The return

I double-check the figures ..sign ..make an envelope for the state return ..and dash off to the post office expecting to see after-hour carriers waiting outside. But there’s nobody. Shit, they usually have canvas bins sitting out till midnight ..I used to just toss my returns out the car window without having to break much. I park and go inside where there’s a line wrapped around the place. I discretely approach the counter from the side so I can ask what happened to the bins ..but, before I utter a sound, she takes the bundle out of my hand ..stamps each one ..tosses them somewhere behind her and says ‘all done’.

I go to Java Jones, sit outside and listen to a narrator inside my head explaining what just happened. I’ve been out-of-touch with reality for so long now that I have to rely on second-hand information. It also feels like there’s a ‘panel of judges’ listening and giving me scores for good or bad performance. I receive pretty good marks for finishing my returns on time ..mediocre marks for arriving at the post office late ..and dismal marks from the German judge who took points off for all the things I neglected to do while preparing my taxes ..(!?) I mount a forcible argument ..but people are beginning to stare ..so I get up and head for a tavern to settle this. On the way, I pass through a farmers market ..buy a flat of strawberries ..haggle over the price of avocados .. replenish my supply of fruit and vegetables ..then just sort of meander around stupidly for a while. My arms hurt from all the stuff I’m carrying .. but I haven’t heard a peep from any of the judges.