“What is this rap, rap, rapping on my door.” I channel Edgar Allen Poe as I throw the door wide. “Oh.” I pause, looking at the thin, rumpled man standing on the threshold.”
“Not who you expected?” He smiles wanly at me, extending his hand for me to shake. “My name is Edgar Dunes. I have been assigned to audit your taxes by the IRS.”
“But I…”
He holds up a hand to stop my protests. “This is a painless process as long as you cooperate.” His eyes survey my tiny home, unkempt lawn, and decades old automobile as he fumbles in his pocket producing an official looking card with his picture. “This is my ID and this is for you.” He hands me a piece of paper.
I see his beady eyes peering over my shoulder as I briefly digest the contents of the single sheet of paper. As I realize he really works for the Internal Revenue Service and has been sent here in an official capacity, memories of filling out my last tax form flood me with shame. I knew I would end up owing the government last year, so I fudged a few numbers to keep me just under the point where I would need to pay. At least, I didn’t try to get a refund I didn’t deserve.
By this point, Mr. Dunes has moved from looking around to sniffing the air. At first he tries to be subtle about it, taking a little sniff and then trying to keep his face from reacting. I lean down to make sure I put on deodorant. The smell of baby powder reassures me. Then he lifts his nose and takes another big inhale. Finally aware that I am watching him, he stops sniffing and fixes me with a stern glare.
“As you can see that paper assures me the right to go over your financial records to make sure the government gets their due from all your hard work.”
“I am sure everything is in order,” I smile back at him, trying to figure out how best to bribe him so this all goes away, but I don’t have any money. He has already seen that.
“Let’s take a look, shall we?”
“Do we need to look or is there some other way we can resolve this?” I try to offer him a seductive smile.
He doesn’t seem to notice, he is looking toward my kitchen now. “Do you have something in your oven?”
“Yes, I do,” I lower my voice in a way I hope is sexy and alluring.
He leans in and pats my hand, “I really would like to help you.”
“Oh?” I smile and steel myself for what I think is coming since his face is now inches from mine.
“Your house smells like my mother’s banana bread.” He leans back and looks longingly toward my
kitchen again.
Until that moment, I had completely forgotten what I had in my oven. I lose all pretense of seduction as I respond, “I used my mother’s recipe.”
“I haven’t found any that compares to mother’s.” He pauses to mull something over, slipping a paper that looks like a copy of my last text return from his messenger bag to peer at the numbers. “How about I help you amend your tax return, so you can pay the bare minimum in reparations while I try a piece of your banana bread and see how it compares to my mother.”
“Bare minimum?” I ask, hopefully.
“Yes. It looks like you just messed up a couple of calculations. It would be a pity to fine you for a simple mistake.”
I open the door and usher him in. “That sounds perfect. Let me get you a slice of bread while you get started.”
He giggles and rubs his hands together happily as he sits down at the kitchen table and begins pulling papers and pens from his bag.
~On a side note, I have had at least three people tell me my banana bread is the best they have ever had, so I probably could get out of paying taxes with the right auditor.~
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