At my store, I was unable to figure the books or decipher the cash register receipts. So I loaded all my business records into five cardboard file boxes, put them into the trunk of my Mercedes, and drove to the IRS. Carrying one cumbersome box with me, I marched into the IRS office in Hollywood, determined to get things straightened out. I plopped the box on a counter and took a number. When my turn came, I announced to the startled clerk that I wanted the IRS to audit me.
She told me firmly that a citizen cannot request an audit and insisted that I leave. Determined, I went directly to the pay phone and called local news stations, certain that the threat of bad publicity would force the IRS to audit me. The news stations were not interested, so I sat down on the cold concrete steps with my enormous cardboard box and cried.
I returned to the store, gathered a few personal items and locked the door of my business for the last time. After lugging the file boxes up the stairs to my apartment, I put them on the balcony and opened a bottle of champagne.
As the sun set and the high tide crashed beneath my balcony, I opened the file boxes and tossed my business records out to sea. After the last paper fluttered into the surf, I pulled a wardrobe of expensive leather clothing from my closet which Burray, my designer boyfriend, had made for me. It too went over the railing. I was finished with Burray also.
The next day, a friend begged me to see her psychiatrist. He asked me if I believed in witchcraft and prescribed medications. I filled the prescription and vacated my apartment, telling my friends they could have what I left behind. I moved back to my isolated home in the Santa Cruz mountains, but quickly tired of the cold. Within a few days, I flew to Maui with my Heather, now four years old.
There, the state of Hawaii took Heather from me, declaring me an unfit mother. I was diagnosed manic depressive and put on lithium. The doctor prescribed 1450 milligrams a day, nearly the toxic dose.
She told me firmly that a citizen cannot request an audit and insisted that I leave. Determined, I went directly to the pay phone and called local news stations, certain that the threat of bad publicity would force the IRS to audit me. The news stations were not interested, so I sat down on the cold concrete steps with my enormous cardboard box and cried.
I returned to the store, gathered a few personal items and locked the door of my business for the last time. After lugging the file boxes up the stairs to my apartment, I put them on the balcony and opened a bottle of champagne.
As the sun set and the high tide crashed beneath my balcony, I opened the file boxes and tossed my business records out to sea. After the last paper fluttered into the surf, I pulled a wardrobe of expensive leather clothing from my closet which Burray, my designer boyfriend, had made for me. It too went over the railing. I was finished with Burray also.
The next day, a friend begged me to see her psychiatrist. He asked me if I believed in witchcraft and prescribed medications. I filled the prescription and vacated my apartment, telling my friends they could have what I left behind. I moved back to my isolated home in the Santa Cruz mountains, but quickly tired of the cold. Within a few days, I flew to Maui with my Heather, now four years old.
There, the state of Hawaii took Heather from me, declaring me an unfit mother. I was diagnosed manic depressive and put on lithium. The doctor prescribed 1450 milligrams a day, nearly the toxic dose.
|