I think 2002 was the last year that I did my income taxes alone. I was pretty pleased with myself, having finished the job in the early evening, after considerable procrastination, hours before the April 15 deadline. No problem, I knew that the post offices would be open, their canvas sorting bins open to receive my return. About 10 pm I climbed into the Altima and drove to the Emeryville branch, about a mile and a half from home, just a few blocks from the building where the Ask Jeeves offices I worked in were located. Exercising the stock options I'd received as a result of the dot.com boom meant that this year I would not be getting a refund--a fat check was stapled to my form 1040.
I knew something was wrong when I turned off Hollis Street. No other cars, no lights ahead. Now struck by a pang of fear I swung my Altima into an empty parking lot, hurried up to the glass-paned entrance door of the post office, snorted as it failed to slide open at my approach. A few feet inside a chromed pylon had been placed, a handwritten note taped to it, illegible in the glare from the outside streetlights. Bastards. Why had we ever privatized the USPS? Their obsession with the bottom-line was really fucking me up.
Massively parallel calculations of penalties and interest rattled through the registers of my brain. Was there even a computable solution to the problem? How would I explain this lapse to my wife, to the auditors? As I stood paralyzed with indecision there was a roaring noise, a sweep of headlights across my chest as a black Porche Turbo screeched to a stop beside my battered sedan. The door cracked open, a long slender leg emerged, bare to the thigh.
She was an absolutely stunning woman, her long straight hair as black and glossy as the vehicle she drove, an asian beauty in a black mini-dress. She rummaged for a moment in the interior of the sports car, then turned and advanced toward me, a large white envelope clutched in one hand, broad hips swaying as she tripped delicately across the parking lot in high-heeled pumps. My mouth went dry.
"Oh my!" she exclaimed as she came close, peering just as I had into the window of the deserted post office, "Is it closed?"
"I think so," I said, "I don't know. There's some kind of note inside..." She teetered closer to me, bending to peer through the thick glass. "I can't make it out. Can you?" she asked, turning to look up winsomely at me. Motivated, I knelt on the sidewalk beside her, expanding my powers of perception far beyond their normal limits, slowly making out the crude characters pencilled on the scrap of paper within.
"This office is closed..." I recited grimly. "Thanks a lot, we figured that out already. Wait a minute, there's more..."
"Tax returns will be accepted at the main Oakland post office until 11 pm," I finally deciphered. "1446 Franklin Street, downtown." The clock above the rows of P.O. boxes read 10:37.
"Goodness," she breathed, "We better hurry. Can I drop yours off for you?"
Wordlessly, I nodded and handed over my envelope to the femme fatale, who accepted it with a small smile, turning and heading back to her car.
"Wait!" I called as she slid into the driver's seat and began to close the door, "...wait." Her face turned, regarding me expectantly.
"Thank you," I said finally.
She smiled and turned on the Porche's lights, then roared off down the two blocks to Hollis, took a sharp right turn and was gone.
I knew something was wrong when I turned off Hollis Street. No other cars, no lights ahead. Now struck by a pang of fear I swung my Altima into an empty parking lot, hurried up to the glass-paned entrance door of the post office, snorted as it failed to slide open at my approach. A few feet inside a chromed pylon had been placed, a handwritten note taped to it, illegible in the glare from the outside streetlights. Bastards. Why had we ever privatized the USPS? Their obsession with the bottom-line was really fucking me up.
Massively parallel calculations of penalties and interest rattled through the registers of my brain. Was there even a computable solution to the problem? How would I explain this lapse to my wife, to the auditors? As I stood paralyzed with indecision there was a roaring noise, a sweep of headlights across my chest as a black Porche Turbo screeched to a stop beside my battered sedan. The door cracked open, a long slender leg emerged, bare to the thigh.
She was an absolutely stunning woman, her long straight hair as black and glossy as the vehicle she drove, an asian beauty in a black mini-dress. She rummaged for a moment in the interior of the sports car, then turned and advanced toward me, a large white envelope clutched in one hand, broad hips swaying as she tripped delicately across the parking lot in high-heeled pumps. My mouth went dry.
"Oh my!" she exclaimed as she came close, peering just as I had into the window of the deserted post office, "Is it closed?"
"I think so," I said, "I don't know. There's some kind of note inside..." She teetered closer to me, bending to peer through the thick glass. "I can't make it out. Can you?" she asked, turning to look up winsomely at me. Motivated, I knelt on the sidewalk beside her, expanding my powers of perception far beyond their normal limits, slowly making out the crude characters pencilled on the scrap of paper within.
"This office is closed..." I recited grimly. "Thanks a lot, we figured that out already. Wait a minute, there's more..."
"Tax returns will be accepted at the main Oakland post office until 11 pm," I finally deciphered. "1446 Franklin Street, downtown." The clock above the rows of P.O. boxes read 10:37.
"Goodness," she breathed, "We better hurry. Can I drop yours off for you?"
Wordlessly, I nodded and handed over my envelope to the femme fatale, who accepted it with a small smile, turning and heading back to her car.
"Wait!" I called as she slid into the driver's seat and began to close the door, "...wait." Her face turned, regarding me expectantly.
"Thank you," I said finally.
She smiled and turned on the Porche's lights, then roared off down the two blocks to Hollis, took a sharp right turn and was gone.
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