Taxes, Mostly

The girl you’re here to see is sitting on the side of the road. Quite inconvenient of her, really. It’s raining, has been for the last couple of days, and the mud latches onto your shoes, leaving the leather soaked with wet and grime. It’s that kind of road in that kind of town, where the forest cuts deep and the air feels a little cold at all times, and it’s hard to imagine that the ground below your feet was ever anything more than a pool of darkened earth. You wonder why you even bother, why you spend so much time this morning wiping off everything that was left from your last visit. You like the details, you suppose. You like the clean cut of your blazer, the way the white collar sits just above your collarbone, the shape of your pants as they cut away just below the ankle. It makes you feel cleaner, more put together than the people you see on the regular – all messy clothes and panicked eyes. It’s a nice reminder. Makes you feel more important than they might consider you to be. But it does lose some of its magic. Most feelings do when you can feel your socks stick to the insides of your shoes. The girl doesn’t look at you at first, even when you stand right next to her. She’s sitting hunched, arms wrapped around her legs and knees. Her hair falls around her face in a wild mess, sticking to her cheeks, wet and tangled from the rain. You didn’t even think to consider your own hair after you left the house, and seeing her makes that familiar sting of self-consciousness dig into your stomach. You reach up, slicking back some of the frizzier strands. Finally, you clasp your hands in front of you, clearing your throat. Over the years, you’ve perfected this sort of aura. That slope of your shoulders, the cutting edge in your voice that makes people acutely aware of how much of your time they’re wasting. She looks at you, finally. She has the sort of young, round face which, in your mind, puts her somewhere between sixteen and thirty. You’re bad with faces like that. Always have been; not that it matters now.

That’s one of the good things about the job. You don’t get a lot of regulars. “Good evening,” you say. It’s three in the morning, technically, but you decide to keep that fact to yourself. The girl watches you, for a moment. She doesn’t say anything, and you're wondering if she’s just embarrassed. You would be, in her place. Her makeup is quite the mess. You roll your shoulders, feeling much more secure in your crisp shirt. “Very well then,” you sigh a little. It’s an ungrateful job, really. Still not as ungrateful as the years you spent as a teacher a long time ago. You reach into your messenger bag, swung casually across your shoulder, pulling out the right folder by touch alone. You developed an array of small skills like that over the years. You lean over a little, trying to shield the paper from the rain, and click your pen open. “Do you mind telling me what happened?” She does, apparently, because she stays silent, eyes wide and open. Finally, you look to the side, giving what is left of her car a proper look. It’s not the worst car crash you've seen, all things considered. And you’ve seen a lot over the years. Enough that it makes you wonder if its intentional. It’s the sort of first-hand response nobody really wants to deal with, especially when it comes with hysterical clients. Or worse – defensive ones. It would make sense if your co-workers were quietly slipping you all the dirty work. Doesn’t seem all that out of character for them. You make a note to watch your desk more carefully from now on. At least you can still tell it’s a car, which is a lot for these kinds of accidents. There’s still some smoke spilling from beneath the bent hood. “It skid.” Her sudden voice almost scares you. It sounds rough and unpleasant. Her face is blank now and she’s not looking at you anymore, gaze a little hazy. Still, it’s good to finally have something you can work with. You almost give her a smile, but decide otherwise when she sniffles, wiping her face on the back of her hand. “That’s great.” You look down to your papers, jutting down a few noted under the CASUSE OF ACCIDENT section. It's your favourite part to fill out. “Do you mind telling me your name?” You don’t need it, not really. It’s already filled, right at the top of the first page, right next to her age, address, and everything she ever was.

“What happens now?” They always ask that. And the bare truth is – you don't know. You don’t know what to tell them. You don’t know what the judge will say, what the verdict may be, what they should receive after all of this. You know what is in front of you and the numbers you typed onto the paper in black ink. What you see right now is a mess of a girl. You don’t tell her that. You’re nice like that. “Well, we’ll see very soon, won't we?” She doesn’t seem happy with that answer, frowning widely. She leans a little closer, and there’s suddenly something manic in her gaze, something a little more human. “Tell me.” She puts one of her hands on the ground, maybe for balance. You wince and wonder if it’s worth pointing out she will need to sign a few papers like this. The idea of the reality of this, the grime and dirt and everything nobody wants to know about spilling onto the striking white of your bureaucracy, makes you feel a little sick. “I wouldn’t know,” you answer, honestly, making sure you sound as annoyed as you feel. “You wouldn’t know?” She leans back and laughs, something very unhappy. “What are you here to do, then?” “Your taxes.” She stares at you, blank. They never appreciate your sense of humour. You suppose this is the sort of job that doesn’t really call for having one. “Give me a few more minutes, I’ll be done soon. You can leave then.” “Leave where?” You sigh, not dignifying that with a response. When you’re finished, you close the folder, nice and neat, even if some of the rain bleeds onto the pages. You watch her as she struggles to stand. She looks at you, for just a moment, her hand hovering in the air, like she wants to grab onto you, have something to hold herself in place. It’s a good thing she doesn’t. She’s crying again. Or maybe it’s the rain, staining her face. Now, she’s looking at you. And for a dead person – she seems so alive. They always do when they’re scared. You wonder if there is some part of you that still remembers this. That deep

unsureness that comes with being human. You hope there’s not. “We can go now,” you say. You walk, leading the way ahead, making your way across the mud and dirt as neatly as possible. You feel her follow. This is always the easy part. You’re good at many things, but this is where you excel. Death and taxes. But mostly taxes.