Confessions of a Tax Collector (3 page)

She nodded to the glass double-doors on her right. Stenciled in chipped gold paint were the words internal revenue service.

“They did it on purpose,” she said.

“Who did?”

“Whoever put the ad in the paper.”

“Didn’t the IRS put the ad in the paper?”

“Well, I doubt it was the FBI.”

I nodded. She had totally lost me. “Kind of like the old bait-and-switch, only in reverse,” she added.

I nodded. I didn’t get it. “Maybe I’ll have some punch.”

“Don’t forget about the bean dip.”

Nothing made with beans seemed like a good idea at a meet-and-greet. Later, I learned it was the manager of the collection office, Gina, who had brought the dip. Gina brought bean dip to every office function. Her famous bean dip, she called it. It was sitting in a cake pan beside the punch bowl and the stack of Dixie cups. This was the office conference room. About a dozen chairs were arranged in two rows before a television that rested on a roll-away cart pushed against the far wall. A short woman wearing a black dress with very dark hair and Prince Valiant bangs intercepted me as I headed for the punch bowl.

“Hi, welcome, I’m Gina Tate.”

“Rick Yancey.”

“I was about to ask you something stupid, like if you were here for the open house. Don’t tell me, somebody has already asked you that question.”

“As a matter of—”

“We have punch and cookies and pretzels and chips and crackers and you have to try the bean dip.”

I began to say I’d been warned off the bean dip, but she barreled on. “It doesn’t surprise me. Some of them aren’t the ripest apples off the tree. You look like a lumberjack, though too skinny, really. Are there skinny lumberjacks? You think of lumberjacks and you think of Paul Bunyan. What did he have as a sidekick, a yak?”

“I think it was a—”

“No, it was a bull or an ox. Bright blue, or that may be something Disney has imprinted on our collective memories. You did know this is the IRS, right?”

I nodded. It was easier just to nod. I kept nodding at the appropriate places as she led me to the table and handed me a paper plate.

“Forgive the paper. We don’t have much of a budget. That’s something you’ll learn quickly if you come on board. We’re a bunch of pack rats. Pens, paper clips, staples. Currently there’s a shortage of staples. I’m keeping a box in my desk and I’m doling them out, one little row at a time. I’m the manager here; I’m the official doler. This is collection, you know.”

Nod.

“We’re Collection. In the IRS there’s Examination, Collection, Criminal Investigation, Inspection, and Taxpayer Service. That’s excluding the Service Centers, of course. Examination examines, Collection collects, CI investigates, Inspection inspects, and Taxpayer Service serves. We’re Collection.”

Nod.

“You’re a 3.5, I presume. You know, they tried this a couple of years ago— this Outstanding Scholars Program—not in Lakeside, but in Orlando— Tampa, too, I think; anyway, they seemed really pleased with the results. Some high-caliber people. And not all of them with business or accounting degrees. You don’t need one to be a revenue officer, you know.”

Nod. She had taken the plate from me and was filling it with bean dip. It suddenly occurred to me that, if by some miracle I came to work here, this woman would be my boss.

“Well, the turnout is about what I expected. The economy is too good right now. We do better hiring in a recession—which is ironic since there’s not as much to collect. Is that enough dip? You want some punch? Now, here’s the drill. We do the video in about five minutes, then a Q&A and then, for anyone left standing, some one-on-one. If we like you, we invite you back for an interview. How old are you, Rick?”

I told her.

You don’t look that old. You have a very babyish face. Have you ever thought about growing facial hair? I bet you look about ten without your glasses. I have myopia, but I am also vain. Hard to understand, to look at me.

