Vic Socotra

12 June 2008

The Cap

Virginia Hardware, before it became an authentic Irish Pub

I was sitting on the sidewalk with the Judge. He is in town to move some more stuff, since it looks like his house will actually close, and he will be free of Northern Virginia once and for all. It makes me sad, since a good beer-buddy is a precious thing.

His move is a bit of a mixed blessing, since he has to become a Terrapin for a while- a stipulation of the tax code, since he has to live in his vacation place for two years in order to duck capital gains.

Normally we sit over in Shirlington, the fashionable fill-in shopping area off the Shirley Highway. There is no metro stop there, and hence the people on the street have driven home by the time we get our second beer, and when it is nice and warm there is a lot of skin on display.

This afternoon we were in Clarendon, near the Metro, which I would have taken to avoid driving except for the unfortunate derailment on the Orange Line Deep under our feet.

The people passing the new Irish pub where we had secured seats on the sidewalk were purposeful. They were still in their work-clothes, which do not fit the torrid climate. I had come direct from the office, and I was still wearing my clip-on bow tie. It is my way of “sticking it to the man,” in a way, a bit of haberdashery as absurd (and practical) as the seersucker suit that wicks the sweat off.

The Judge said the difference between Virginia and Maryland could not be more stark. The Old Dominion hangs on to the past, and is governed from Richmond and legislated by people elected from counties that sprawl toward the Appalachian Mountains. They have little truck for the niceties of the National Capital Region. Part of Virginia is as far west as Detroit, for goodness sake.

Maryland takes the 5.7% maximum tax rate in Virginia and adds 2%.

As part of his temporary exile to the mountains, the Judge is going to teach a few classes at the former community college near the lake where his cabin is located. Our conversation wandered, as it always does, from the vagaries of the tax system to the inherently socialist nature of the state of Maryland and on to the level of rigor that he should expect from his prospective students.

Along the way, he mentioned the toddler who fished around in Grandma’s purse on a trip to the WalMart, produced her six-shooter, discharging it fatally.

I said it was a damned shame. And that it was odd that the tax code should regulate where he lives, and he demurred, saying that it was a system that we all played by, and if anyone had any cajones, we would fix things like the alternative minimum tax. Something as stupid as the windfall tax on the oil companies was a case in point.

“Everyone is pissed off at the gas pump,” I said.

“And how does arbitrarily seizing the profits that the companies might re-invest those profits to provide more product or improve infrastructure help the situation?” he said with a rhetorical flourish. “It is all stupidity. No one has the balls to do the right thing. I never thought I would say it, but George is the only one who does not act like he is afraid of something. I never thought I would say that.”

I agreed with him, though I think I would have preferred that we had done this some other way. I watched a statuesque young woman sway towards me talking loudly into a cell phone, all her parts moving. I asked Sean for another Harp lager. He is from Galway, by the way, and his accent is real. He is one of the rich Irish entrepreneurs who turned the old hardware store into the pub as the area gentrified.

“How come you left the old sign on top of the bar?” I asked, pointing at the tall vertical marquee that still read “Hardware, Tools!”

“Ach, he said. “Something about the historical integrity of the old neighborhood, even though it is dead and gone. People like to hang on to some things.”

I looked at the Judge and smiled. “Like some of us cling to our guns. It’s a pity we will not be able to have a vigorous debate over some of the more relevant issues in the campaign. Senator Obama's public policy philosophy is all airy filaments of fairness and hope. It does not have much substance except the vague promise of universal goodness. Somebody has to pay for it, and I think I know who it is.”

“There is a craving in the air for change, and it might give him a pass on the specifics behind rhetoric. I mean, it all sounds progressive and good, right?”

I took a sip of cool beer and launched into my latest project in applying the rhetoric to reality. I have been tracking my pay stubs, waiting to see when I will get a raise that has nothing to do with my performance on the job. Like many of my fellow Americans, I need some bucks to cover some regrettable financial positions I took in the housing bubble. I am doing fine, staying on top of the bills, but I am painfully aware that at any given moment I am only a couple months away from disaster.

I mean, that is better than it was, but still. Anyway, I have been eying the calendar to see when I would escape one of the tax obligations. As you know, there is a cap on the amount of our wages taxed for social security. Currently it is around $102,000, though it keeps creeping up, and I have been scheming on what to do when I get past the limit and get my money back from Washington.

In some of those endless debates I heard Senator Obama wants to eliminate the cap. As best I can determine, he seems to think it is a fairness issue: since those who do not earn more than the cap pay social security tax on 100% of their income, it is only just that the rest of us do, too.

I said that a Fairfax County cop married to an Arlington schoolteacher filing jointly would by virtue of their combined salary join the ranks of the rich, that didn’t seem fair either. I figured it out. If the cap on the tax is eliminated, I will hand over an extra $4,570 to the federal government.

“I could find a lot of ways to use my own money. Plus, that doesn’t even begin to address capital gains.”

“You don’t have any of those, Vic,” said the Judge, “You should have stayed married and had something to worry about.” He waggled a finger in Sean’s direction.

“I got clipped by the Alternative Minimum Tax last year, even after the staggering amount of money I give to the Ex. For Christ sake, that was supposed to be the millionaire's penalty, and me living the lush life my little two-bedroom apartment in Big Pink. That sucks.”

The Judge shook his head. “Listen, you and I have been at the public trough all our professional lives. Uncle Sam paid us, maybe not lavishly, but well enough to have good and decent lives. You are making your living peddling things to the Department of Defense even now. We should be the last ones bitching about taxes.”

I sniffed and fished in my pocket for a Marlboro Light. “Well, you are still going to Maryland for two years to beat capital gains.”

The Judge just smiled and watched the people hurrying by, eager to get home and take off their sober duds and get back on the street showing some skin. “There is a lot of stuff in this campaign that will be mean-spirited, wrong-headed, or otherwise tainted with the baggage of race and class. I’m just as happy to be headed for the mountains.”

I sighed. The beer was cold, and the seat on the sidewalk was comfortable enough. “I still want my $4,570.00,” I said petulantly.

“Cheer up, Vic,” said the Judge. “You never can tell. Maybe the next Administration will give it to the Department of Defense and you can get it back.”

“Fat chance,” I said, and looked around to see where Sean had gone. Tax policy is thirsty business.

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