Confessions of a Tax Collector (5 page)

“They’ll stretch,” I said. “I’ll break ‘em in.” He looked at me dubiously, then shrugged.
Help me be human.

One afternoon I drove down to Powell, the county seat, to have myself fingerprinted. My fingerprints would be sent to FBI headquarters in Washington as part of my background check. I thought of that unpaid speeding ticket in Chicago five years before—or had I paid it? Jim Neyland wanted detail-oriented people, not speeders and definitely not speeders who can’t remember if they paid the fine. I had two library books about six years overdue, but I didn’t see how running my prints could implicate me.

“So you’re going to work for the IRS, huh?” the clerk at the sheriff’s office asked.

“I guess I am,” I said.

She made a face, an expression not unlike Geena Davis’s when Jeff Goldblum’s ear came off. “Ugh,” she said.

I walked back to my car, hands jammed deep into my pockets: I didn’t want anyone to see the stains on my fingertips and assume the worst. I wondered if the clerk ever had said to anyone, “So you just murdered your girlfriend, huh? Ugh!”

My fingerprints were now on file with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I would never be able to commit a felony with any spontaneity and get away with it. For every door that opens, another closes.

I contacted my alma mater in Chicago and instructed it to forward a copy of my transcripts to the Internal Revenue Service in Lakeside, Florida. I drove to the federal building that same day with my diploma: the Service wanted proof that I had actually earned one. A man wearing a pocket protector answered my knock on the door.

“This is a private office,” he said. “You want Taxpayer Service down the hall.”

I showed him my diploma.

“Oh, so you’re one of
those”
he said. He shut the door in my face, taking my diploma with him. I waited in the hall, feeling awkward and strangely exposed, like a man who has ducked into the women’s room by accident. The big man appeared after a moment and handed the diploma back to me.

“Okay, I made a copy of it,” he said. “English degree, huh?” He laughed, shook his head, and shut the door in my face. I wasn’t allowed in yet.

That night I dug through the trunk of my car, the last repository of all things I couldn’t find. Pam came outside and stood behind me, looking over my shoulder.

“What now?” she asked.

“I’m looking for something.”

“Good luck.”

“My tax returns for the past three years.”

“Oh. Why?”

“They’re going to audit me.”

“They won’t audit me, will they?”

“Pam, why would they audit you? We don’t file together.”

“But we live together.”

“They don’t know that.”

“The address on the returns is the same.”

“You think they cross-reference every address?”

“Oh, you bet I do. They better not audit me, Rick.”

“They won’t audit you.”

“You’ll stop them?”

“Pam, trust me. They won’t audit you. Well, I supposed they might audit you, but it would have nothing to do with me.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I’m only being audited because I’m going to work there.”

“You know what’s so annoying about you? You say everything with such conviction. And the more uncertain you are, the more certain you sound. The truth is the truth, Rick, you can’t believe something into being.”

“Okay. I’ll make a note of that.”

She watched me pawing through the debris for another moment, then said, “I don’t even remember you filing last year.”

“Well, I did.”

“Did you make enough money to file?”

“I had to pay, remember?” I remembered the exact amount: $256.74, for self-employment tax based on my theater income. Pam had been livid: I was broke, and she paid the tax for me.

“Well, I guess now you’ll be able to pay me back.” she said.

JANUARY 13, 1991

“All right. This is it,” Gina Tate said. “After this, there’s no turning back. You are about to be inducted into service to the United States of America. If you have any second thoughts at all, speak now or forever hold your

Peace…Raise your right hand and repeat after me: ‘I do solemnly swear…that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United

States… against all enemies, foreign and domestic… that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same… that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion… and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties… on which I am about to enter… So help me God.‘ Congratulations, and welcome aboard.“

The five new-hires of the Lakeside post-of-duty gathered in the conference room—the same room in which the video was shown on the night of the open house. We had introduced ourselves moments before taking the oath, over coffee and orange juice.

