Soul's Road: A Fiction Collection (4 page)

Mort was the oldest member on the team, and most of the younger, temporary workers thought him odd with his notepads and the dark green jacket he wore regardless of the season. But Mort was from an era when it was uncool to be Black and so he kept to himself. Trust didn’t come easy to him and so he smiled, never took a minute more on a break that he didn’t make up for by the end of the week when timesheets were due, and got the hell out of there when it was quitting time.

Mort was what his generation would call a government man. His entire family was somehow connected to Uncle Sam. His grandfather retired from the US Postal Service with special recognition for never having missed a day—this was before it went private of course. Mort’s dad worked with the FBI and had been promoted to Custodial Supervisor before his death five years ago. Mort’s mother worked at the gift shop in the Capitol building before her retirement—you had to have special clearance for that—and his sister was a Cook II at the Drug Enforcement Agency (one of only three to survive the Great Cafeteria Outsourcing of ‘02).

“Anything interesting happen yet?” Mort asked.

Alba was a career divorcee in her early forties, no kids, and for the first time getting to know herself. Most people thought she was on medication. Alba went through personalities like the weather went through seasons. Mort guessed she was just trying to find one that fit, that felt comfortable around the mid-section.

Alba had worked at the IRS for eleven years, starting in Research & Analysis before making the big move to Tax Law. Unfortunately, Tax Law was not as exciting as she had hoped, and so she waited until she was eligible for another transfer. She had done a short stint in the Law Enforcement & Investigations department, but during that time she was transitioning to her free spirit personality. (Mort referred to it as her Libertarian days.) Her constant questions about the need for so many tax codes made her unpopular. But it wasn’t until she sent a 468-page report to the department head (complete with exhibits and several imbedded pop quizzes) accusing the Law Enforcement & Investigation department of entrapment, did her supervisor begin to wonder if her “personality” was suited for the division. That’s when Human Resources got involved.

Shortly thereafter she transitioned to an obsessive-compulsive personality with a touch of pedantry, and was transferred to the Accounting, Budget & Finance team, and then on to Compliance & Enforcement. She worked there until recently when she adopted her latest personality and was recommended for the new, and temporary, Personal Values Reclaim Project.

Mort thought she should’ve been an actress.

“Justin wigged out on a taxpayer earlier,” she said as she studied the bumblebees she had painted on her nails at the salon. “Called him a pig fucker.”

Mort chuckled.

Alba’s new personality enjoyed technology. She had sold her TV, radio and whatever jewelry she had from her marriages so she could afford the newest Alienware PC. When she wasn’t at the IRS, you could find her online.

Alba discovered a backdoor into the IRS’ computer system shortly after she and Mort had transferred to the PVRD. So far, no one from Tech Support had blocked her access, and so her snooping remained below radar.

“He threatened to go to Missouri City—”

“Why?”

“I guess that’s where the taxpayer lives. Anyway, he threatened to put a bullet in the old guy’s brain.”

“Don’t they record these calls?” he asked.

“Nah. They just say that. Well, actually they do, but no one listens to them. Plus it’s on a loop anyway. There’s only ever enough tape for like 48-hours worth of calls.”

Mort dipped the tip of his cigarette in the black granules of the ashtray, dropped the butt into a plastic bag with the others he had smoked, and folded the bag until it fit neatly inside his pant pocket. “You ready?”

“Nope. But let’s go anyway.” Alba shook the remaining crumbs from the fun-sized pack of Cheez-It into her mouth and tossed the bag into the smoker’s ashtray. She insisted they take the stairs back down to the third floor as she considered it her daily exercise routine.

Mort didn’t think three flights constituted an “exercise routine”, but it did get her breathing heavily, so he went with it.

Alba was proportionately larger than average. In fact, most of her weight coalesced around her breasts, which happened to be her most alluring attribute. She had deep set eyes and always wore a dark lip color that made her brown hair look dull against her pale skin. Mort suspected she used a skin whitener, but never asked.

“You sign the card?” she asked between the fourth and third floors.

“What card?”

“For she-bitch.”

“Who?” Mort had to slow down so he wouldn’t get too far ahead.

“You know, Jenny.”