Oh, and there’s a questionnaire on the table right by the front doors. Don’t forget to fill one out before you go. Thanks for stopping by tonight!“

She hurried away. A thin woman with big Farrah Fawcett hair was leaning in the doorway. Her nose was sharp, her eyes small and hard. Gina Tate took her by the elbow and led her out of the room, whispering something in her ear. I left my paper plate on the serving table and carried my Dixie cup to a chair in the back row. I was not a mingler, and decided to wait in the conference room for the video. The boxer stepped into the room, followed by one or two other suits. They took the front row. A middle-aged woman ducked her head in, then pulled it out again. I sipped my punch. What was I doing here? I checked my watch. Four or five others took their seats. Gina stepped back into the room, herding people in front of her. Behind her were Beth and the thin woman with the eighties haircut. A short man hovered in the doorway. He was nattily dressed in a blue cardigan and brown slacks. He stood with his hands folded over his crotch, as if fearing a devastating blow.

Gina stepped to the front of the room, Beth and the thin woman flanking her. She introduced herself and thanked us for coming. She introduced Beth, then the thin woman, Melissa. They were here to answer any questions we might have after seeing the short video prepared by National Office. The little man in the doorway, as if on cue, reached over and flipped off the lights.

“Turn the lights on, Henry,” Gina said, in a tone clearly reserved for small children, animals, and half-wits. The fluorescents flickered back on.

She turned and pressed the play button on the VCR. A white badge against a blue background appeared on the screen. The badge was set in the center of a circle of gold. In gold lettering above the badge were the words U.S. Treasury. And below the badge, wrapping halfway up the circle on either side, internal revenue service. The scales of justice occupied the top half of the badge; a large golden key the lower half. The image lingered for a minute, then faded into a picture of the American flag, flying on a cloudless day, snapping smartly in the breeze. Aaron Copeland’s
Fanfare for the Common Man
began to play. The camera slowly panned right, revealing an imposing, monolithic, glittering skyscraper. In a rich baritone, a narrator intoned, “Welcome to the Internal Revenue Service.” I shuddered. He sounded like the guy from
Outer Limits.

An attractive young woman emerged from the shadow of the building into the brilliant sunlight. Her dress was red; her hair golden blond.

Announcer:
“This video will introduce you to the revenue officer position. After the conclusion of this video, your facilitators will be available to answer any questions you may have… please hold your questions until the conclusion of this video.” The woman in the video was carrying a leather satchel. Her expression was one of gritty determination. She was beautiful. She radiated vitality, power, confidence, grit. The camera followed her to a sleek silver sports car that appeared to be parked illegally on the plaza. She opened the door, tossed the satchel inside, and pulled a U-turn, disappearing from view. The camera panned back to the monolith. Announcer: “The revenue officer position offers a rewarding, yet challenging, career, with opportunities for advancement, while serving the people of the United States by collecting the revenue necessary to run the government.” Fade back to flag. “The American people rely on the revenue officer to ensure full, fair, and honest enforcement of the tax laws.” Cut to the blond woman in the red dress walking into an office. She flashes an ID at the startled man behind the desk.

BLOND WOMAN:
Mr. Pierce…

MR. PIERCE: Hey, I was just going to call you!

BLOND WOMAN:
Mr. Pierce, I’m here today about the taxes your company owes.

The rest of their scene is played in pantomime as the announcer continues. “Revenue officers have the opportunity to work with all segments or the American taxpaying public. Individuals, businesses, public and private institutions. They deal with many people from many backgrounds. A revenue officer should be adept at handling negotiations and, in some rare cases, confrontations.”

Mr. Pierce is now standing, shaking his finger at the blond woman’s Perfect nose. She shakes her head sadly, reaches into her briefcase, and removes some paperwork.

BLOND WOMAN:
Mr. Pierce, I’m here to seize your business for nonpayment of internal revenue taxes.

MR. PIERCE: You’re here to do what?

The scene cuts to a man in blue overalls standing beside the blond woman outside the business’s doors. When he turns around, the words Larry’s Locksmiths appears, stenciled across the back of his overalls. He appears to be changing the locks on the doors. The hapless Mr. Pierce is at the blonde’s elbow, appearing to beg her for mercy. She is grimly determined, though pleasant enough. She places a three-by-five card on the door that reads: warning internal revenue seizure.