There was Allison, the youngest, only a couple years out of college. She’d had only one other job, as a bookkeeper for a local trucking company. Of the five of us, Allison was the only one with a business degree. Her features were round and pasty white, based on some dubious advice from the clerk at the Clinique counter at the mall. Her hair was jet black and teased upward to give an impression of height: she was about five foot four, in heels.

Rachel, the oldest, was in her mid-forties, married to a drug company rep. The mother of two, Rachel was returning to work now that the youngest was out of elementary school. She seemed, on first impression, to be much too kind and gentle to be a tax collector.

Dee was a year older than Allison and three years younger than I. She was thin, with a pageboy haircut and a childlike, freckly face. Her degree was in psychology. “I’m not staying with this very long,” she confided. “Just till I save up enough to money to get back into school. I love school. Don’t you love school? I wish it had never ended.” I agreed, and told her I liked it so much I spent seven years at it, to maximize my pleasure. She did not laugh, though I meant it as a joke. Her brows came together. Oh, God, I thought. She’s analyzing me. Never use the words
maximize
and
pleasure
in the presence of a psych major.

Caroline had been a major in the army reserves before leaving to complete her government service with the IRS. She was painfully thin, with a high forehead, a birdlike nose, and a pointy chin. Married, with two small children, Caroline was earnest to a fault. Her immediate supervisor in the reserves was Colonel Richard Brane. His nickname was Dick. Caroline never saw the humor in this or, if she did, never acknowledged it. She was very excited about the job. “Did you hear we get to spend three weeks in Tampa—all expenses paid?”

I didn’t recognize any of them from the open house, which made me wonder, not for the first time, if a mistake had been made—perhaps not on a cosmic scale, but that I had been plucked from the wrong pool of applicants. Where was Freddy Listrom? It seemed extraordinary that I had made the cut and Freddy Listrom had not.

We sat at the large conference tables and spent two hours filling out forms. W-4S, life and health insurance declarations, security systems clearance certificates. Forms for savings bonds, the Thrift Savings Plan—the IRS version of a 401(k)—Union enrollment forms.

“Everyone is entitled to representation by NTEU,” Gina said.

“What’s NTEU?” Allison asked.

“The National Treasury Employees Union,” a voice boomed from the doorway. Towering there was a corpulent black man wearing a short-sleeve dress shirt and Sansabelt pants that terminated two inches above his scuffed shoes.

“Ah, right on cue,” Gina said. “Folks, this is Toby Peterson. He’s another of my senior Grade Twelve revenue officers. He is also a Union Steward.”

“Why is there a union?” Rachel asked. “I thought federal workers couldn’t strike.”

“That’s a good question,” Toby said. “And I’ll get to it soon as she’s out of here.”

“She” was Gina, who ducked her head and hurried from the room, a small, secretive smile playing on her lips. Toby pulled up a chair and sat down, his enormous thighs jutting over the edge of the seat. He folded his arms over his chest and said, “Damn, you all just a bunch of babies!”

“Thank you!” Rachel said.

“My name is Toby Peterson and I’m the Union Steward for this post-of-duty. I’m the one person you need when the shit goes down, and the shit
will
go down.” He looked at Allison. “No, we can’t strike, child. But we do have certain rights under a contract between NTEU and the IRS. In that mountain of crap in front of you is a copy of the contract. If you do just one thing tonight, take that contract home and read it. It’s the only lifeline you got, ‘cause you all in deep water now, whether you know it or not.”

“What happens if we don’t join the Union?” Allison asked.

“Then your ass is grass. In some cases, we’ll still represent you, but only to enforce the contract. This POD has one hundred percent enrollment ‘cause management here is one hundred percent FOS”

“FOS?” Caroline asked.

“Full of shit,” Rachel translated for her. There were, it seemed, acronyms for profanity.

“That’s right,” Toby said. “So my advice would be to sign up. It’s only ten bucks a pay period. Think of it as an insurance policy—you don’t really need it till you really need it.” He glanced at the door and leaned toward us. His booming voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I feel sorry for you all. They gonna do things to you. Things you won’t even believe. Shit, things I won’t believe. Half of you won’t be here by this time next year.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. He held it up for us to see the words, written in large block letters: they’re listening. He jabbed a finger at the ceiling tiles above us. He flipped the paper over. On the other side was written, phones too.