Mort glanced at his watch. He preferred to stay out of office politics. The last time he got involved was during the snowstorm of ’03. He had held the elevator door for a female colleague, and a couple of weeks later she asked him to purchase a few bags of jelly beans to help raise money for her kid's school’s Science department. From then on, twice a year she stopped at his desk: “Jelly Beans?” She was the reason he transferred out of Compliance Inspections.

***

The third floor of the IRS building looked like the 1980s. It had been recently remodeled eliminating over half of the floor’s offices for the cross-functional team-style floor plan. (i.e. cubicles with waist-height dividers.) It was noisy and impersonal. The only people who thought the short cubicles were a good idea were those who had survived the remodeling with offices still intact.

The carpet in the hallway was beige and brick red with blood spatter type patterns. It was worn and frayed in the center. Odd paintings had been added to break the monotony of the wallpaper—the kind of artwork that catches your eye the first time you see it, but subsequently go unnoticed.

Since the remodeling, the hallway had developed an odor that Alba couldn’t place. Some days when she stepped out of the elevator, she smelled whiskey. Or was it bourbon?

A recent hire from Prince George’s Community College, Bryan Biggs, came out of the third floor’s handicap bathroom located between the PVRD area and the elevator bank. He was at least six-two, three hundred pounds, and had a nice caramel complexion that would get him far if he lost the weight. Alba thought he smelled of syrup.

He looked startled when he saw them walking toward him. “Hey, guys. Listen, sorry to bail on you today, but I’ve got this wicked headache,” he said as he pushed the button to call the elevator.

Alba would’ve kept walking but Mort slowed and nodded at Bryan—not a concern nod, the I’m-Black-you’re-Black-and-so-it’s-obligatory-that-we-nod-at-one-another nod.

“Don’t work too hard,” Bryan joked.

Alba tilted her head and inhaled. What was she thinking? Whiskey! It was definitely bourbon.

Mort felt a little awkward at Alba’s obvious snub, but he focused on the splotches decorating the carpet and glanced at his watch again. If he had been a different person, he would explain to Bryan that it wasn’t anything personal. Alba was just antisocial. Well, for now at least. But truthfully, Bryan wasn’t like them anyway. He would be lucky to make it two years here. The IRS was not for everyone.

“Nice fella,” Mort said as he swiped his ID over the panel at the opposite end of the hallway.

Alba flicked a piece of Cheez-It from underneath her cuticle. She didn’t care for Biggs. She had a thing against maple syrup.

Alba was assigned to the team that contacted citizens who were refusing to pay their taxes because of the new law. She was hung up on frequently, but she had adopted a laissez-faire attitude that made her indifferent to those on the other end of her headset and, once again, unpopular with her team members.

Except for Mort. Mort was one of only two people at the IRS who knew Alba from eleven years ago—or at least still recognized her. Over the years, they would occasionally see one another in the elevator and, depending on her personality, they would meet during a smoke break to catch up. However, he hadn’t realized she was divorced, again, until she started wearing the thick-soled black boots, the dark eyeliner, and black gloves that left her fingers out. Her new personality hadn’t gone over well with management—she had already received two verbal warnings requesting that she focus on the “business” side of the business-casual dress code—but Mort liked this newest Alba. She had a way of making him laugh on the inside.

***

The depression hit them as soon as they entered the Personal Values Reclaim area. There was something desperate about this section of the building. Alba was convinced it was from being hung up on so many times. Their training told them not to take the name calling personally, but it gets to you—the constant rejection. But not Alba.

She dropped into her office chair and slipped the headphones over her hair, squishing the two greying puffballs on either side of her head. Her screensaver had pictures of bees flying around and she hit the space bar to type in her password. Then she opened the narrow drawer just above her legs, took out her pencil and notepad, and began to doodle honeycombs.

Alba’s first call was to a forty-seven-year-old recent widower. According to their tax forms a few years ago, she and her husband had a combined earning of fifty-two thousand, four hundred and ten dollars a year and had been faithful contributors to their church for over a decade.

“May I speak with Dorothy Monahan?”

Dorothy hesitated. “Who is this?”

