Burning Bridges and Tax Returns

I grew up hearing my parents use the phrase “Don’t burn your bridges”. I had no idea what it meant, but I didn’t ask for clarification. In fact, for a long time, I thought they were saying “britches” which made even less sense. So when I was about seven or eight, I asked my dad, “Is that the same as being a liar?” His face registered total confusion. “You know...burn your britches... liar, liar, pants on fire? Is that why you keep telling people not do it?” His hearty chuckle momentarily hurt my pride. I didn’t think it was funny. He went on to explain that it was a metaphor for relationships with other people. Once they are damaged or destroyed, it is difficult to go back and you can never be sure which bridges you will need to cross in the future. He probably didn’t say it exactly like that, but I got the gist. Today I had a reminder of what a small world this is and how many little bridges we cross and forget about until we cross them again.

I went to have my taxes filed (something I probably could have done cheaper online, but laziness and/or fear of doing it wrong compels me to pay someone else to do it). The woman at the desk looked familiar, but it took a few minutes for me to place the face. She had been my boss at my first campus job. Freshman year seems forever ago. It was a rather boring office job...the kind where you think about pulling the fire alarm just for variety. My task was to sort through piles of returned mailings to alumni and enter address changes into the records system. I worked 12-15 hours a week for minimum wage and the highlight of my workday was that cute boy who was always leaving a class in the room next door just as I arrived for work. Yup. Grocery money and that boy were my only motivation for keeping that job. I remember wondering why my boss had stayed in that office for so long. I also wondered just exactly how many cats she had at home. She always smelled faintly of tuna.

One day, after sustaining yet another paper cut in the line of duty, I wasn’t feeling particularly excited about changing 100 more addresses. I decided to take a break. At the time, I was obsessed with homesrarunner.com . So, I put on my head phones—we were allowed to listen to music with head phones—and pulled up my favorite Strong Bad Email (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bT4SGdq0ZyU ) . In less than five seconds, my boss came walking toward my desk. I quickly—and cleverly, I thought—switched screens and began typing rapidly. Surely I had fooled her, right? Wrong. The headphones were not actually plugged in. The entire office could hear it. Woopsie. I got off with a warning and never did it again. But my embarrassment over it did nothing to boost my enthusiasm for the job in general and I did not return the following semester.

Fast forward eight years. I’m sitting across from this same woman trying to figure out why I know her. It clicked and before I could think about any potential awkwardness, I had confirmed her identity and mine. There was a long pause. Then she asked, “What are you doing now?” I told her, but didn’t return the question because it seemed unnecessary. I noted that she seemed happier and did not smell like tuna...she also had wedding ring...coincidence?) But after the head nodding and smiles were over, it got awkward. Or rather, she got awkward. I was pretty sure that even if she remembered me or even disliked me, it would be illegal for her to intentionally mess up my taxes. Still, she was acting strange.

The list of questions a tax professional asks are not really that personal, but she kept asking them with an apologetic tone, as if she felt she was prying (“Ever filed under a different name? Were you married at the end of the last calendar year? Any dependants? Alimony? Government benefits? “) Each time the computer system ran slowly, she tried to make small talk, but each successive attempt was more uncomfortable than the last.

I found myself wishing that I had not reminded her of our previous association. If I we had just been able to remain strangers, the silence wouldn’t be a problem. I would have been fine with silence. But it wasn’t possible now. I wondered if Allie Brosh would appreciate my circumstances. She brilliantly described what she called, “The Four Levels of Social Entrapment” http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/09/four-levels-of-social-entrapment.html
. I realized that I was experiencing Level 1 (a kind-of-but-not-really-knowing someone) AND Level 2 (forced proximity) at the same time. I wasn’t sure how this was going to end...I just wanted it to end.

Finally, she stopped what she was doing and said, “Okay, that year was a stressful year for me (she gave several reasons), so I’m sorry if I was a cranky boss or made your life harder.” At first, I had no response because I was not expecting that. But I had to say something, so assured her that what I remembered most about that job was the free online radio station she had introduced me to. She seemed relieved. I was also relieved....relieved that even though I hated that job, I had not left it in the fashion I frequently dreamed about....namely, throwing down my headphones, kicking over the large bin of shredded paper and yelling “I’m outta here! Enjoy your paper cuts, you crazy cat lady!”

So, let that be a lesson to us all. Careful not to burn bridges, however insignificant they seem. You never know who will be doing your taxes.