The Taxman

I walk down to my stupid community mailbox to check my mail. The idiocy of these types of mailboxes strikes me, as it has every other time I’ve checked my mail. Bills. Magazines. Junk Mail. A package slip!

I couldn’t remember what I ordered, but that happens a lot. I start driving towards the post office, eager to get whatever gadget I’ve ordered this time. Stopped at a red light, I look more closely at the slip. It’s not a package, it’s a certified letter. And it’s from the IRS.

Crap.

I had assumed that I would eventually be audited. I pay my taxes and all that, but my record keeping department is less than exemplary. Actually, it’s nowhere near exemplary. This was inevitable.

I press on the accelerator, eager to get this over with.

There’s no one in line at the post office, so I go straight to the pickup window. The lady goes to the back to dig up my letter. Noticing my heart rate increasing, I try to lower it. “This is a great opportunity to practice remaining calm in anxiety laden situations”, I think. I take a few deep breaths and try to stop fidgeting.

My eyes lock with the post office employee’s for a second. The IRS. I’m getting audited. If I were a human, I’d be slightly embarassed. I sign for the letter and open it as I walk back to my car.

It’s a thick envelope, full of pages. I scan the pages as I flip through them quickly. Collections. Leins on property. Seizure of assets. This looks scary.

I get to the end of the packet and find no reference to what they want. I go through it again more slowly, and I find a bill.

I owe the IRS $125.