The Audit
by
Rory McClannahan
Redmond Gardner stared at the letter under the glow of the fluorescent light. His Cheerios were going soggy in the green bowl his wife, Maggie, had bought the day before. At first he thought nothing of her buying bowls, they needed new ones. But that was before the letter had come in the mail later in the day. It was marked: U.S. Government, Department of Taxation and Revenue. He was being audited. He stared at the letter informing him in its bureaucratic efficiency that there was a problem with the return he had filled out the month before, and to please go to the nearest center at his earliest convenience—as long as it was before the end of the month. He was also informed to bring all relevant paperwork. That’s how he knew he was screwed. He didn’t have the relevant paperwork because he told a couple of little white lies.
“It will be ok, Red.” It was Maggie, up earlier than usual. He looked at her. Her eyes were still a magnificent green even though her brown hair had been replaced by silver when she was in her forties. Her worry lines looking a little more worried this morning.
“I don’t know, Sunshine. I think I’m in real trouble this time.” He said, getting up and throwing the soggy Cheerios down the sink and turning on the garbage disposal.
“What do you mean?” she asked, the lines on her forehead becoming crevasses.
“I lied on the paperwork.” He knew she would want to know why and he wasn’t sure he could explain it so she would understand. Hell, he didn’t understand it very well. But after 30 years of marriage, she knew him well enough to know that he still did some stupid things in the name of principal. Especially when the government or some large corporation wanted to know personal information about him. The government or corporation always claimed the information was private and wouldn’t be used by anyone except people who were authorized to use it. Red knew that could add up to a few more people than he cared to think about. Maggie always laughed at him when he put the wrong telephone number on a magazine subscription or the incorrect social security number on a bank account. It was harmless. But now his principles got him in trouble. He never figured the government would audit him.
“How bad?” Maggie tried to remain calm.
“I’m in big trouble.” Her eyes turned red almost immediately and he knew what was coming. She never liked it when she cried, always called it a stupid female thing to do, but sometimes that couldn’t stop her. The tears came flowing out and Redmond Gardner went to his wife of 39 years. Maggie Gardner held on to him as tightly as she could.
“Maybe it won’t be that bad,” he lied.
“Mr. Garner. Is this some kind of joke? Don’t you believe the government is serious when it asks you to fill out these forms according to the instructions included in the booklet.” The little man with the ponytail, earring and funny little beard looked hard at Gardner. Red was mad this little bureaucrat couldn’t even read his name correctly off the computer screen which turned the man’s complexion an off-white.
“The name is Gardner,” Red said in a steady even tone. “You people never get my name right. And yes, I know what I was doing. Did you know that your instruction book is fifty pages long for the short form?”
“Irregardless,” the annoying young man said, and before he could finish his dramatic pause, Red had to say something.
“That’s not even a word.”
“What isn’t?” The little man had lost his train of thought.
“Irregardless,” Red said and he sat back in the uncomfortable plastic chair he was forced to sit in and crossed his arms. The bureaucrat took off his little round granny glasses wiped them on his tie, replaced them to his peanut head and directed his attention to Red.
“Irregardless, Mr. Garner. You are bound by law to fill out a return every year. And the return must be filled out according to the instructions.” Now the bureaucrat leaned back in his chair and looked smugly at Red.
“You have no right to judge me,” Red said, leaning forward in his chair. He could feel a lock of gray hair falling down on his forehead. He knew it made him look like a lunatic, but right now he felt like one. “You don’t even know my name and when I walk out of this building, you won’t even know my face.”
“I think you’re a little confused Mr. ...” he man with the little beard looked at his screen. “Mr. Garner. I don’t need to remember your face. All relevant information about you, including photos are in our data base. I can access information about your work history, your wife’s favorite perfume and how many times you’ve had sex in the last 10 years.” The little man leaned toward him, as if talking to a confidant. “I don’t think you understand the gravity of this situation. I think you told lies on your return. And you should be old enough to know that you shouldn’t tell lies to the government. If everyone did that, our society would break down.” The man leaned back, winked at Red and began twirling the little diamond earring in his right ear. The bureaucrat was trying to communicate something to Red, but he had no idea what it was. Red didn’t know if he was being mocked or come on to. But whatever it was it was making him angry.
“Can we just get on with this?” Red grumbled.
“Of course.” The bureaucrat turned back to his computer screen and punched several keys. “I just want to check some of these things before we get to the meat. You’re 63, right?”
“Yes.”
“Retired?”
“Yes.”
“A little young to be retired, don’t you think?”
“Not really.” The bureaucrat grunted.
“Married, one child. Does your son live with you?”
“I thought you know everything about me?”
“I do. I was just making small talk.” The bureaucrat tapped a few more keys and then leaned back and folded his hands behind his head.
“Here we go,” he said cheerfully. “Now here on your return, you claim to have worked 20 hours a week of community service at a place called the Silver Springs Country Club. What sort of organization is this?”
“It’s a country club.”
“I see, I see,” the bureaucrat punched a few keys. “And what exactly did you do there in the form of community service?”
“I checked the golf course for gopher holes and to see if wind was a factor in club members enjoyment in golfing there.”
“And is it?”
“Not really.”
“And you did this service for free?”
“Actually I paid them for the privilege.”
“That is impressive Mr. Garner,” the bureaucrat said, punching a few more keys.
“Okay, on to something else. Do you love your son?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, Mr. Garner. I don’t like to argue with you, but we have indications that you don’t. When we cross reference your account with that of your son’s, we find that one of you is lying. He says you didn’t spend enough time with him when he was younger. What do you say to that?”
“I spent plenty of time with him. I never missed any activity he was involved in.”
“Yes, but you didn’t encourage him to play soccer and he says that may have damaged him for life.”
“Is it that important?”
“Every child should be given the opportunity to play soccer.”
“I didn’t know.” Red sat back and rubbed his chin while the bureaucrat tapped some more on the key board. The tension was mounting as he would type in something and sit back and stare at the screen, then lean back in and type some more. Finally, he turned to face Red.
“Here’s the problem,” he started with no real emotional connection. “By your last return you can’t justify your existence. You added several numbers incorrectly and that didn’t help your case. Plus, there just isn’t much use for old men anymore. Computers have stored our knowledge so we don’t need your brand of wisdom anymore.” The bureaucrat got up and went to a filing cabinet and pulled out a form.
“Now here’s what you can do,” he said as he sat back in the chair facing Red. “You can take a government supplied cyanide capsule and do yourself in, you can have the police come and shoot you or you can appeal.”
“I’ll appeal,” Red said.
“Yeah, I thought so. What you have to do is fill out this form and return it here within 10 days. Do you have a lawyer?”
“No.”
“Well, you’ll need one. A hearing officer will schedule a hearing within a year. Any questions?” The bureaucrat turned back to his computer screen assuming Red wouldn’t have any questions.
“How long does this usually take?” Red asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. We haven’t had to terminate anyone yet. The appeals office is backed up. Some cases are almost 20 years old. Have a nice day Mr. Garner.”
Red smiled. Maybe the government wasn’t so bad after all.
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