Leonard, my tax man, is a beautiful old soul. I stepped into his cubicle that morning at 9:27 and was thrilled to see him again—rumpled khakis and a pilled button-up oxford, ski-patterned wool sweater vest, natty tweed blazer hanging neatly behind him on a plastic hook stuck to the wall. He lets a single mouth corner of a smile slip as he sees me enter, then removes his vest with a crackle of static, smooths the white tufts above ears and eyebrows and readies to enter the fray.
I shuffle in like a frightened child at his first Halloween: the opening of my sack of receipts crushed and creased from my sweaty palms, I’m clutching it like a security blanket, though I am anything but this frosty morning. He gingerly pulls my paperwork from the repurposed plastic bag: the hands that hold my financial well-being so competently are covered in crepe, veins clearly outlined and running criss-cross beneath small, liver-colored splatters. He has a slight tremble I attribute to his age, but his financial knowledge is rock steady. His questions are direct but kind, and there’s a twinkle in that cataract-dimmed eye that lets me know EVERYBODY is still at home, especially this close to April 15th. His gold half-spectacles are perched on his nose; magnifying glass just under the computer monitor, a copious amount of Scotch tape holding it together for another season of number crunching and client anxiety; and he’s got on just the right amount of clothes. Open for business.
I can hear conversation from the cubicle next door—feel the bewilderment in the voice of the “victim” as the preparer leads him through the maze of multiple W-2s and 1099s—and though it’s very lively and congenial, I’m relieved to be in Leonard’s chair. The accountant next cube asks Leonard a question and before she can finish, he gives her the answer, a brief and concise explanation why, and he’s back to my pile of papers. I puff up a little because I feel very pleased to be in his care. He takes no notice.
He peruses every figure with diligence, trailing a knotted knuckle down the columns and spaces. He asks me to translate a few digits, as my script is small and tight; and once he gets the answer, he raises his eyebrows to adjust the lenses resting on the bulb of his nose, cranes his sinewy neck toward the screen, taps a few keys on the computer and gives a nearly imperceptible “mmph,” followed by a powerful nasal exhale. I’m sitting white-knuckled beside him, praying my answer was satisfactory.
He circles nonchalantly with the mouse, clicking this and that button on the screen, and the status bar fills with verdict. He indicates with his pencil, explaining the whats, hows, whys, and how muches, and though his decree isn’t the BEST news I’ve heard, it just SEEMS less painful because he’s the bearer.
I stand and sigh in relief—the ominous clouds of potential financial ruin have parted again because of his expertise, and though sunshine a’plenty doesn’t exactly come pouring through, I won’t drown in the rain.
This year.
Leonard’s huge bespectacled eyes blink twice as the brows knit to refocus and I reach for his hand in gratitude. The corners of his mouth turn down in the opposite smile, the one that reminds me so much of my Grandmother McCoy, and he makes me square with Uncle Sam as we close another year of vocation and taxation, free of incarceration.