I just returned from a visit to Roger, my tax man. Roger is a retired Tax God who now works out of his home, wearing sweater vests and velcro shoes. His basement office walls are adorned with family photos. This one photo of Roger, where he’s wearing some sort of military uniform, appears to be 30 or 40 years old. And I’m reminded how much I love seeing the photo every spring.
And I’m reminded how completely clueless I am about the income tax system in this country. I should win an Oscar for my portrayal as an informed, tax-paying citizen after a night like tonight. If I asked Roger about every aspect of filing my taxes that I don’t understand, we’d be there all night.
So I nod my head a lot when he’s explaining things to me, using his slim yellow highlighter to indicate the important details of my tax return.
Roger is the gentlest of souls, so his approach allows me to hide my ignorance for the hour I’m there. He doesn’t press me on specifics.
But, more likely, Roger knows how dumb I am and he’s too nice to say anything.
So I suck on a peppermint from the candy dish on his desk and just smile until the 60 minutes have passed.