Why I Filed Late This Year
by Bruce Holland Rogers
This story copyright 1993 by Bruce Holland Rogers. This copy was
created for Jean Hardy's personal use. All other rights are reserved. Thank
you for honoring the copyright.
Published by Seattle Book Company,
www.seattlebook.com.
* * *
I have always had trouble filing my taxes on
time. Something always comes up to distract me at the last minute, to force me
to file for an extension. But I wasn't going to let that happen this year. For
once, I thought I'd have the tax deadline beat by more than a day. On Saturday I
had filled out the last of the forms, checked my figures several times, written
the check, and sealed the envelope. All I had to do was get some stamps and drop
my return into the mail.
So on Sunday morning, full
of that righteousness that comes with beating a deadline, I was in the post
office. The lobby was closed, of course, but there were vending machines where I
could get my stamps.
At that time of day on a
Sunday, there is a profound calm to the post office, like the stillness of a
church. The sound of my footsteps echoed between the marble floor and the high
ceiling. The light coming from the high rows of mailboxes with their little
glass windows even reminded me of the light that comes from stained glass.
I weighed my return, resolved to put one more stamp
on it than the scale said it needed, then started to dig change out of my pocket
to feed the machine. The coins, as they fell through the secret maze inside,
made a kind of music:
Click clickety tick tick
chuck.
Click clickety tick tick chuck.
One after another, quarter after quarter, I fed
coins into the machine until one of them, instead of making the usual Click
clickety tick tick chuck, went only Click.
I
remember that I thought to myself, quite calmly, It's all right. The machine has
jammed. You may not get your stamps, but the deadline for filing is still days
away. Everything is still perfectly under control.
So, calm and full of hope, I pushed the button for
my stamps, even though I knew very well that nothing would happen. And nothing
did.
It's all right, I thought. This is just a minor
glitch.
I pressed the coin return lever. Nothing.
Stay calm, I reminded myself. Relax.
In a very calm and relaxed fashion, I started to
bang on the side of the vending machine, trying to coax the errant coin into its
proper path so that I'd get my stamps or at least my money back.
But the coin didn't budge.
It doesn't matter, I reminded myself, still banging.
What matters is that you're going to get your return in on time.
But the more I banged on the machine, the more I
grew convinced that the coin was hovering on the edge of going down, that all it
required was the right blow from just the right angle to send it on the rest of
its path, to make it play the rest of its musical clickety tick tick chunk.
I pulled the coin return lever again, then resumed
pounding at the machine's side.
My hand started to
sting. "God bless this machine," I said under my breath, pounding even harder.
"God bless it! God bless it!"
My face got hot as I
fell into a rhythm of pounding, and with every blow, I said, "God bless! God
bless!" I felt sweat forming on my brow. "God blessed machine!" I said through
my teeth. "God bless! God bless!"
Suddenly, the post
office was filled with sweet angelic voices, something like the Vienna Boys'
Choir singing "Ave Maria," but indistinctly.
I stood
back, looking around. There was smoke. I smelled incense. The vending machine
was bathed in a warm, golden glow. I turned around to see where the light was
coming from, and there stood the blessed virgin, just as I had imagined her when
I was in grammar school, more beautiful than a movie star. She wore sunglasses.
Mary smiled beatifically, raised her hand as if to
bless me, and then lunged toward the vending machine. It looked like she was
going to put her shoulder to it, like a television cop breaking down a door, but
I never saw her make contact. There was a blinding flash of brilliance, but no
sound at all.
When I opened my eyes, she was gone.
The invisible choir had stopped singing, or at least I think they had. It would
have been hard to hear them over the sound of the quarters ringing as they
streamed from the coin return slot like water from a fire hydrant.
I couldn't do anything for a moment but watch as the
mound of coins spread across the floor. Quarters rolled to the far ends of the
post office, and the shining pile in front of the machine was soon almost as
high as the coin return. Even so, the machine kept spewing out silver.
When I was knee deep in quarters, I regained my
presence of mind enough to reach down and scoop up a handful. That was when I
felt a strong grip at my elbow.
"This is the Lord's
money." The words were thickly accented.
I turned.
There, in silver and gold vestments, stood the Pope.
I could not remember how to address him. Your Grace?
Your Eminence? It had been so long ago that I had left the church. Then it came
to me.
"Your Holiness," I said, "I'm only taking the
money that I put into the machine to begin with."
"This is the Lord's money," he said again, as though
he hadn't heard me.
The pile of quarters kept
spreading across the room. It stretched nearly to the doors, now. "It's only a
few bucks," I said. "Just the price of a book of stamps."
"The Lord's money," the Pope said, smiling gently
and extending his open palm.
I gave him the quarters
and he guided me across the room toward the door. The quarters were slippery. I
almost fell, but the Pope had a good grip on my arm and kept me on my feet.
The quarters around the doors were ankle deep by
then. His Holiness and I had a hard time getting them open.
On the front steps of the post office were three
cardinals. One of them scooped up the coins that spilled from the open doors of
the post office, and another took me by the arm and started to lead me toward
the street. The first in a long line of armored trucks with Vatican plates was
backing toward the bottom of the steps.
"Hey, wait a
minute!" I said. "I left my tax return in there!" I tried to turn back, but the
third cardinal appeared at my side, grabbing my other arm.
"But my tax return! My tax return!" The cardinals
smiled the sympathetic smiles of men who speak no English, and they led me the
rest of the way down the steps. They kept me sandwiched like that for three
blocks, all the way past the cordon of nuns who, armed with wooden rulers, were
holding back the crowds.
Published by Alexandria Digital
Literature. (http://www.alexlit.com/)
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