Tax day was a number. A day to call my Grandpa. Congratulate him on one more year closer to his goal. 100. This year it’s just April 15th.
She tallied his receipts and saw a pattern emerge. A few calls later she wished she’d hired an accountant; ignorance was preferable to this.
Not only did Tom take off with the till, he left us a $60,000 tax bill, stripping the Chrome Cafe, and our friendship, of its shine.
He mailed his balance-due check directly to Afghanistan, writing “Good luck” and drawing a peace symbol on the back of the envelope.
My dog did my taxes this year. Humped the hell out of them. Smoked a cigarette and burned them to curled black detritus. “Good dog!”
The doorbell rings. You look up over your W-2s, remove your reading glasses, & move to the door. Uncle Sam smiles at you. “Time to submit.“