Author’s Note: the Writer’s Section is puzzling through rumors of “False Flag” provocations in Ukraine that could bring war again to Europe. It is a sobering business, just like the Jobs Report that is likely to have bad news this morning. We intend to be strong, and Splash advocates taking the afternoon off, in peace. Meanwhile, the other two eternals for human beings continues…

– Vic

…And Taxes

We found Splash slumped by the cold stove this morning as a vague gray light began to illuminate the Bunk House at Refuge Farm. His laptop had died, and slipped from his knees to a rakish position between the chair leg and the floor.

Loma is one of the first to actually rise from his bed. He is a steely-eyed in the morning, and views starting the coffee as a critical early mission. Passing Splash, he stopped to lean over and pick up the laptop and give him a gentle nudge on the shoulder. Splash stirred for a moment and slumped back. Loma considered putting the computer on the stove, but realized the potential implications of the move. He then advanced to the kitchenette and slid the device on the counter and hit the battered Better Chef Large Capacity (10-50 cup) urn a little harder than necessary.

He liked that device because it was as simple as the big coffee makers he was used to from living on aircraft carriers, but recently cans of Black Rifle coffee had transitioned to pouch-like things that did not contain the same volume of caffein base. But that was true on a lot of routine tasks these days. It occurred to him that Splash might have been working on taxes, a matter to which he had not quite turned his attention. That was a prospect a little more daunting than it used to be. The click of the coffee switch and the first bubble of fifty cups of well-water was enough to make Splash stir.

“Where’s my GD computer?” he yelled. He was answered by muffled cursing from the beds still occupied, and a snort from Loma, who was watching the urn as though his undivided attention would hasten the circular process of water up the aluminum rod inside.

“Relax. It’s over here. I was protecting it from your feet.”

Splash sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Sorry. I was working on 1099 crap. You can only do so much.” He rose to walk toward the sound of bubbling water. “I forget- was the Chairman going to give us W2s this year?”

“Nope. He decided we were all independent contractors, so the Human Resources Department is going to post a 1099-MISC to the website for everyone not considered mission essential.”

“Wouldn’t writers be essential to a publishing house?”

“That isn’t the point. The accountant said it would empower us as workers, able to bill the number of hours we actually spend writing.”

“Which takes about fifteen minutes to have the interns type up parts of what we talk about. It would seem like we are just yacking most of the morning and we don’t bill for that.”

Melissa stretched as she came out of the binary sleeping hatch and stretched. “You should be thankful the Chairman doesn’t ask for a charge code for cots and firewood, since we are all independent.”

“You mean I would have to draft a 1099 for the privilege of sleeping on a surplus cot?”

“That may have been in the Build Back Whatever bill. It seems like that isn’t going to happen.”

“Thank goodness. I didn’t use to have problems with taxes. The W-2 showed up from the Government, the bank told me how much interest I got paid and I would just fill out the 1040 short form and I was done.”

“Not like that anymore. I thought it would get easier when I retired, but instead it got more complicated. I travel around a lot, so I opted for electronic service with the Social Security Guys, and the Defense Finance office. I used to have a bunch of credit unions, souvinires of the places I worked, so they were all sending things to the IRS even if I never talked to them. And then that 1099 thing started. The threshold is $600 bucks a year, which would be nice for a weekend, but really only amounts to $50 bucks a month. Sometimes more than that and sometimes a lot less. I can’t keep track of it all.”

“I had to buy a new laptop to keep track of it all. I had a little income from some stocks I held in the 401k- a couple hundred a month came from the broker who runs the account. It used to take care of my trade at Belmont Farms Field To Flask Distillery. But that meant having another account and another password I can never remember. I counted the number of digital accounts I was supposed to check. I had four Credit Unions, two government agencies, the broker and three different 1099 accounts. I can’t be completely certain I use the same social security number all day. And for the 1099s, sometimes I am not sure whether I ought to be writing one to them or have them writing one back to me.”

A minor discussion erupted about why the simple business of taxes should get harder the older you get, and require IT Support equipment just to stay compliant. That went on for a while. The gurgling in the urn was making hydraulic noises of increasing volume. Steam began to hiss from the edge of the cover. A small crowd had been attracted to the minor but significant first ritual of the day as the rich flavor began to hang in the air.

Buck strolled over, since this was a little cruder than the DeLonghi Espresso and Cappuccino machine he was accustomed to in the Faculty Lounge. “That is why they need to hire 80,000 new IRS agents. So we all pay our fair share.”

“I think that really only applies to people who get W2s and 1099’s. That’s why they want to get rid of cash.”

“If you mean a 1099-S that is a different kind of fair share. That one is for real estate and why the Chairman has been up north. I have no idea how other small businesses keep track of all this.”

“They are working on it. They are working on a system that gives them total visibility for everything over fifty bucks a month. They will get it turned around so they just send you a bill and you have nothing else to do.”

“Is this going to work as well as Public Health has performed in the pandemic?”

Splash grabbed a cup, held it under the spigot and pressed down on the black lever. Dark colored liquid poured out steaming. He raised it enough to smell it as a test, frowned, and took a swig. “There is stuff they want to do that defies the imagination. So, I think we ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Copyright 2022 Vic Socotra
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