MR. PIERCE:
I don’t like this, but I understand you have to do it. If only I had paid my taxes like I should have!

The scene slowly fades back to the American flag, still waving. The message so far is clear: revenue officers were attractive, they made good money, and they took things.

After the video concluded, Gina conducted a brief question-and-answer session. Most people sat silently while one or two asked about health insurance, retirement benefits, promotion potential, how many people they were looking to hire. Gina explained that the office was authorized to hire up to five new revenue officer trainees. “Your training period lasts for one year. You’re what’s called a
probationary employee.”
To each trainee would be assigned a seasoned revenue officer like Beth or Melissa, as his or her On-the-Job Instructor, or OJI. “At the end of the year, if your performance meets the standards, you’re automatically promoted to Grade nine Revenue Officer.” Grade 9 referred to the federal government’s pay scale. Revenue Officers were either Grade 9, or journeyman level, Grade 11 or Grade 12. No one asked what happened to Grade 10. Grade 12 was the highest a revenue officer could rise without entering management. “Every promotion after the training year is competitive,” she said. Melissa and Beth walked around the room while she spoke, handing out a packet of information enclosed in a glossy folder, the cover of which was embossed with the same Treasury symbol from the video. I set mine on the chair beside me without opening it. I had already decided this wasn’t for me.

“If you hate the idea of a desk job, this is the career for you,” Gina said. “Revenue Officers are field officers—we do most of our work outside the office, calling on taxpayers. You’re behind your desk maybe two or three days a week, at the most.”

The square-jawed boxer man turned in his chair, thrusting a legal pad in my direction. Now, what was this? Gina said, “We’re passing around a sign-up list if you’re interested in talking to us some more tonight. Those of you who are staying can wait in here—we’ll call you out, one by one.”

There were only four other names on the list. The last was Freddy Listrom. The boxer man. I stared at the pad resting in my lap. Gina said, “Signing up will not commit you to anything.”

Ah, well, if she was going to put it
that
way.

I waited for my name to be called. I am not accomplished at waiting, though much of life consists of it. I watched as Freddy Listrom helped himself to another cup of punch. If they called us out in order, I would be the last person summoned. This filled me with an unreasonable fear of being alone in the room. It occurred to me that I was almost twenty-eight years old and had no life insurance, no health insurance, no retirement plan, and no other plans that I could think of. What had happened? Why was I sitting here in a federal building wearing a flannel shirt and blue jeans, cradling my little Dixie cup in my lap? Dixie cups reminded me of my childhood, of birthday parties and after-school snacks. Presently Freddy’s was called, and I was alone. Time to bolt. I would rededicate myself to writing. I had an idea for a screenplay I was toying around with. I could try selling a story to a magazine. At sixteen, I started writing a second book inspired by the runaway success of
Jaws,
about a killer bull running amok in the wilds of rural Florida. That went nowhere.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a reckoning coming for all the years I had wasted. The decision to attend law school had brought a certain relief from the unrelenting pressure created by the conviction that I was somehow above the fray, outside the stream of normal society, where people fretted over insurance, retirement, job security, getting their kids into the right college. It was as if I had turned the canoe around and entered the main channel; all I had to do was rest my oar and be swept along effortlessly to the terminus of my journey. It had not panned out that way. Now, as I neared my twenty-eighth birthday, I was starting over—again. Soon, I would be too old for fresh starts.

My name was called. I rose and followed the little man named Henry into the corridor and through the glass doors with the words internal revenue service stenciled on their face. A rack of forms was against the wall on my left. To my right were three rows of armless green chairs facing a counter at the rear of the room. This was the Taxpayer Service office, the portal through which the public entered the world of the IRS. For some reason the lights in the room were dimmed. Gina was sitting in one of the green chairs. Henry sat beside her. I had a choice: to sit beside Henry or to sit one row in front of them, which would necessitate turning awkwardly in the chair to talk. I sat directly in front of Henry, preferring awkwardness to intimacy.

“So Rick,” Gina began, “what was your major in college?”