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Mad Dash
By Donna Sprague
Fri Apr 25, 2008, 01:58 PM EDT
It began in February when the Beloved and I had our taxes done at Liberty and had the refund two weeks later. I mentioned it to Tim who, buried in work, was not impressed or interested in the slightest.
That was the usual “slow” time for his motocross, truck wrapping and signs, yet we had UPS delivering huge amounts of supplies about once a week. I dreaded the busier spring as I work with Tim when not at my gig at the Memory Unit. I work for large blocks of days and nights in a row.
In March I began the tax countdown in earnest, punctuated with the terrifying stories we've all heard about how the IRS has no humor where late taxes are concerned.
But, we had banners to produce, windows to letter, and even an ice cream truck to decorate with images of dogs and balloons.
In April, Lisa, who loves tax time what with all her deductions joined me in the terrifying of Tim with more down and dirty IRS tales. He thought we were fooling.
Then there was finally time, a break in the production action at the shop, when Tim announced, “It's time to do the taxes!” It was 7:30 p.m. on April 15. Despite my early return, I had now again joined the ranks of the lemmings heading for the cliff!
I instant messaged with my friend, Joe, whilst Tim compiled and added from the files I'd kept all year. Tim had intended to e-file but I talked him into going the mail route. Joe and I discovered that the only Post Office which would be open until midnight was the Dorchester Avenue branch in Boston! Evidently the disc jockey who announced that the Providence PO would be open til midnight is looking for another job...
It was 9:15 and Tim was still adding and writing on the forms. I began having visions of my son in debtor's prison or wherever the IRS puts late filers these days. He was cool and calm and working carefully as if he had all the time in the world.
I got the driving directions from a nice lady at the 800 PO number, and made sure the stamps were on the envelopes.
At 11:15, we ran out to the truck and headed up Route 95 and then to 93, through lots and lots of construction, but with nicely flowing traffic.
That is until we were 3 tenths of a mile from the Post Office where we hit a major traffic snarl on Atlantic Avenue, and I noticed people leaping from their vehicles and running down the street clutching envelopes in their hands.
I tossed the Map Quest directions to Tim, jumped out of the truck and bolted down the street. A man gave me a hot tip that I could cut across the tracks in South Station to get directly to the PO. Dangerous sounding but I was on a mission! Just then a small blond woman jogged by and I gasped, “Do you know the way to the Post Office?” She nodded in the affirmative
and I jogged behind her, breathing like the Hulk.
The people coming away from the PO had relaxed expressions as we huffed and puffed by and into one of those annoying revolving doors I invariably get stuck in. This time I streaked through without a hitch and followed my new best friend down a long hall.
There, like a heavenly vision, were rows and rows of tables behind which sat women with boxes into which they were depositing envelopes. “If they have stamps, I can take them right here...” One angelic creature told us.
I handed over my envelopes and watch Tim's taxes get stamped with a red post mark.
Talk about waiting to exhale!
Bonnie and I walked back to where I'd left Tim. On the way, I suspect because I had mentioned I was considering killing my late-filing son, she shared a story with me. Her husband had died young in 2002 of a brain tumor. The message to me was clear: don't sweat the small stuff ( even the IRS ) and enjoy loved ones while you still have them.
Back on Atlantic Avenue, Tim had traveled a whopping 30 feet during my Olympic run.
I jumped up into the truck and yelled, “That was great! Let's do it again!”
Email Sprague at donna@povertyflats.com