Alba rolled her eyes. According to her computer screen, this was the third time the IRS had called Dorothy, without success. “This is Alba calling from the IRS—”

Alba’s screen froze for a few seconds and then a prompt appeared asking if the taxpayer had terminated the call. Alba clicked yes, scrolled down to the notes section and pressed Ctrl V on her keyboard. “Phone was answered and I was asked to identify myself. After identification, taxpayer terminated call without further discussion.” She hit return and there was a soft clicking sound in her headset as the system automatically dialed the next number.

She Alt Tab’d to the dos prompt. A few seconds later, her caller was speaking to an empty line and Alba was listening to another team member’s call.

Catherine (“with a ‘C’” was how she introduced herself) Minette sat across from Mort. Her favorite color had to be yellow because every day she wore a different yellow headband. Alba had taken an instant disliking to her. Alba’s new personality had one rule: anyone that could interject “God” into every conversation, regardless of the topic, was not to be trusted.

Alba learned a lot about Catherine by listening to her calls. They weren’t supposed to discuss their private lives with any of the taxpayers, but Alba learned it went against Catherine’s religion to not find a way to connect with people. She had the lowest reclaim rate on the team, convincing only .02% of her callers to pay their taxes.

“Did you know that Catherine’s lactose intolerant?” Alba typed into a chat window to Mort.

***

Mort slowly lifted his head until he could see over the cubicle wall. Catherine was talking too softly for him to hear, but he studied her. She didn’t look lactose intolerant. In fact, she looked as if she ate a lot of cheese and pies and the like. He glanced at his watch as he eased his notebook out of the top drawer.

Mort was a voracious note taker. He had a thing about recording the events of his day. It was more like a daily planner than a diary. There were no emotional or reflective memories clogging the corners of his notepad. He was factual:

12:54 Sat at desk in PVR.

13:00 Returned to desk w/ coffee Made first call

15:11 1st bathroom

Afternoon Break (1 cig)

15:26 Return from afternoon break

17:03 Dinner – Hot dog cart, especially long line. Hot dog not fully cooked.

Bun semi-stale

2nd BR (BM – hot dogs)

2 cigs

17:48 Return from dinner

19:10 Evening Break

3rd BR

1 cig w/ Alba on terrace

19:26 Return from Evening break (6 mins late)

Biggs left early Headache (19:25)

Alba continues to ignore him

Avoid card for she b Jenny

19:41 Catherine’s lactose intolerant (?)

Mort went through one notepad every third or fourth day, depending on the day’s events, so he bought them in bulk from whichever office supply store was currently having a sale.

“She has breakfast with Ted every morning,” Alba typed into Mort’s chat window. “Boring!!!!”

“Ted?”

“Husband. What’s FFA?” Alba typed.

Mort closed his notepad and replaced it in the drawer. He ended the call with the taxpayer and replied to Alba. “Don’t know. Why?”

“3rd time she’s mentioned FFA. New tax code?”

Mort ran through his mental list of tax codes. “No,” he typed.

Alba Alt Tab’d to the internet where she searched for FFA. The top results showed Future Farmers of America and Football Federation Australia. She was about to disregard it as an acronym relating to some Bible passage, when she saw Freedom Fighters for America almost at the bottom of the page.

“It’s a militant religious group.”

Alba continued to listen: “You just keep paying the minimum, and God’ll take care of the rest,” Catherine said to the taxpayer. “Trust in Him. He’s dispatched His angels. No, Satan will not prosper. Not as long as I’ve got breath in this body. M’okay. Yes, thank the Lord for FFA. Bless you now. M’okay. Bless you too. Same to you. Good-bye.”

Mort’s chat screen flashed with a new message: “What a fng nut-job.”

***

“It’s eight o’clock, so this must be the IRS again,” Lou said before Alba could introduce herself.

“Ding, Ding, Ding. And the prize for correctly answering Guess Who’s Calling, a complete refund on all your taxes.”

“Who the hell is this?”

“It’s Alba from the IRS.”

“Told you Bernice. Damn IRS again. This one here thinks she’s some damn comedian. Listen, I tell you folks each time, I ain’t paying you no taxes. I ain’t got it. And if I had it, I wouldn’t give it to you no how. It’s un-American and un-Christian.”