Chapter 9-The Tax Man Cometh

AS YOU READ EARLIER, Frances thinks of herself as a highly organized and detail-oriented person. In the beginning of our rela¬tionship, she was very emphatic: “I want to sit down and really organize; you know, I want us to know where our drivers’ licenses and our tickets are at all times. I want to be prepared. We’re going to be on tight schedules most of the time and I don’t want us to fumbling about and making fools of ourselves in airports.”
One of the reasons Frances wanted to be prepared and not fumble around was the fact that we were carrying around a fair amount of money’s worth of jewelry in a very basic box, essentially a makeup kit. For obvious reasons, we didn’t want to let it go with our baggage, so we always clutched the box as if we expected a mugging at any moment.
That said, during a one-day trunk show in Vegas a few weeks after our initial tryout, we met a sales rep from Michele Watches, a popular brand that Manheim already carried, and she was a doll—very helpful and friendly.
AFTER THE SHOW, WE P ACKED up our line and set about getting to the airport. When we stepped outside, it was pouring rain.
There was a line of people 50 deep trying to get taxis, as many of the people at the show were doing the same as us—trying to get home. It seemed interminable as slowly one or two cabs would arrive and whisk off one or two people.
Nearly 40 minutes had passed and we were still huddled under the store awning not far from the curb, and Frances and I were beginning to worry that we’d miss our flight. Just then the Michele rep we’d met came back to us from the front of the line and very kindly offered to share her cab. We were elated.
As we entered the airport and were heading toward the ter¬minal, Frances and I automatically began searching our immense purses for the fare—we both had the same thought simultane-ously—pick up the fare for all three of us—of course.
Frances was sitting up front with the driver and I shared the back seat with the kind woman from Michele. Frances was uptight. I can always tell when she’s uneasy by the way she twists her hair with one hand, and fumbles in her purse with the other. She’d emp¬tied half the contents onto the seat, including her wallet, and I knew, just like me, she didn’t have a dime to her name.
We were mortified. What would we say?
“Jude, do you have any money?” she asked with a mild, pan¬icky look on her face.
I picked at articles in my purse, mostly for effect, because I already knew I didn’t. “Uh, uh, I don’t think so.”
“Don’t worry, girls. I’ll take care of it,” said our benefactor. With that, we both just slumped humiliated, into the seats. A hun¬dred sorrys wouldn’t have soothed our embarrassment.
Traveling to shows requires not only the need for a days worth of clothing, the essential makeup and toiletries, etc., etc., but of course, we had to carry our jewelry line with us, all in one carry¬on bag. And now, we really were late, but we still felt a good run at it would save the day.
So here are these two women, one rather petite, the other rather tall, lugging their enormous purses and a far-too-large rolling bag through the airport at breakneck speed, bumping past people on the escalator, zigging and zagging their way to the ticket counter to get their boarding passes.
When we finally arrived, the kind Michele rep was standing in front of us in line. We nodded and smiled to her as she picked her boarding pass up and headed to the terminal.
We, on the other hand could not find our drivers’ licenses.
As the kind rep approached the escalator, she looked back to see us with our purses and the rolling bag open in front of the ticket counter with most of the contents splayed out on the floor.
We were both on our hands and knees rummaging through the mess and, of course, there were 50 people in line growing increas¬ingly angry. As I looked back up at the escalator, I saw the kind rep rising in the air with a look that simply said, What a couple of ditzes, though she did smile one last time—sort of.
“I thought you were the organized one,” I said to Frances.
“Don’t start.”
Finally, Frances found gold. Somewhere in the morass of her belongings, she discovered both our licenses and money—voila!
Before I could even look at her, she said, “Don’t say a word.”
We’d only survived half our adventure at that point. We still had to make the plane carrying the two heavy purses and the giant rolling case.
Off we went, running again, jumping past people on the esca¬lator, once again zigzagging through the throngs and in a short breathed panic we arrived at the security gate, which of course also had a long line waiting.
Frances was tapping her foot and I was chewing on a nail as we oh-so-slowly approached the X-ray machine. Once through the checkpoint, we raced to the first departure monitor frantically looking for the Orange County America West flight, hoping against all hope that it was still on the tarmac.