“But you hang in there,” he boomed, causing us to jump in our chairs. “Anybody want to talk to me, today or anytime, I’m in that little suite down the hall, last door on your right. Give your enrollment forms to me. Be the most important form you fill out your entire career—and, believe me, you’re gonna be fillin‘ out a helluva lot of forms.”

He stuffed the paper back in his pocket and lumbered from the room. There was a silence, then Rachel said, “Well, that was encouraging.” Gina returned with the same small smile she took with her. Following her, like obedient ducklings, were Henry, Melissa, Beth, and a tall middle-aged blonde I had not seen before.

“Well,” Gina said brightly. “You’ve met Toby, and here’s the rest of the group, with the exception of Mr. Culpepper, who’s on special assignment.”

“He’s always on some kind of
assignment
,” Henry said.

Gina ignored him. “I think you already know Beth and Melissa from the open house. And Henry, of course. This is Cindy Sandifer. She’s a recent transfer from the New Orleans District.”

“Welcome aboard,” Cindy Sandifer said. “Now, please, y’all don’t tell me your names all at once. I’ll never keep ‘em straight.”

“I know ‘em all already,” Henry said. He pointed at Dee, “Anabelle.” At Allison, “Rachel.” At Rachel, “Caroline.” At Caroline, “And… Caroline.” He laughed. Perhaps he realized his mistake or recognized the oddity of two of the trainees having the same name. He did not say my name.

“I’m Allison,” Allison said.

“Dee.”

“Rachel.”

“He got my name right,” Caroline said.

“Rick,” I said.

“He’s an
actor”
Henry said to Cindy in a stage-whisper.

“We suspect he may be simply here to research a role,” Gina said.

Beth said, “Welcome aboard, everyone,” and left the room. Henry said he had an important call to make, and left. Melissa said, “This is very important: never go to Henry for help. Never ask him a question. If he gives you any advice, just nod and say, ‘Uh-huh,’ then find me—or Cindy.”

“Cindy and Melissa will be your On-the-Job Instructors,” Gina said. “Dee, Rachel, and Caroline will work with Cindy. Allison and Rick, you’re Melissa’s.”

Melissa smiled humorlessly at me. I lowered my eyes. I did not want to be Melissa’s. My impression from the second interview, in which I indirectly corrected her grammar, was she didn’t like me.

“Melissa and Cindy will review all your work—before it comes to me for final approval. They are your coaches and first point-of-contact during the training year. Always check with your OJI first—that’s what they’re here for. They will accompany you to the field, sit in on interviews, monitor your phone calls, review all correspondence—at least until you’re comfortable and
we’re
comfortable with your progress. During these next two weeks, they will familiarize you with our procedures and some of the basic elements of the job—what we do here. In front of you is a booklet entitled ‘Revenue Officer Pre-Phase Training.’”

Caroline fingered the edge of the booklet. Melissa said sharply, “Don’t touch that yet!” and Caroline snatched her hand away, smiling apologetically in Melissa’s direction.

Gina said, “You’ll work through this material until you leave for Tampa. Oh, and by the way, we don’t have listening devices in the ceiling and your phones are not tapped. Any questions?”

Yes
, I thought,
how did you know what was on Toby’s paper
?

Allison asked, “When do we get to see our offices?”

We did not have offices. Five desks had been arranged in a large room at the rear of the building. There were two extra desks for our OJIs. We were not allowed to pick where we would sit. Rachel would be directly behind me, Allison to my right. Dee and Caroline would sit on the other side of the room. The desks were government-issued, at least twenty years old.

“Where does everyone else sit?” Allison asked.

“There’s a suite of offices beside this room,” Gina said.

“Everyone else gets a private office?”

“We’re not trainees,” Melissa snapped at her.

“You don’t know how lucky you are,” Gina told Allison. “In the Stone Age, when I came on board, four ROs shared one church-social type folding table, with a single phone in the middle. We had to stare at each other all day and take turns with the phone. On the upside, it encouraged fieldwork.”