my W-2 forms arrived unbidden in the mail the other day. i really hate tax season, not because i hate having to do all the math and pay all the money, but because i never do either of those things, and i hate being reminded of of it. i haven't actually paid my taxes in about four years, and i dont think this year is going to be any different. i'll probably just try to stay one step ahead of the law, always watching my back and eyeing my friends suspiciously to try to anticipate being sold out by one of them. i guess tax evasion isnt really a good reason to think of myself as a third addition to Thelma and Louise but its still oddly scary in some way.
thinking about W-2 forms got me to wondering if i'm ever going to get mine from the gas station where my year-long tenure ended late last january. the gas station was a pretty good job. i got a lot of reading done and schooled many customers on my hot music selections. and there were the rare days when i'd work alongside another employee. my favorite way to pass the time when working with joe or tanya (apart from listening to joe's complete megadeth collection on an interminable loop) was to doctor up the matchbooks that we gave out for free to any nic-fitting Kool smoker who asked. one by one we would open them and write, on the inside of the cover, what we felt were plausible names of women who could be met at bars, which we followed by phony telephone numbers. the operational logic here was that since matchbooks always wind up getting set aside for months between uses, it stood to reason that a few of these cancerous wretches would be at least momentarily excited by the prospect of a date with 'Sharon,' 'Debbie,' or Barb.' i wonder if it ever worked...
my boss at this job was an reasonably attractive guy in his middle thirties, whose middle-management anal-retentive tendencies were barely tolerated by my fellow coworkers. we got along alright, though, after he nervously mentioned, during a meeting, the 'partner' he hated to drive home late to night after night. unfortunately he was transferred and a new manager was ushered in shortly before i was fired.
on gene's first day of unsupervised supervision, i dropped a roll of quarters while attempting to switch the register drawer during the afternoon shift change. as i bent over to retrieve it, i heard gene utter a low whistle.
"nice view," he groaned. great, i thought. just great."man, if i were thirty years younger and you didnt work for me..."
later that day, gene popped up from his office to do some further employee weirding out. "you know," he said, "i just have to tell you, you look EXACTLY like my long-term lover chris. its uncanny!" i figured this could be worse, so i decided to play along. but before i could ask what chris looked like, gene informed me that chris had succumbed to AIDS the previous autumn. i made the requisite apologies and gene looked stricken for a moment, but recovered quickly and offered to bring in pictures of chris to show me.
about a week passed and i'd forgotten all about chris until i came into the station and started to make coffee. gene emerged excitedly from the office with an envelope in hand which, sadly, did not prove to be a bonus check. "i brought the pictures!" he exclaimed. as he handed me the envelope and i began to leaf through its contents, my stomach suddenly gave a lurch and i almost dropped the photos.
"it was a lovely service- all of our friends and family were there," said gene wistfully.
"yeah, so umm, he's like-- i mean, he's dead here, huh?"
'oh, yes." gene was nonplussed.
"yeah, the, uh, the similarity is striking!" i managed, although i saw very, very little in common between my features and those of the cross-armed cadaver in the coffin. i was resisting the morbid temptation to utter the phrase that was racing through my mind..."dead ringers, dead ringers, dead ringers, dead ringers..."
the job didnt last much longer.
i think that the Murder She Wrote marathon is still on so i'm off now to catch a few episodes. p.s. - don't work at gas stations. people there are weird.