And then there's this guy...
‘Tis the season to file our
taxes kids. Now the only reason to be poppin’ bottles is if you're sure you have a beefy check coming back from the government. For the people that owe
oodles of money you should probably just get it over with and jump before
someone talks you out of it. I'm half kidding. But seriously, you should probably
schedule the appointment with Dr. Coleman sooner than later.
To my surprise, I will be
poppin’ bottles this year. My doll of a Mother recommended that I go to her CPA
to get my taxes done not long ago. He’s
good, he’s cheap, and most importantly he’s so fast you’ll freak, she says.
I wasn't sure if she was talking about Jimmy Johns or tax refunds, but I just
nodded my head and pretended to listen. I told her to make me an appointment
and also asked if she could order me up a Beach Club with extra avocado and a
pickle cut into fourths and have it delivered to my place. She said no and hung
up. When it came time to leave for my appointment she insisted on warning me
about a few things. Oh my God Mom, what the hell
is wrong with him? I demanded that she spit it out before I walk into his
office and am blind-sided by a wandering eye or a hook for a hand. She said, OH NO it is way worse! As I am sitting in the parking lot
waiting for her to tell me, and debating whether I should go in or not, she
finally gets to the point:
The building is really old so
beware of the rank smell and the place looks like an episode of hoarders. Still cracking up and struggling to get her
words out, she continues, he
is also a little hard on the eyes but try not to stare. He is REALLY nice Ti,
and our entire family goes to him to get our taxes done so please be kind! Uggggh FINE.
I was instructed to park in the
back and to walk through the side door of the house. (The place was built in
the early 1800’s and had been turned into his office space. I am 101% sure it was haunted.) After walking through a graveyard that was made specifically for lawn
mowers, I had made it to the back door and walked right on in. I knew I was in
the right place when I heaved open the door and was punched in the face with a
stench so foul, even a skunk would have been offended. The
hallway to get to his office was just wide enough that if I turned my body
sideways, I could wobble to an open area. There were documents that had been
stacked to the ceiling 132 years ago and had started closing in on me. My
claustrophobia was now in full force while trying to avoid any paper-cuts that
could possibly make me bleed out.
All
throughout the house there were old paintings of dead presidents hanging
on the walls, and they had
eyes that did not miss a beat. They were definitely
watching my every move, so I had to be cautious with my facial expressions.
When I passed the spare bedroom my curiosity got the best of me - if I was left
with the unknown I wouldn't be able to sleep at night. Peeking in I saw close
to 1,500 empty paint cans that were stacked from one end of the room to the
other, all the way up to the leaky ceiling tiles. Okay, there are way too many
cans for painting to be any sort of hobby and he sure as hell wasn't about to
recycle all of these. Definitely weird - but I wasn't running for the hills
just yet. When I came around the corner I caught a glimpse of a figure sitting in his office with
another client. I didn't really get a good look at him, as he murmured for me
to go to the front room and wait for him there.
I walked into the “waiting
room” and was sure I had just taken a seat at The Addams Family dining room
table. The drapes reeked of moth balls and white musk perfume and when I sat in a chair, a mushroom cloud of dust and debris blew out from under my ass. There
was an old TV with a rusty antenna that was rolled in for my
entertainment. I sat at the elongated wooden table long enough to get in three
full episodes of Keeping up with the Kardashians. I found it incredibly
difficult to see what sort of trouble Lord Disick was getting into with framed
Woodrow Wilson giving me the stink eye. While I was in mid-text trying to tell
my mom this shit had better be pro-bono the accountant had called me into his
office.
Unclear of the odor that was
seeping out of the walls, I immediately cracked the case when I took a seat at
his desk. There was an entire seasoned rotisserie chicken rotting on a paper
plate that had been chewed down to the bone, parked on the floor next to the
overflowing garbage can. The chicken must have been there for a few days due to
how dry the remnants of meat looked. I counted FIVE biggie sized McDonald's bags sitting next to the copy machine due to the lack of space left in
the garbage can. It seemed the 2 for $5 Big Mac deal was a fan favorite.
To the left of his feet were two large empty cartons of orange juice lying on
their side without the caps. No cups needed I suppose. I was sitting in his
dumpster of an office doing everything humanly possibly to try and stay alive
for the next 30 minutes. I held my breath until I was blue in the face and
right before I felt like I would pass out, I would take in minimal oxygen through my scarf.
I could feel the disease in the air and my body was about to become the next
host.
My friend was
wearing a black button up dress shirt with a classy tie and what were clear to
be black swishy pants below. Now I am all about a great pair of sweats, don’t get me
wrong, but swishy’s? They had better be Nike, sir. I don’t think I am asking for much? I wanted to compliment his
argyle tie, but thought it would be best to keep my Muslim appearance and
continue to hide behind my scarf. Being a hefty man, he smelled
of gangrene and used dental floss every time he opened his mouth to speak. With one glance anyone would have diagnosed him with type 2 diabetes, even if the carcass between his cankles didn't already give
it away. I would say he had the world’s shiniest head but that would be putting
it nicely - it looked like it had been slathered in bacon grease.
With a George Costanza up-do he had
two strands of hair that were long enough to technically call it a comb over. Popping
through those guitar strings was something that I know I will have a hard
time forgetting until my end of days. Through the two wet pieces appeared to
be some sort of growth that he had picked and turned into a giant scab. Mom was
right about two things: he was indeed difficult to look at, but was also the
biggest sweetheart imaginable. I sat in the chair and watched his porky paws
while they were hard at work trying to get me my money. As he finished filing my taxes, and with my foot
half way out the door he called me back into his office. You
dropped this, he said as he tried handing me my pen that I watched fall out
of my purse 10 minutes earlier. One glance at his fingernails, and I said no worries, you can keep it! Thanks
again for the salmonella! I mean SERVICES!
Cheers to Dead Presidents and
Unintentional Taxidermy
Ti-Bag