“Flight 321 has been delayed,” it read.
“Crap! I couldn’t believe it. After all that, the damned thing was delayed. Oh well, there is nothing left to do but to have a drink,” Frances said, as she turned and started toward the nearest bar without even saying another word to me.
It appeared we had enough time to imbibe one, so we sat in the bar drinking margaritas, which at that point tasted like a bit of heaven, and I pulled out the tickets.
“Which gate is it?” Frances asked.
“Hmm, looks like 36C,” I answered.
After a healthy margarita and a verbal reliving of the entire day, I walked out to the monitor to find the flight was back on— in fact, it was leaving in 15 minutes. Geeze, I thought, we’re still going to miss our flight! Funny how a harmless margarita can dis¬tort time.
Once again, we were off and running. She was carrying our two purses, which are more like large backpacks, and I was coming up the rear with an 80-pound rolling bag—the one that was far too big for the overhead and should hold only about 25 pounds of gear.
It was an aerobic moment to be sure. Actually, it was several aerobic moments until we arrived at the gate where we stood with our mouths open—nobody was there. There were no ticket takers, no passengers waiting reading papers—nobody.
“What the hell?” Frances said. “Jude, are you sure it’s 36C?”
“I’m pretty sure,” I answered, as I thrust my hand into my
purse to retrieve the tickets. “You’re ‘pretty’ sure?” she said. “Oh my gaw-w-w-wd,” I said. “It’s not 36C. It’s 36B. “Jude!” We began running off again in the opposite direction, racing to
the opposite side of the terminal. Half way there, I really thought I was running out of gas, but we managed to make it, just in time to see another completely empty gate—no ticket takers, no travelers.
“Damn! What in the hell is going on? Are we nuts?” Frances said. That’s when I pulled out the tickets again and gave them a more careful look.
Damn! It’s not gate 36B or C. It’s seats 36B and C. Frances is going to kill me.
“Uh, sweetie,” I said gently, “you’re not going to believe this.”
“Oh yes I will.”
“The 36B and C thing?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not the gate, it’s our…”
“Yes, go on, what is it?”
“Uh, uh, it’s our seats.”
“Wow. Are you kidding me? No, wait, don’t answer that,” she

said as she ran off to the monitors once again. “Come on,” she said as she grabbed one of the bags. “We can still make it.” And off I ran behind her.
By the time we finally arrived at the right gate, we’d done close to 2 miles of wind sprints through half the Las Vegas airport. As we were getting closer to the gate, we could hear that our flight number was making the last call.
In full-blown panic, we finally got to the ticket counter where

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the agents were packing up and one of them is closing that door that leads down the ramp, and we all know what that means. If the door closes, we’re doomed. Even if for some reason that plane sits there for another half hour—after “the” door closes, we’re not going anywhere.
But we begged the agent as if this was a life or death situation, and she actually relented.
“But hurry,” she said, “Even if you get to the plane, if they close ‘the’ door, you won’t get in.”
We ran down the long ramp, still lugging the enormous bag and purses, and got to the plane just as the attendant was begin¬ning to close the door.
“Wait!” Frances yelled. “Wait!”
The attendant did not look amused and I’m thinking: What’s her problem; we’re here, aren’t we? You haven’t closed “that” damned door yet. So let us in.
Breathing very hard, hair completely askew, blouses half unbuttoned, dripping in sweat, we entered the inner sanctum, which by now, unlike most of the flights we all go on, is hushed— completely silent—not a peep.
I looked down that long aisle, no seats…every face was focused on us in total disgust.
Then our eyes fixed on a woman in the very first seat of first class. Guess who it was? Now she was doing the “tisk, tisk” thing, having lost any semblance of her earlier sympathy.
I can’t even describe the feeling I had as I passed each row of disgruntled expressions, hearing those, by now, familiar stage sighs until we got to the very last row next to the toilets and began the ordeal of trying to put 80-pounds of potatoes into a ten pound bag.
This was just prior to the time when they started making pas¬sengers give up their oversized carry-ons at the door of the plane. Now, of course, they take those bags to check them with the reg¬ular luggage. We may have had something to do with that rule.
