Is it called "Tax Evasion" if my Accountant is avoiding me?

“I chose all the brightly colored worksheets and mailed them in lovely cranberry envelopes at the end of January!  You couldn’t miss them!” the ever-so-helpful receptionist at my CPA’s office bubbled on the telephone.

“That may very well be” I concurred, having received over the last twenty years my fair share of key lime, tangerine, boysenberry, passion fruit and (an all-time favorite) ylang-ylang colored packets. “But I didn’t receive them this year, and although I probably don’t need to itemize anything, I was wondering if I could still do a simple mail-in and whether or not the fee has changed?”

“Oh dear…” she sighed in a dire voice that could only indicate the serious clutching of pearls noosed around her throat.  “You’re going to HAVE to have the WORKSHEETS!” she panicked, the sudden loud clacking of fingers on a keyboard pulling up my history.  “Yes, the fee went up this year by $30.00, and, oh dear” she repeated, “you’re an Actor…  You’re going to have more than one W2 aren’t you?” she fretted.

“Yeah, I think I have four or five.”

“FOUR OR FIVE!” her voice cracked with mild hysteria.  “And you’ll have deductions!” she added horrifically as though I were a blistering leper hoping to try on her Sunday-Best white gloves.  “My boss won’t even LOOK at your return if you don’t itemize your deductions!  You probably have bank statements too!  And if you want to do a mail-in, she absolutely HAS to have everything by March 15th! Or she’ll MAKE you do a sit-down interview IN PERSON!” she shrieked.  “So I’ll mail you the papers today, please fill out everything and make SURE she has it all by Tuesday!” the clearly-never-would-have-lasted-as-a-Hotline-Crisis-Operator lady panicked.

“Maybe I could just drop it off at your office after work on Monday?” I asked benignly.

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!” she blustered frenetically.  “But then your IRS filing to my boss wouldn’t officially be a ‘mail-in,’ would it?!  I mean, doesn’t there HAVE to be POSTAGE on your package for it to be considered a ‘MAIL-IN’?!” she stammered helplessly.

Whilst I may have simply imagined the cheery albeit muddled receptionist at her desk just after she apologized profusely (“You’re one of three people who got lost in our computer glitch this year!”), I could almost swear that before I hung up, I heard a strand of glossy white pearls ‘tink’ against the front window of her office…

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With lilac, fuchsia and eerie tombstone grey papers in hand (what, no avocado in stock this year?), I tended to the emergency task of totaling up my tax-deductibles, feeling confident yet very much under the gun to meet my given deadline. 

And that’s when the grave horror dawned on me…

There were only two days until the Ides of March, and I had just been cast in the role of Julius Caesar.

Having spent twenty years with the most awesome laid-back Accountant (ironically named Bill) who casually typed all my financial doo-dads into the computer in about twenty minutes, we always shared the rest of the hour appointment happily chatting about our families, what show I was working on and any new Hollywood gossip. 

But having sent my W2s through the post office last year on a whim (naturally assuming Bill would handle my usual doo-dads), I had unwittingly subjected myself to the ONLY unwritten rule not spelled out on any of the guava, papaya or mango worksheets in two decades:  Apparently, all mail-ins are to be immediately handed over to the senior Accountant – the Matriarch of Hollywood (and the only name listed on the company letterhead). 

Notorious for refusing new clients (including relatives of her current clients), rumored to be the CPA to some of the Entertainment Industry’s biggest money-making moguls and purportedly seriously hardcore with regard to her ethics and those of the people she represents, the Matriarch has established a legendary reputation for being positively ruthless.  If you have the receipts and she can prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that they’re valid, she will squeeze every possible dollar into your return, no itemization too small. 

However, should you not respect the sacrifices she has made in order to make your tax appointment nearly ‘effortless’ by creating six pages of worksheets, well then, God help you…

And last year, without her Majesty’s Crown Seal of Approval to become a new client, there lay upon her regal throne, my humble manila envelope containing my meager Stand-in income, a few measly residual payments, unemployment benefits, puny dividends, plus the unfortunate whimsical hand-written letter addressed to Bill in which I may or may not have casually mentioned that ‘at least we don’t have to waste valuable chat-time with those annoying worksheets’, and which I may or may not have also possibly referred to them as a ‘colossal pain in the ass’.  (Oops.)

Hence the horror!

In a flash the diabolical plot became painfully obvious…

There was no mistake in not sending me the cranberry envelope, nor was there any unrealistic computer mishap in the office; only the cold hard fact that the Matriarch had me under her thumb and was sending a painfully clear message:  Should I fail her in any way, my tax history might ‘accidentally’ be deleted, my accounts frozen and my name covertly leaked to the IRS Most Wanted list; case file “Glitch One of Three”.

Bottom line:  I needed to prove my worth. 

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Bolting awake in a cold sweat that Monday morning, having tossed and turned in bed all night trying to calculate and recalculate the precise percentage of my cell phone and internet business usage on my tombstone grey worksheet, I rushed to the nearest post office, manila envelope in hand. 

“I really, really, really NEED to overnight this!” I pleaded, clutching at the invisible strand of pearls noosed around my neck.

“No problem.  We guarantee it will be there by noon tomorrow, and we require a signature when it’s received. OK?” the cheery lady smiled (echoes of a receptionist whom I hoped hadn’t officially gone ‘postal’).  “That will be $13.25 please, and here’s your tracking number.  Have a nice day!” the government angel added most pleasantly.

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Tossing and turning again in bed that night, I couldn’t help but wonder…  Was my choice of a magenta-colored pen too aggressive in my hand-written letter to the Matriarch?  Or was it a brilliant psychological ploy subconsciously chosen to catch the appreciative artistic eye of the receptionist who might then place my return on the top of the regal throne?  (And was the receptionist even still there?   Or had she flung herself out the first-floor window, in which case she might have some nasty grass stains on her Sunday-Best white gloves!) 

There was nothing left to do but go to work, scurry home, log onto the computer and track my USPS package…

But as promised, in beautiful red, white and blue lettering I saw the confirmation of receipt at 10:37am, signed by none other than the Matriarch herself.

Cheers to $13.25 I can legally write off in postage next year!

And many happy returns to you,

~P