What Does it Take for a Girl to Get Her Taxes Done Around Here?
Lessons a la Barry, ladies and gentleman.
Prelude
In lieu of Turbo Tax, I decided to have a real CPA prepare my taxes this year. My return was more complicated than usual; I knew a professional could save me a bit of money despite the increased service cost. I did minimal research and decided to hit up one of the chains, like HR Block. Google maps showed a Jackson Hewitt just a few miles north, and the matter was settled—I even made an appointment. I thought it was a sensible action, reducing as much friction as possible around an already nerve-wracking ordeal. I clicked over to JacksonHewitt.com and checked the weekend. Excellent availability for a Saturday, I thought, and I smashed the booking button for noon.
Well, Feelers, they didn’t send the CPA I wanted or needed; they sent the CPA I deserved. They say patience is a virtue—it’s not one of mine. Accordingly, appropriately, they sent a man named Barry. Let’s call him Barry. This is the story of Barry preparing my taxes—for the first and last time.
Saturday came, and with it, plans for an outing post-tax appointment. Anyone getting their taxes done deserves an award immediately after; nothing feels more irritating and arbitrary than shoveling thousands of hard-earned dollars into the IRS’ bottomless pockets. Mauro decided to accompany me to the tax appointment to transition into the rest of our day seamlessly. Here’s a pro tip: don’t accompany anyone to their tax appointment. Just don’t. Tax appointments are solo endeavors. Bid those unlucky folks adieu and wait for their return; don’t willfully subject your glorious free time to tax preparation by proxy. Mauro can attest to this.
The JH parking lot is comically small, sharing its few spaces with a liquor store in a dingy, truncated strip mall off Broadway. I cram my car into a free spot, and we disembark and enter. The entire office is empty and covered in dust, save for a singular desk and its hulking occupant. This, dear Feelers, is Barry. Barry, upon entrance, is hunched over his desk, bleeding profusely from the nose into a saturated napkin. I stop walking and look over at Mauro. Barry has hardly noticed our presence and continues to nurse his face. We’re ready to back right through the door again before Barry bellows, from somewhere behind his soiled tissue,
“Oh! Hello! Come right in! Come right in and sit down; make yourself comfortable!”
Mauro and I approach so slowly that Barry repeats himself. We sit. Barry continues to bleed.
“What can I do for you fine folks today?” Barry asks with a chuckle, dabbing his nose. “You’re the first customers in some days! Hah! Don’t mind my nosebleed.”
I look at Mauro and smile. He nods, understanding. It was always going to be like this.
After five additional minutes of nose wiping, we get down to business. Business—in this particular Jackson Hewitt—looks like Barry asking for a bit of information before trailing off on a personal tangent about his long tenure in Saudi as a government contractor or offering various fun facts and insights into tax law history. It dawns on Mauro and me that we will be here for a very long time.
Barry asks me to hand over my social security card and ID. I look at Mauro for a moment; his eyes are glued to Barry’s hands. I follow his gaze and discover Barry’s fingers are stained red with nose blood. I float out of my body and proceed to offer my cards to dear oblivious Barry. I’m letting Barry transfer his bodily fluids onto my government documents like it’s standard Jackson Hewitt procedure, I think. I should say something; I don’t. I brace for impact.
”Hey Barry, uhm, you’ve got some blood on your hands still,” Mauro interjects, “why don’t you just take a minute, y’know… get cleaned up? Take your time!”
Barry looks at his hands like it’s the first time he’s ever seen them.
“Ooh-ooh! Well, oh yes, I’ll—well, the bathroom is a long walk!” he explains before disappearing down the hall.
Ten minutes later, Barry returns with clean hands, and we press on at a snail’s pace. It’s excruciating. There’s no shortage of personal interludes, factoids, or two-finger-peck-typing. Mauro and I slide lower and lower in our chairs, attempting to say enough to get the pertinent information across but not enough to trigger an aside. It doesn’t work. Barry has 50+ years of material and an aside for every line in the 1040 EZ. Barry was made for this.
Mauro and I are barely responsive when Barry announces it’s time to pay and sign—thankfully, he’s managed to save me 1000 dollars. I’m satisfied. Barry instructs me to swipe my card at a terminal across the room, and I oblige; at this point, anything for Barry if it means we can leave. Barry frowns and scrunches his face. The payment was successful, but the system is confused, he explains. He clicks around, becoming more scrunched by the second.
"Sorry guys, I gotta call my supervisor,” Barry sighs. Mauro and I can’t even look at each other at this point. We’re two hours in. We’re expiring.
Barry calls his manager, and his manager tells him to call Ida. Barry calls Ida, and Ida gives him instructions. Barry implements the instructions and reports that the system is still confused. He calls his wife accidentally before repeating the phone tree sequence two more times and offering us each a Hershey’s kiss consolation. Things are getting dire. I’m squirming in my skin, I’m not sure if Mauro has a pulse anymore, and I know I have to spring into action, or we will surely perish here in Jackson Hewitt—sadly, unfortunately.
“HEY, BARRY!” I interject, “You know… you know we actually have another appointment. We’ve really gotta jet! Can you call me when you fix the issue, and I’ll come back in and sign?”
Mauro stirs—he’s alive. We push our chairs back and make a bee-line for the door as Barry agrees to call me when he’s ready. We close the car doors and drive away in silence as it dawns on me: the job isn’t yet finished. I would have to face Barry one more time.
Two weeks later, Barry hasn’t called. I’ve called; I’ve left messages. On a Wednesday after work, I swallow my pride and impatience and roll back into the JH parking lot. It’s you and me, Barry: let’s finish this, I think, and open the door.
Barry is asleep and covered in a fine layer of Cheez-It dust. Classic Barr. He wakes up, and we get right to it. Maybe not right to it—Barry still has a few anecdotes up his sleeve. The system finally pushes my payment through, and I sign the electronic pad. Barry counts aloud every signature he inserts—all 55. The printer whirs, and my return is complete. Barry grabs a glossy JH folder and staples my paperwork inside.
"It’s a good day, Barry; glad we could get this wrapped up!” I offer, relieved, moving to stand.
"You know… it is a good day,” Barry clears his throat, “I found out that my military pension is increasing. Oh, not this year, but soon—soon! You see, when I applied seven years ago, there wasn’t a law in place….”
I’m back in my chair. How could I leave now? Barry is on a roll. I settle in for one last story with Barry, nodding and smiling. It turns out Barry’s pension will more than triple based on some newer legislation. I’m happy for Barry; I congratulate him and wish him well before passing through the Jackson Hewitt threshold one last time. I’ll never see you again, Barry, I think, before skipping out of the door and into my car. Free at last.
I put my car in reverse and look behind me. A Dos Equis beer truck is lodged behind my car in the awkward parking lot, its driver carting cases of beer into the liquor store next door. The driver says he’ll only be a second, but I know better. I slip into my car, lay the seat back, and close my eyes, unperturbed and patient. What can I say—Barry taught me well.
I’ll leave it at that Feelers, with a promise of poems in the coming weeks.
Has a Barry come into your life recently? Have you done your taxes? Let me know… XOXO HW
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Omg. Tears are shooting out of my face!
A true lesson in patience! What an ordeal!