When we got to the last row, the overhead bin was still open. However, there was only enough room for a makeup bag. Our rollie was nearly as large as one of the seats. It took both of us to lift it above our shoulders, clunking the head of the very upset man sitting in front of us and soliciting yet more deep sighs.
Once we got the corner of it wedged in, we pushed and pushed until we’d squashed every bag in the compartment to accommo¬date ours. Finally, it took two of the flight attendants to snap the door shut.
All the way home, I had visions of that plastic door popping open and that 80-pound bag hurtling out, injuring someone.
WHEN WE RETURNED FROM VEGAS, I dropped Frances off and headed home. It was late and the children were all in bed. I peeked in on them and then quickly unpacked and fell into bed.
With the exception of the airport fiasco, it had been a great trip.
The next morning, I was up at my usual early hour before everyone else fixing a bowl of fresh fruit and about to sit down, when I saw something very odd out of the corner of my eye. I heard scurrying and the sound of plastic dragging on the wooden floor boards.
What in the world was that? I first thought, speculating that a mouse was making its way from the porch to the kitchen. I got up and slowly walked around the cabinets clutching a piece of rolled up newspaper in one hand.
When I peeked around the corner, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There in the corner was poor Rascal, the hamster, with one of those cones around his neck and head, like the vets put on dogs that have had surgery so they won’t chew on their stitches. He looked so pitiful, yet so hilarious.
I’ve laughed a lot since that morning and often laughed hard, but if I live to be 90, I won’t laugh that much again. He was sitting up on his back haunches, his tiny head peeking out of this minia¬ture RCA-like horn, begging for food. I was in tears and about to pee my pants, when all three children woke up.
My friend that had stayed with the children informed me that the vet had explained that poor Rascal wasn’t out of the woods yet. For the next week, we marveled at the sight of this rodent wan¬dering through the house with a cone over his head. We had litterbox-trained him like many people do with rabbits. The kids doted on him like he was a sibling.
AFTER THE NOVEMBER TRUNK SHOW, we hired our first employee— a bookkeeper named Loraine knowing we were about to take the next step up the ladder. She was a Godsend: a real numbers person who is very kind, sweet, and soft-spoken.
She only worked two days a week, but she made a huge differ¬ence in how we ran our still-fledgling enterprise. She knew everything there was to know about accounting, finance, and busi¬ness, in general—in short, she was another complement to our individual talents. It was only a couple of weeks before we vali¬dated our original premise—always hire people smarter than yourself—or at least with talents you don’t possess.
On a late December afternoon in 2002, our first year in busi¬ness Loraine came in to talk with us.
Living hand to mouth and working like draft horses 15 hours a day had paid off. However, everything we’d made that year went right back into inventory, marketing, and travel and we’d only taken small paychecks for ourselves.
“Well, girls. I’ve got good news and bad. Which do you want first?” Loraine asked.
She stood there with a pair of granny glasses barely resting on the tip of her nose, quietly peeking over them, waiting for our answers.
“The good,” said Frances.
“The bad,” I said.
“The good news is that you made some money. Pretty damned good, I’d say.”
“Wow, profitable in the first year, great” I said.
“What’s the bad news?” Frances asked.
She shook her head. “Well, the bad news is, you owe the IRS. More money than you have in the bank.”
“How can we owe taxes? I don’t get it?” I said. “We must’ve poured thousands back into the business. How about all those marketing write-offs or the travel expenses?”
“I’ve already accounted for those. I’ve accounted for every¬thing that’s a legitimate deduction. You two need to open some retirement accounts to begin with and we need to set you up on a payment plan with the government.” Loraine lectured. From that point on, she started to put the money aside for the taxes.
Fortunately, the IRS took Visa, so we put part of it on Jude’s card and part on mine to placate them, and then commenced paying off the other 95% over time. It took us nearly nine months to pay the previous year’s taxes—just about in time to start on the next year’s bill.
Now, we’re each as patriotic as the next person, but Loraine’s news took a little wind out of our sails. At that moment, it felt like we’d worked for practically nothing. However, being the trooper she is, Loraine quickly reminded us she was on board and would counsel us from that moment on about how to keep every penny we were legally entitled to.
The next week, Frances and I opened a 401k and thanked God that we’d hired her,