One evening, while it rained and the wind whipped outside, the phone rang. When I answered it, there was nothing on the other end of the line but a faint clicking noise.

"Can you hear that faint clicking noise?" a voice finally asked me.

"Yeah? Is this—"

"Shut up! You know what that faint clicking noise is?"

I sighed at Citizen Jim's incessant theatrics. "I guess the phone must be tapped," I said. "I better let you go."

"Don't hang up, you idiot! That faint clicking noise is my little abacus. I'm counting pennies, and it helps me keep track. Not that you care that I have to count pennies just to pay off my tax bill this year, you heartless BITCH!"

"How much do you owe?"

"That's not your business. But I will say that once I get these forty duffle bags I stole from the Publishers Group West booth at BEA filled with pennies I stole from gumball machines all over Alabama and the Florida panhandle, I'll be about one-fiftieth of the way to being halfway there."

I was baffled at how Jim could, firstly, owe so much in taxes, and, secondly, why he was trying to pay his taxes with stolen pennies. There had to be a law. I said so.

"Listen, if you want me to tell you I'm shocked that you don't understand something that has to do with numbers, I'm not. You're innumerate. That's not the point, though. If they want my money so bad, they can talk to tiny Mr. Lincoln. Besides that, I don't see why I have to foot the bill for Uncle George's war and his tax relief for the richies. What about those bastards from Exxon-Mobile? They made more money last quarter than anyone in the history of the country has ever made in three months' time! But are they paying more taxes? Hell no! The government's gonna let them slide on their royalty payments for the next five years—and people like me are gonna hafta pick up the slack! Those Republicans are getting worse than any Democrat about giveaways!"

I knew there had to be a reason he was beating around the bush with this sort of nonsense, and I had a pretty good feeling I knew what it was.

"Did you file your W-2 incorrectly?"

After a long pause and a loud sigh, Citizen Jim said, "I guess if that idea had been a set of wind-up chattering teeth, it would've bit you. YES, I filed my W-2 INCORRECTLY! But it wasn't my fault!"

He then went on to explain that when he'd been hired by Hoochie Koochie Press, the accountant asked if he had any dependents when they were filling out his W-2 form.

"I don't know where that bastard got his info about all those women who claim I've fathered their children. He came pretty close to being punched in the face for that remark. So, I asked him what it was to him if I did have a kid or two stashed away somewhere. And he said it wasn't anything to him, but if I had some kids, I could claim dependents and get more money in my hot little paws each pay period. So, you know, I was all about some extra spending money and I said I have four or five or six kids, something like that. Also, I claimed Spalding and any eggs she might be getting ready to lay."

"Oh, Jim! I'm so proud of you!"

I was about to burst open with pride to know that Jim was finally taking responsibility for his illegitimate children. Now he could live openly, without fear of those awful women chasing him down every time he tried to make a new start in life.

"Proud of me? For what? I am screwed, Sister Kristy!"

"I'm proud of you for supporting your children!"

"I've done nothing of the kind—you know all those women are lying!"

"Either way, didn't you save any of the extra money you were getting?"

"Ah, hell, Stimpy! I used the money for things I needed. You know how it is! The price of extra malt in milkshakes at Sonic is going up, and gas is so high, and I got addicted to seeing movies at the Capri Theater every weekend. Harper Lee finally called me on that loan I got from her a few years ago when we used to play poker with Wayne Greenhaw and Terry Cline. Then I realized I needed some of those DVDs in the Criterion Collection I don't have yet. Plus, I had to buy Jeannette that Jane Austin action figure that she kept crying about. Before I knew it, I was broke!"

"In other words, you blew all the money?"

"You blew. ALL. THE MONEY," Jim repeated slowly. I could just imagine him closing his eyes and shaking his head. "Man, you must be practicing for the MENSA tryouts or something, the way your brain's connecting the dots tonight. YES, yes, I BLEW ALL THE MONEY, if you want to call it that. I'd rather call it trying to improve the quality of my life with gadgets and trinkets and milkshakes. But."

"Oh, Jim! You can't buy a higher quality of life, not really! Don't you know that happiness is an inside job?"

"Depends who you ask. Harper Lee didn't tell me that when I handed her a cashier's check for $3,500. And that Angina sure seemed happy planting flowers on the sidewalks for the City of Fairhope. But it doesn't matter! You gotta help me. I know you're selling t-shirts and used books and whatnot on the Internet. From now on, when you make money from that crap, you send it to me. Just till I get these taxes paid off."

"I wish I could but—"

"Don't give me any buts! You send me that money! And when you get your tax refund check, I want that, too. It's only fair, you know."

I asked him how he figured that.

"Well, just as an example, take me. I work full-time, I got no woman, and I don't make any extra money. But you! You've got a full-time job, and you're part of a two-income household, right? All that extra money you make—you don't necessarily need that. And if you don't need that extra Internet money, I sure as hell know you don't need any goddamn tax refund. So it's only fair that you give it to me."

"I love you, but you've lost your mind," I said.

"I'm gonna lose more than that if those revenuers come knocking on my door with a double-barreled taser gun and some gunnysacks! Just ask all those poor people who never got their $50 refunds because they screwed up their 10-40 EZ forms last year—you don't mess with the IRS! And you know this is all about the Masons, don't you?"

That did it for me. I wasn't in the mood to listen to another minute of Citizen Jim's jabbering, especially once he started reaching into his grab bag of half-baked conspiracy theories.

"Let me call up Jay Rockefeller and see what he can do to help you," I said, hoping it would satisfy him.

"Yeah! Call Jay, and get Byrd on the phone, too. Bob Byrd owes me money from a big Yahtzee tournament he and Brewster got sucked into last summer when we all went to the Greenbrier. And Dorie Sanders! She's got to have some bank after Clover sold so well for Algonquin. Hell yeah! I knew you'd help me out."

"Goodbye."

"But this doesn't mean you don't need to send me that extra money and your tax refund," he warned me. "I'll beat the caca outta you if you try to stiff me on that."

"Okay, okay."

"And I'm just gonna send you these duffle bags and you and Miss Mabel can count the pennies and roll them up for me. I think you at least owe me that much courtesy, after all the trouble you stir up in my life on a regular basis. I'd even bet you put that accountant up to making me file my W-2 like I did, and if I find out I'm right, you're gonna pay for more than my taxes, Missy!"

I'm sure he continued his threats for ten minutes after I hung up on him.

Read a random GC installment!

Complete Archive