an annuity, which she loses if she ever remarries.”

“Ah,” she said. “The barriers to true love.”

“It isn’t about the money,” I said, determine to stay calm. “She thinks, well, I might have some growing up to do before we set a date.”

“You never will.”

“Grow up?”

“Set a date.”

Her words hung in the air. Her conviction brooked no argument. She was trying to provoke me, but since coming onboard with the Service, I had added another half-inch of dermis. If I lasted the year, my hide would as tough as an alligator’s.

People said Gina was a pack rat; that you had to navigate through a maze of boxes and stacks of newspapers and old milk crates, overflowing with the paperback novels of which she was so fond, to reach the sofa from the front door. Then there was the story about her cat. Culpepper had told it.

“So after Gina’s divorce is final, her brother convinces her if she got a pet she could handle the grief, you know, of losing her eight-month-long marriage. Gina says no, she doesn’t really like animals, at least the furry kind, except those suitable for sacrifice at a Black Mass, but one day her secretary shows up at the house with this cat she’s rescued from the shelter. Now, there’s a reason this cat ended up at a shelter, only Gina has no way of knowing this and Bonny swears she didn’t know it, but anyway Gina says thanks, but you can keep your fucking stray cat. Well, Bonny, she bursts into tears because Gina has been giving her hell, made her life absolutely fucking miserable for the past six years, so Gina says okay, what the hell, thanks for the goddamned cat. She takes the cat and locks it in her guest bathroom. She shoves a litter box in there, and for the next two years that’s where that cat lives, inside that bathroom, which is about the size of your average linen closet. Every couple of days Gina slips in a bowl of kitty chow and some fresh water and that’s her pet. That’s her post-divorce companion, locked up in the bathroom, yowling to beat the band. This cat screams and cries and moans from the time she gets up to the time she goes to bed, which is probably why it ended up at the shelter in the first place. It was, like, a neurotic cat. Match made in heaven, right? So Gina calls the vet and says, I got this cat that won’t stop howling. And she tells the vet what’s going on and the vet says, maybe, you know, maybe it’s unhappy because you shut it up in a goddamned bathroom for the past year. The vet calls the humane society, and they send a couple of pet detectives over to check it out, but they report back that the cat is perfectly healthy but cries a lot, probably due to past abuse or some shit, which is like saying the cat is just on a little higher rung in the circle of hell. Gina feels vindicated and starts putting pictures of the thing on her desk, like a beloved child. You don’t see those pictures now, but you wouldn’t believe the expression on that cat’s face—fucking haunt your dreams. That’s how that whole Wiccan rumor started, if you ask me, with that cat. It had a collar with a silver bell hanging on it, like what the hell does this bathroom cat need with a bell? Anyway, despite the fact that she’s decided she’s in love with it, she still won’t let it out of the bathroom. This goes on for another year, until finally she finds this new boyfriend who’s allergic to cats, so the cat has to go. She calls her brother, because he’s got some responsibility for it being in her bathroom, but he says he’s already got two cats, and she says tough shit, I’m bringing you this one. Then she calls Bonny, who brought her the thing in the first place, and tells her to bring a cat-carrier over to her house right away, she’s getting rid of the cat because her boyfriend can’t fuck and sneeze at the same time. While they’re on the way over, her brother sits his two little kids down and explains their Auntie Gina is bringing them a present, so by the time Gina and Bonny get there the kids are beside themselves, crawling the walls, dying to get their paws on the new cat. Now, Gina walks in and she sets the carrier in the middle of the room, and she launches into this long lecture to the kids about how they can’t just grab at this cat, about how the cat may have to be coaxed out of its box, and how maybe they should set up a small space for it, because this cat was used to small spaces and their daddy’s big house might scare this little cat. ‘Don’t be sad if it tries to hide from you,’ she tells them. ‘She’s got to get used to her new environment.’ Finally, when she’s absolutely sure she’s put a damper on all their childlike enthusiasm, she opens the box and that goddamned cat just
explodes
out of it. It was like she shot that cat out of a cannon. It flew around the room like a punctured balloon, climbing up the curtains and leaping from the fireplace and tearing around the furniture like some possessed fucking demon-cat from hell. Well, those kids went berserk. They were scared out their minds. It was a whirlwind of hair and teeth and claws, like that Tasmanian devil in those old Bugs Bunny cartoons. That cat hadn’t known freedom for over two years and it was clear out of its mind! That’s what it means when you hear someone around here say, ‘Gina’s cat,’ when they get a crazy taxpayer or they finally close one of their smelliest dogs. You’ll know it after you complete your training year and it takes an act of Congress to get your incompetent ass fired. That’s how you’ll feel—like Gina’s cat.”

