There’s a man in a black suit outside. He’s been standing there all day, occasionally peeking through the windows. He doesn’t flinch when I make eye contact with him. Doesn’t seem bothered by the loud music I’m playing. He knows I’m home, and yet he doesn’t knock on the door. It’s thirty-five degrees and yet there he stands, baking in the sun, under a heat-absorbing black suit.
He must be the taxman.
My worst fears have been realised. I’m a fine-standing, law-abiding citizen. I haven’t committed any felonies or misdemeanours. I certainly haven’t committed any tax fraud. It’s not about any of those things. The simple, undeniable fact is, I have a fear of tax collectors. It doesn’t matter that I’ve paid my taxes in full for the last thirteen years without issue. If he asks to see proof, I think I’ll have a panic attack.
I have to get out of here. I could jump in the car, which I can get to without seeing the taxman, but there are multiple issues there. My first obstacle is the tyres. Hobart roads can be rough, and I’m afraid my tyres are quite flat. Another issue is that as soon as I open the garage door, I’m certain to find the tax collector standing right in front of it, blocking the way. I won’t be able to leave without running him over. Oh, and then there’s the fact that I still need to fix the air conditioning in my car. Hobart, thirty-five degrees, in a car with no air conditioning? No thank you.
There must be another way to get out of this. What if I call a mechanic that’s willing to come to me? Surely the taxman won’t ask to see all my records and transactions while there’s a mechanic here. Then, as soon as the car is fixed, I’ll leave. Perhaps in a week, he’ll be gone. I’ll go camping.
I just hope he can’t find me there too, otherwise, my life might turn into a horror movie.