Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Love, Marriage, and Taxes -- Creative Nonfiction

           

He used to do our taxes. Every year. You know how some people get really aggressive when they’re behind the wheel in city traffic? That’s the way he did taxes.
Back in those days a booklet would come in the mail along with the basic filing forms. The booklet, printed on roughish, beigish-grayish paper gave you current tax rules, listed the forms you needed and gave you the postal address of the nearest Internal Revenue Service Office processing tax returns. Ours had to be mailed to Austin, Texas. We had IRS offices in Oklahoma, but they never got the pleasure of processing annual tax returns. I’ve never been to Austin, but my tax returns have.
Some of the forms needed would be included in the booklet. Some not. You had to collect up all the forms necessary for your particular situation not included in the booklet. The post office and the public library kept them on hand “Free to the Public.”
He approached tax season as though preparing for battle. Not the assaulting side, you understand, but the side being assaulted. He would make a list of forms and send me to retrieve them. Any little hiccup in our daily life during that time was not only a personal affront but a shot across the bow.
Once the dryer quit working. We both worked full-time and had a toddler. Considering our income, he should have considered us lucky that he could fix it. Right then in the middle of tax season.
And there was the time I locked the keys in the car at the post office. The post office was thirty minutes away from home. He was a model of restraint and kindness, or at least silence, when he arrived with the spare key and took away the forms.
Each year there was a nontax-related disaster for him to overcome. And each year I would take the children away from the house while he prepared our tax returns. It was best that they not learn any new words that would get them in trouble at school.
Somewhere along the line I volunteered to take over tax duty. Somewhere along the line, tax preparation companies started making software available at a reasonable cost. Each year I am so grateful to them.
And each year I put it off to the last minute. Today is the deadline. I finished them yesterday. I’m always afraid it’s going to be too hard. I won’t be able to find all the information I’ll need. Somebody’s going to get sick and I’ll be too busy with them in the hospital. If I’m lucky, it’ll be me.
My computer will conk out. The internet will go down. There’ll be so many of us at the last minute that the IRS’s website will crash.
We’ll have to pay.
We won’t have enough money to pay and I’ll be arrested. I’m sensitive to tomatoes, potatoes, peppers, and eggplant. What kind of food do they serve in jail. It will be Federal Prison who knows where. There are Federal Prisons all over the country. I could end up in Kansas. I won’t know anyone there. Will they let me watch Downton Abbey?
After the appropriate number of sleepless nights, I did our taxes yesterday. He stayed away while I did them. In fact, he kept a low profile all last weekend, knowing that the end was near.
It wasn’t as difficult as I expected. The software has simple, easy to follow instructions and walked me through the process, step by step. It never has been as difficult as I imagined, but this could have been the year. And, HOORAY! We don’t have to pay. I won’t be going to prison anywhere. At least not this year.
He came home all smiles. He didn’t comment on the last-minute-ness of my tax work. He didn’t make any suggestions about how I could do it differently next year. He just brought me a present. A bottle of Riunite Lambrusco.
He remembered my favorite wine.
“I had trouble finding it.” he said. “I looked all over the store. It was on the bottom shelf. Guess that’s where they keep the cheap stuff.”
This I promise myself. I won’t wait until the last minute next year. I’ll put important documents and receipts away promptly – somewhere it makes sense so I will be able to find them. I’ll consider investing in one of those bookkeeping software programs. Next year I'll start as soon as I get my husband’s W2. Next year.

This year, I had a nice glass of  red wine with grilled chicken. It’s nice being married to someone who loves me and buys me cheap wine because I like it and won’t mention that you’re supposed to drink white wine with chicken.

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