· · ·

Gina walked with me back to the common room. I was a full head taller than she, and I remember being struck by the total lack of pigment in her scalp: the contrast with her black hair was striking. Everyone in the office, with the exceptions of Dee and Cindy Sandifer, had dark hair. I thought of Culpepper sprouting his raven locks during his metamorphosis from Billy, Purveyor of Piggys in a Cloud, into Prince William of the castle Collect-alot. I was puzzling over the possible significance of this when Gina abruptly pulled on my elbow and said, “Allison said there was something you wanted to discuss with me about Culpepper.”

My throat went dry. She must have told Gina I called Culpepper insane. Not being someone who thought quickly on his feet, I answered, “I was wondering if he liked me.”

“Liked you?”

“I mean, my work. It was just something Allison and I were wondering about.”

“Well, he hasn’t said anything to me, and your reviews are good—you were wondering if Culpepper liked you?” She seemed amused.

“I’m assuming that—that that was what she mentioned to you about… about what I wanted to discuss with you about Culpepper.” I was making no sense. Verbal dysentery, words spewing everywhere.

“Look, Bill’s going to do a lot of things that might upset you. He’s going to find out how far he can push you. Some things he says he doesn’t really mean and the things he’s trying to teach you he never really says. It’s up to you and Allison to figure out which is which.”

She opened the door, turning to me and saying in an abrupt whisper, Get through this year, Rick. I have plans for you.“

Before I could say anything, like “Plans? What plans?” Allison came around the corner of her cubicle and flashed a brilliant smile in my direction.

“Oh, Rick!” she said. “You don’t look good! Are you feeling okay?” I mumbled something and ducked into my cubicle. What did Allison tell Gina? More than Gina was telling me, obviously. At all costs, I realized, I had to maintain plausible deniability on the issue. It was Allison’s word against mine, and anyway, any rational person would conclude it was objective fact that Culpepper was indeed insane.
You see, Rick, in the real world, not the world you’re from, but in this world, it’s not so much what you say but the care you take in saying it.
I massaged my temples and tried to concentrate.

It was over. I was doomed. With a single word, I had destroyed my career. And that word had been
insane.

I dialed home. I was determined to stay grounded in something that resembled reality. I heard my own voice on the answering machine and I left the following message.

“I think you’re right. Maybe I should quit. Something very bad is happening inside my head. I’m not cut out for this. I’m not sure anyone is cut out for this, but I’m pretty sure I’m not one of them—I mean, one of those people who possibly could be cut out for this. I’ll try you later.” I waited an extra five seconds before hanging up, in case she was screening the calls.

* * *

After the skimmers and the hardships, there were the cases that demanded enforced collection. These were the hot center of the revenue officer’s inventory, why the American taxpayer paid us our salary. If these people were willing to pay or if it was easy for them to pay, they would have paid long before their case ever reached us. We were, therefore, the last people they wanted to see. We were below lawyers. We were below dentists. We were below proctologists. Sometimes, even their neighbors didn’t want to see us—I have had doors slammed in my face more times than I can recall— but most of the time your average neighbor can’t wait to rat on the person next door. No one likes to hear this, but your neighbor is not your friend. All I had to do was flash my commission and I got the life story, down to whom the wife was seeing on the side and what sort of parties they threw. Your neighbor is going to tell the IRS where you work, how long you’ve worked there, what kind of car you drive, what kind of jewelry you wear, what kind of valuable collections might be stored in your attic, what kind of people you associate with, and where your kids go to school. If you ;e moved from another city or state, they’ll tell us where you’re from, how long you’ve been at your present address, and if you have any plans for moving in the future. Drink a little too much? Seeing a psychologist? Had an abortion? Faking a disability? We’ll know. And most of the time, we won’t even have to ask.

“Well, Yancey, congratulations: the last one.”

Three weeks after our encounter with Laura Marsh, my first contact, we were sitting in my car outside the official address of my last contact, Clausen Demolition. Clausen Demolition’s home office was literally that, someone’s home. Culpepper was finishing his morning banana and orange juice. I was drinking black coffee and itching for a cigarette.

“If I tossed this into the back,” Culpepper said, referring to the banana peel, “do you think it would grow into a tree?” He waited for me to laugh. Then he said, “Think of the time it would save you in the field, Rick. Get hungry driving around? Just reach behind you and grab a fresh banana. If you don’t like bananas, maybe some oranges or a pecan tree. You could plant a garden, have a salad.”

“Okay,” I said. “If I cleaned it out, I wouldn’t be able to find anything.”

“Your car is a reflection of your mind,” he said.

“Your car,” I reminded him, “is spotless, not a thing in it.”

He rolled down the window and tossed the banana peel into the yard. “I’m talking about precision. Precision is the key. What do we have on this case?”

I briefed him without referring to the case file. Clausen Demolition owed $24,000 in employment taxes and had not filed an employment tax return in over two years.

“I’m figuring they’re out of business.”