We had our taxes done this evening by a wonderful CPA we’ve been seeing since before the turn of the aughts. He is tall and bony, with a hint of pre-pubescence in his voice and the scarcest of curls framing his overly-cheeky, slightly-freckled face. Imagine if Alfalfa and Alfred E. Newman were capable of procreation and you’d have their progeny.
Not exactly the features that elicit the calming peace of mind you want from someone handling your finances, but he has seen us through some errant years, some Schedule C, self-employment years, and one rough year when the Bordeaux, France-based company I worked for magnificently fucked things up.
Tonight I noted that he seems to have not changed a bit. Yet, it has been close to fifteen years. And then I thought: neither have we. At least in one very specific way. We have never once arrived with every piece of paperwork we need. Sometimes it’s just a quick jog out to the car to retrieve a page left behind. Sometimes it’s a drive home or a purse-rummaging or a phone call to the mortgage lender. Sometimes I completely forget to pay City taxes for the entire year and when he brings it up, I am surprisingly surprised as if I didn’t see that coming.
In short, we are not meant for this world of record keeping and currency shifting and balancing of scales. But we must exist in it. And that’s why we have Alfalfred.
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