The Poosey Digest: Free… at least for another season

Greetings from Poosey.

It was Déjà vu. There I sat… aging, sagging a bit to the left, running a hand over my support hose, when suddenly I was a six-year-old girl sitting in the dentist’s waiting room. Going to the dentist was the only continuing fear of my childhood. Mess with my toes, tinker with my backside, but come near my teeth and I start to squirm. Since the advent of dentures I thought I’d overcome that awful horror, then it crept up on me again. I was in the waiting room of my tax accountant. Déjà vu.

Even the magazines were the same… some with similar dates as those I nervously thumbed through in my childhood. Weird. All that was missing was the meant-to-be-soothing sounds of my mother cooing "It won’t hurt a bit," as she perused the ads for safari hats in the National Geographic. And, as in the days of my childhood, I knew that "It won’t hurt a bit," meant, "This is gonna kill you."

One of best men I ever knew was named Martin. He probably paid more taxes than anyone in our little town, and he’d tell me, "I’ll tell you fellers, April 15 is the proudest day of my year!" And he meant it. Martin believed that the dollars he sent Washington-ward were a small price for the joys and freedoms our tithing afford us. Admittedly, the Martins are a dying breed. And admittedly, Martin didn’t know my dentist.

So what is it about going to the tax preparer that strikes such fear into the average American? Dishonesty? Heck, I’m much too frightened to try to cheat even a whit on my taxes. Fear of having made a mistake? My accountant is such a wiz that he’d never allow that to happen. Anger at the government? The only tea party that stirs my cup was one held on a dark night in Boston Harbor. Maybe it’s simply the fear of the unknown.

I admire folks who say they do their own taxes. I truly do. Reconciling a simple bank statement is totally beyond my calculating powers, and I have no idea in the world how anyone can do his own taxes. Like filling a cavity, it’s beyond my reach.

My dentist was skilled, as is my accountant. Both men have right hands that deserve their own show on the Discovery Channel. The dentist was a tall fellow who looked for all the world like the actor John Forsythe. He spoke in tones used only in margarine commercials or funeral homes, and his large fingers somehow crawled into my tiny mouth and worked miracles. My tax accountant looks like everyone’s favorite Uncle Mike, with a quick grin and a right hand that can only be captured on high-speed digital cameras. The man operates three separate keyboards at once, and when he reaches for his adding machine I’m spellbound. Twice he had to repeat a question. I’d gone into a state of financial hypnosis watching his fingers flash across the numbered pad.

Many people say they experience pain when the dentist jabs them with his exploratory pick. I feel the agony as soon as he picks up the instrument. I’m not kidding. Just mention the word "drill" and I can both hear the whine of the little rotor from hell and smell the stench of the burning tooth enamel. Each time my tax man punched in a new number I recoiled. No… recoil doesn’t quite get it. I flinched. I jerked. I contorted at each calculation, and emitted a small squeal every time he pushed "enter" for the total. I was once again a child at the dentist.

Time somehow expands when you’re in a dentist’s chair. A few moments become endless hours, and that’s exactly the feeling I experienced as the accountant smiled and said, "Now let’s look at the totals." He turned his computer screen toward me. I never liked looking at x-rays of my own teeth. They always made me look dead.

Once upon a time… and only once that I recall, my dentist viewed my x-rays and announced, "Well Freida, it looks pretty good! No cavities!" I can remember the urge to fall into a blubbering mass at his feet, start kissing the tops of his Buster Brown wingtips, and offering to wash his car. I had the exact feeling this tax season when my nimble-fingered accountant said that I’d not owe any additional amount. I melted. I think I swooned. I started smelling daffodil-laden gardens and caught brief visions of the deer and the antelope playing in my cerebral cortex. You really can’t cry in front of your tax man so I withheld the tears of joy and thankfulness until I got in the car to drive home. Like a convict given a last-minute call from the governor, I was free… at least for another season.

You ever in Poosey, stop by. We may not answer the door but you’ll enjoy the trip.