A Man Walks Into an Office
I parked my car and looked around the tiny parking lot— I played here as a kid. It was set on a steep hill in the Downtown area and over to the far end there was a drop to the sidewalk of about fifteen feet. As a kid we’d made a lifesize dummy and dragged it down there just in time for the 4pm Saturday Mass to be letting out of the large Cathedral across the street— in our best adult voice we yelled out “I can’t take it anymore!” and then we hurled him over the railing to the shock and dismay of two church ladies making their way down the church stairs.
I don’t know how the cops showed up so quickly in those days before cell phones but as we gathered up our fallen buddy we were soon surrounded by police on motorcycles with guns drawn telling us to freeze. I heard one of the cops yell out “It’s a dummy!” and soon they all started laughing. I wasn’t sure if they were getting personal or they were talking about my stuffed friend.
I don’t remember getting a lecture— adults love to lecture— and I remember them seeming to be in on the joke, but we never dared to pull it again.
I smiled as I rounded the corner into the Office Building, the dumb things we do as kids. The Office Building was actually a converted major Department Store— where I’d also spent a lot of time as a kid. The interior had been converted into suites so it bore no resemblance to anything I might remember in those distant memory.
The place was a maze filled with various public service offices and private ones. Most seemed a little past their prime, not so my Tax Attorney’s Office— it occupied at least three suites and was lavishly decorated with actual wooden walls and leather couches and chairs— the receptionist looked up and I smiled at her “Is he in?” I asked without missing a step.
“I’ll let him know you’re here.” She chased after me a bit, I just kept walking.
I knocked on his open door and entered his personal office. While the rest of the suite was immaculate his own office was a mess of papers, stacks of briefs, ashtrays and an open bottle of whiskey. On his wall were assorted full size college football helmets— it looked like he had the entire NCAA conference.
He was as worn as his office, his shirt untucked, his tie loosely unknotted, he seemed like he hadn’t slept in days. It was, after all, April 15th, tax day for most of the world, but in Massachusetts because of Patriots Day and other assorted reasons we usually have until the 17th or 18th (Important to note that this year, 2025 - tax day is April 15th so don’t delay). At this point I liked to mail in my return with a good old fashioned check, so I needed the print out.
He took a minute, printed out my return and I wished him good luck.
Tax Day— I feel for all of you accountants out there.
