I think it was Alvin Greenberg who once wrote (and I'm paraphrasing here), "Who, upon receiving an anonymous telegram reading FLEE, ALL IS DISCOVERED, would not do exactly that, wondering which dark and foreboding secret of one's past had recently come to light and where." Such a telegram I agree, with its generic and all-encompassing accusation, could prove extremely worrisome to the addressee.
However, by no means does it compare to the sensation when, shortly after filing your return, you receive via U.S. Mail an officious looking envelope whose return address glaringly states it is from the Internal Revenue Service. This sensation quickly transforms itself into one of unadulterated terror when having read the letter, your thoughts repeatedly return to the phrase FIELD AUDIT which has been sprinkled strategically throughout the paragraphs in large, bold, capital letters for maximum effect.
The rest of the letter is as confusing as the forms you are provided with to file your return and for a few minutes you cling to the hope that maybe, just maybe, the form letter was really intended for "Fast" Freddy Freeloader who lives two doors down from you in the apartment complex. Notwithstanding this slim ray of hope, sweaty palms ensue, along with depressing Kafka-esque visions of a dour-faced accountant type poring over your whole life history of the past five years.
I had nightmares for a week and that high pitched noise in my ear which no one else seems to hear stepped up its frequency to twice a day. I wondered if I had unwittingly slipped into the netherworld of white collar crime through a misplaced decimal point on my return. (I had always hated math in school and preferred anything to do with the English language.) Would the judge believe that these preferences in my early formative years, and ones which I had no control over, had precipitated my unceremonious downfall from upstanding, forthright citizen to common criminal? Such defenses have worked in the past, but then I wasn't a serial killer. I was a criminal of a much more serious bent. I was guilty of THE SIN, a heinous omission known in legal parlance as TAX EVASION; just look at Al Capone's or Leona Helmsley's eventual demise. The only thing which would save me now would be an appointment to a cabinet post and that just wasn't going to happen. The whole thing was too nefarious to think about.
An ominous follow up letter arrived, announcing the date when a Mr. E. B. Jones, my field representative would be visiting me. It politely stated that I should have all the necessary documentation ready as this would save valuable time, which in turn would save the real taxpayers money.
I never did meet Mr. Jones. I'm sure he's a very nice man and very good at his job. I have looked in the phone book of Santos, Brazil, where I moved to and there is no one by that name in this pleasant port city. The weather, food and people are great and my Portuguese is improving by leaps and bounds. I guess Alvin Greenberg was right after all. I wonder who does his returns.
However, by no means does it compare to the sensation when, shortly after filing your return, you receive via U.S. Mail an officious looking envelope whose return address glaringly states it is from the Internal Revenue Service. This sensation quickly transforms itself into one of unadulterated terror when having read the letter, your thoughts repeatedly return to the phrase FIELD AUDIT which has been sprinkled strategically throughout the paragraphs in large, bold, capital letters for maximum effect.
The rest of the letter is as confusing as the forms you are provided with to file your return and for a few minutes you cling to the hope that maybe, just maybe, the form letter was really intended for "Fast" Freddy Freeloader who lives two doors down from you in the apartment complex. Notwithstanding this slim ray of hope, sweaty palms ensue, along with depressing Kafka-esque visions of a dour-faced accountant type poring over your whole life history of the past five years.
I had nightmares for a week and that high pitched noise in my ear which no one else seems to hear stepped up its frequency to twice a day. I wondered if I had unwittingly slipped into the netherworld of white collar crime through a misplaced decimal point on my return. (I had always hated math in school and preferred anything to do with the English language.) Would the judge believe that these preferences in my early formative years, and ones which I had no control over, had precipitated my unceremonious downfall from upstanding, forthright citizen to common criminal? Such defenses have worked in the past, but then I wasn't a serial killer. I was a criminal of a much more serious bent. I was guilty of THE SIN, a heinous omission known in legal parlance as TAX EVASION; just look at Al Capone's or Leona Helmsley's eventual demise. The only thing which would save me now would be an appointment to a cabinet post and that just wasn't going to happen. The whole thing was too nefarious to think about.
An ominous follow up letter arrived, announcing the date when a Mr. E. B. Jones, my field representative would be visiting me. It politely stated that I should have all the necessary documentation ready as this would save valuable time, which in turn would save the real taxpayers money.
I never did meet Mr. Jones. I'm sure he's a very nice man and very good at his job. I have looked in the phone book of Santos, Brazil, where I moved to and there is no one by that name in this pleasant port city. The weather, food and people are great and my Portuguese is improving by leaps and bounds. I guess Alvin Greenberg was right after all. I wonder who does his returns.
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