Tax Man
I know a lot of South Enders who fight with the Tax Assessor. Fighting with the Tax Assessor is akin to fighting with a cop. You might get a few curses out or even land a punch, but it’s a Loser’s War. They’re gonna win, guaranteed, end of argument. But no, when the TaxMan comes around, they abuse them or they threaten them, they videotape them or they cry No Trespassing! They end up going down to the courthouse to protest their assessment with the Equalization Board. I won’t say they never get a reduction, but the couple who did saw it go back up the very next year.
I got a buddy, cheats on his taxes, wheels and deals on every purchase, builds the South End Way, meaning, he skips the permits then when he’s done, boards it up so the Assessor can’t look in. Or, actually, makes the Assessor all that much more curious. When I first came, I noticed the Assessor found everything I’d done, from plumbing a hot water heater to building a crummy porch — he was like a precursor to the NSA. I might not have to get a permit, but you better believe I was going to be taxed. I decided this was an okay bargain.
So when Fred found me busting knuckles behind the shed on an antique 5 horse boat motor, he introduced himself at the Tax Assessor and said he used to repair motors down in Florida, what was the problem? Good guy, Fred. Didn’t fix my 1950 Johnson, but he had some good advice: Junk It and buy a decent motor. I said, Fred, if I could, I would.
Years later I had built our palace up on the hill, million dollar view, permitted even on the owner builder permit plan, and Fred found me down at the shack working. “Got some bad news for you, Skeeter,” he said. “Well, sir, hold on then, I’ll get us a couple of homebrews, take the sting off the wound….” We shot the breeze awhile, drank our beers, then I said, go ahead, hit me. He said the neighbor’s new house across the ravine was assessed as of an hour ago at over one million dollars. I said, “So?” Fred rolled his eyes and I asked, “You mean that affects my piddly little house? Fred could see he was dealing with a real yokel.
“And that’s not all,” he started. “Wait!” I said, “there’s more?” And when he said, oh yeah, I got us another 12 ounce anesthesia. We swapped a few war stories, compared notes on the neighbors who hated him, had a few laughs, then I cut to it —- “So what’s the other shoe?”
“Bet you thought you had a final on your house, didn’t you?”
My heart skipped three beats. Yes, I did. My taxes had gone up, but not near what I’d feared. Now he was telling me why they hadn’t. “Well,” I said, “if I’m gonna live with millionaires, I guess I better pay my fair share.”
Fred commiserated with me over the gentrification of the South End, we had another cold one, shook hands and that was the last time I saw Fred before he retired. Our property valuation came in the mail a month or so later and I opened it with serious trepidation. It had barely budged. I won’t tell you a little courtesy, a welcoming smile and a couple of beers makes a difference to a Tax Assessor — they are, after all, paid professionals doing a miserably hard job — but I suspect Fred cut us some serious slack. And Fred, wherever you are, Thanks from a poor nettle farmer!
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