Confessions of a Tax Collector by Richard Yancey Page A

to make his mark on the world. He didn’t get very far north or make much of a mark. He eventually settled in Lakeside, where all his ventures ended in utter failure: the clothing store, the restaurant, the watch-repair shop. At twenty-five, he was selling hotdogs wrapped in Pillsbury crescent rolls from a cart at the Joker Marchant Stadium, home to the Lakeside Tigers, the triple-A farm team for Detroit. “Billy’s Pigs in a Blanket.” He was also experimenting with various syrups with an eye on cornering the slushy market. His life changed abruptly and irrevocably when he answered an ad in the local paper.
    He often said the IRS had “discovered” him—had plucked him from obscurity—and it was inside the Service that William Culpepper discovered his true calling, his passion and, ultimately, his damnation: the occupation of revenue officer.
    * * *
    Once we settled into Allison’s car, Culpepper began to hold forth. “I have been spat on, kicked, punched, pushed down, my hair yanked, and had a gun pulled on me. I have been called Nazi, Gestapo, pig, and other names that would make a marine blush. I’ve had doors slammed in my face and once somebody tried to run me over with a car. I go home at night and my wife tells me I drink too much and brood too much and don’t get enough sleep. I haven’t spoken to my parents in two years. My friends from college don’t call me anymore. People at my church cross the sidewalk so they can pretend they don’t see me. My neighbors call me ‘Mr. Culpepper.’ Three years ago, every strand of hair on my body, from the top of my head to those little hairs that grow on the top of my feet, fell out. Just fell out. I was bald all over. I was stripped completely bare. I looked like I was made out of wax. So I bought a toupee and the first thing I noticed was how much nicer people were to me, since they assumed I was undergoing chemo. Then one day my hair just started growing back, and it came in this dark; it came in
black.
Before it fell out it was brown. Now it’s black…
    You are exceeding the speed limit, Allison. You get a ticket on the job and I’ll write you up. I’ll fire your ass. You are a federal officer. Henceforward you will be held to higher standard. And, while you are under me, you will be held to the
highest
standard… Be proud of what you do. Be proud you’re a revenue officer. Not some number-cruncher, not some fucking accountant or CPA who can’t make it in private practice. You are a revenue officer. There are only ten thousand others like you in the whole country, and you are the best of the breed. The United States has the most efficient tax system in the world, because of one thing. Don’t forget the fourth protocol— You’re turning right in less than a hundred feet; signal your turn. Make known your intentions. Always make known your intentions. Learn to detest the unexpected. Hate surprises. Surprises will get you killed. The highest award a revenue officer can receive from the government is named after the only revenue officer who was killed in the line of duty. Ambushed by a protestor. A few years back they actually put it to a vote whether ROs should carry guns. The overwhelming majority voted it down. I don’t think I need to tell you how I voted.“
    I thought of Melissa and her opening remarks my first day on the job: were it were up to me, I’d line ‘em all up against a wall and shoot them.“ I sat in the backseat of Allison’s Audi and thanked all the gods of collection that he had chosen her cases to take to the field that opening day.
    Our first stop was a mortuary, the first stop of dead people. As we approached the door, Culpepper said, “Remember the third protocol. Never go into a business thinking, ‘Am I going to have to seize this place?’ Always go in thinking,
‘What
am I going to seize in this place?’” He said it with no trace of irony. I prayed that what we saw inside was limited to caskets and flowers. The