Paying . . . to Pay

by John J. Cox
A Resident of Woodside

"Are you comfortable now?"

"Yes, Doctor. Thank you." I stretched out on the couch, took a puff from my cigar and readied myself.

"You know, of course, that I am just a regular practitioner, and not a psychiatrist?"

"Yes, Doctor, but you are the only medical professional I trust. After all, you're the last of an old breed. You're the only M.D. left, that I'm aware of, who still treats his patients like human beings and doesn't lecture them as if they're children."

It was true. The Doctor (capital D intended) had served my neighborhood for decades. In some cases he even made house calls. And he wasn't the type to lecture you on the evils of alcohol, tobacco and firearms. He was a regular guy. Heck, you could even smoke in his waiting room, and in case he made a prognosis that wasn't, let us say, very optimistic, he'd offer you a shot of Jack Daniels from a bottle he kept in his desk draw. I have an aunt who is 97 years old. She has smoked her whole life. The last time she visited the Doctor her son pulled the Doctor aside and expressed a concern about my Aunt's continuing to smoke. "Are you kidding?" responded the Doctor. "If she stops smoking the shock to her system will kill her."

The Doctor had no shortage of patients, either. As I said, he was a guy you could really trust. So, even though he wasn't a shrink per se, I knew I could confide in him without receiving the usual lecture. He poured me, and himself, a shot of bourbon. He lit my cigar and told me to relax. "Now," he said, "tell me what's been troubling you."

Nightmares. For weeks I'd been having the same disturbing dreams. But these were not the typical kind, like the roller coaster sailing off the tracks, or showing up at the office without trousers, or opening up the liquor cabinet only to find it empty. Oh, no, these were very different.

"Tell me," said the Doctor.

"They begin with me being back in the '70s," I confided. "I'm at the front door of a popular disco with a girl I asked out on a date. There is a line. When we finally get to the front some thug at the door in a leather jacket asks me for $25. He says it's a 'cover charge.' 'A cover charge?' I say. 'Why should I pay that? Isn't my money good at the bar? And with what you charge for a drink my whole paycheck will be gone in an hour anyhow.' The thug summons a bouncer and the dream ends before I can learn what happens next."

The Doctor reflected for a moment and said, "There is nothing unusual about a 'cover charge.'
In fact there is no shortage of dives that continue the practice. What else do you dream?"

"Next I'm at the airport, about to embark to an exotic place for a desperately needed vacation. After waiting on a long line I finally get to the ticket counter. The airline agent checks my passport, my driver's license, my flight reservation and issues me a boarding pass. As I place my luggage on the conveyor the agent says 'Wait, you have to pay a separate luggage fee. Luggage fee?' I say. 'Why should I pay that? I already paid the travel agent in full.' The agent panics, pushes a button, and six Homeland Security Officers converge on me. At this point I wake up and wonder if I ever did go on that vacation."

"I see," said the Doctor. "But you know, these surcharges are now commonplace. What else do you dream?"

"For forty-two years I was a season-ticket holder for the New York Jets. Every year they sent me the forms to renew my tickets for the next season. Year after year, first when they played in Shea Stadium and later when they moved to the New Jersey Meadowlands, I dutifully and loyally sent them ever-increasing sums of money so I could watch my team play. Every season the price of tickets increased and every season I paid whatever they asked for the tickets. This year I received a notice that next year I have to pay not only for the tickets, but for the right to purchase those tickets. Something called a 'personal seat license.' They want $10,000 per seat. I have two seats. So I have to pay $20,000, not for the tickets, but for the right to buy the tickets. By the way, the price of the tickets themselves has again increased. So in the dream I'm seated before a loan officer in my bank awaiting a decision on my loan application when I suddenly wake up in a pool of sweat. I never do find out if I was approved."

The Doctor nodded. "I think I could use another shot of bourbon. How about you?"

After we consumed the bourbon the Doctor asked me to continue.

"Here's the worst of it, Doctor," I said. "Last night I dreamed it was April 15th and my State income taxes were due. I wrote out a hefty check and stuffed it into an envelope with my return. After mailing it I returned home and put on the television where I learned that if you do not file your return electronically you must pay an additional $10 fee to the State to process your paper return. Again I awoke in a cold sweat. I hadn't sent the additional $10, and as I figured it that $10 would mushroom into $20, $30, $40 or more by the time the State got done with it."

The Doctor remained silent. "You see, Doc?" I said, "I'm becoming more and more deranged."

"No," said the Doctor. "I fear this is a case of clairvoyance."

"Clairvoyance?"

"Yes," said the Doctor. "You see, the Governor's budget does contain such a provision about the filing of taxes."

"You mean I gotta pay a tax to pay my tax."

The Doctor did not respond. He stood up and headed for the door. "Where are you going," I asked.

"I need to buy more whiskey," he said.