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My life is free, wild and devil-may-care, and I have the itemized receipts to prove it.
Can I just tell you what a great guy my accountant is? And I'm not just saying this because there's a chance he'll read this column before he starts working on my return.
See, I don't a have a real job, but have opted instead for a handful of freelance positions, so each year my accountant takes this jumble of scattered income, expenses, depreciations and whatnot and translates it into a language the IRS can understand, and I am grateful.
Because I know that I'm a difficult client: I'm full of juvenile resentment about being forced to place my life into federally mandated categories, and I tend to take this out on my undeserving accountant. So, for the past few years, right around tax time, we have pretty much the same conversation:
ACCOUNTANT (pencil poised over page): "So what percentage of your personal automobile use is related to your writing?"
ME: "All of it."
ACCOUNTANT: "No, you're freelance, it can't be all of it. I need a percentage, one that you can actually back up with receipts."
ME: "Look, I never know where an idea will come from. I mean, 'cumquat' is a funny word, right? So, I might drive to the grocery store, see a cumquat and be inspired. But it might take 10 such trips before I actually write about it. Or it might take 10 years worth of trips. See, I don't separate my life from my art, everything is intertwined, so every car trip that I make, every penny that I spend, it's all deductible. I would have no problem swearing under oath that driving to the grocery store and laughing at funny fruit and vegetable names is a necessary part of my job. If cumquats aren't in season, there's always the rutabaga. So, 100 percent."
ACCOUNTANT: "Please just give me an answer."
(NOTE: This is what he says, but I know that what he means is, "Look, you prima donna fruitcake, I have other clients, clients who have real jobs and subsequently make real money. I read your last column and it was about getting high and bowling dogs, so spare me the 'my life is my art' crap and just give me an answer so I can write it down and we can, God help me, move on to expenses.")
ME: "100 percent."
ACCOUNTANT: "I'm gonna put 45."
ME: "Okay."
Then he writes a number down. Or at least I think it's a number - he tends to cup his hand over his pencil so I can't see what he's writing, so I wouldn't be surprised if he's actually making a tiny sketch of me and writing "asshole" next to it. Nor would I blame him.
I mean, my lack of employability isn't his fault, why should he have to deal with my attitude about it?
But, as I said, he's a great guy. He once actually allowed me to explain, without cutting me off, why I thought I should be able to claim a set of harmonicas as an expense for my "Freelance Journalist" job.
ACCOUNTANT: "Is this really all the money you make?"
ME: "No, that's just all I report. Luckily the people who purchase my methamphetamines prefer to deal in cash."
ACCOUNTANT: (Writes something down) "Interesting."
ME: "It was a joke."
ACCOUNTANT: (Keeps writing.)
ME: "No, seriously, I was trying to be funny...don't write that down."
I know this is no time for jokes, but I really can't help it. I mean, when the topic at hand is "reinvestment of the proceeds of the sale of a publicly traded security into an SSBIC interest," well, the mind just reels with hilarious one-liners.
Our annual meeting is this week, and as much as I'd like to think I've matured in some way, I have no reason to believe anything will be different.
ACCOUNTANT: "Why have you listed someone named 'Muse' as a dependant?"
ME: "Oh...uh, I guess because I was hoping you wouldn't notice it."
Irrelativity is © 2008 by Barry Smith. All rights reserved. No commercial use may be made of the material without prior arrangements with the author. And so on and so forth. If you want to put one of my columns on your web page, or include it in your employee newsletter, or use parts of it in your speech before the U.N., it would be so cool and considerate if you would email me about such things beforehand so we could discuss it.
“MY ACCOUNTANT”
Barry Smith’s “IRRELATIVITY” appears weekly in the Aspen Times.
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