“I’ve made a horrible mistake.”
This is the first thing I said to the UPS Store clerk when I walked in 15 minutes before closing on April 17.
I’d just finished my taxes. And I needed help.
I didn’t care that he wasn’t a CPA. I didn’t care that this wasn’t the post office. I needed a government official. An authority figure. And he was the closest I could find.
“I’ve made a horrible mistake,” I repeated. “Several, actually.”
He laughed. Asked me what I did, what I needed.
“I think I need to print my returns, but I’m not sure. Do you think I need to print them?”
“I submitted them online, but it told me to print something and mail it in. That seems ridiculous. Do you think that seems ridiculous?”
He shrugged again.
“I feel like I’m missing something. Do you think I’m missing something?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure. I’ve never done my taxes myself,” he admitted.
While I was not attracted to this man, this struck me as an immediate turn off. I like my men independent. Self sufficient. Smart enough to do their own taxes and fuck up their own taxes like a responsible adult. Certainly, I should have never been allowed to start mine without a CPA present. But still. What a little bitch ass.
“I have a voucher. I owe a million dollars. Not a millions dollars. But a lot. This is my first time being self-employed,” I gushed. I tend to over-share when I’m nervous.
“I think you just need to mail that voucher,” he said. “Want me to print it?”
I emailed him the voucher and he handed me a blank envelope.
“Here. Start addressing this while I go print your stuff in the back,” he said.
I studied his face. At this point, I was certain I’d be going away for 10 to 15. And though I knew prison would change me, I hoped I’d be kind enough to thank his little bitch ass when I got out.
When he came back, I handed him the finished envelope.
“I spelled Cincinnati wrong. Do you think they’ll take it?”
“Yeah, probably,” he said.
“Cool,” I responded, as if the envelope didn’t include a check for my entire bank account.
He stamped my letter, dropped it in the mail bin and charged me for his services.
“Thanks for your help,” I said, picking up the credit cards, Euros and receipts I’d strewn about in the chaos.
“You’re welcome. Hey. Good luck, man,” he added ominously.
I studied his face again. He knew something, this government official.
Yeah. I’m going away for a long time.