THE PROCRASTINATORS' BALL

         Let me see now. We had two nights of heavy frost last week but the temperature reached the seventies by the end of the week. The Ides of October have come and gone and it is cold again. Was it Indian Summer that I missed?

         The mornings echo with the honking of geese, either going south or moving in for the winter. As the afternoon sun warms the air, the bees are out in abundance, finding anything they can to stave off the coming cold. The house fills with cluster flies, ladybugs that are not ladybugs and long legged creatures crawling on surfaces. All are trying to find a home for the coming cold weather. Meanwhile, the two-legged animals I know called clients have been acting like grasshoppers.

         The fifteenth of October was the final day a person could file their tax return with an extension of time. Years ago I had only one client who would extend her deadline that long, Ilsa Laszlo. Ilsa always filed on the October 15th deadline. She lives in a southern state and owns a number of properties with her sister, Gisela. She drives Gisela crazy because Gisela depends on her sister’s numbers to do her own return.

         Usually around the tenth of the month, my fax begins to hum with her spreadsheets. I dump these numbers onto tax forms, hit the ‘Print’ icon, and fax them back to Ilsa and the waiting Gisela. I always make allowances in my schedule to be in my office during those days and evenings, although there is an understanding that items received after nine in the evening will not be collected until the next morning.

         Ilsa, or some person of her ilk, has been spreading the news about the extended deadline, and over the past three years more and more people are sending in their information at the last moment. The eleventh saw information arrive by Email, fax, the Postal Service, UPS and Federal Express. The latter two nearly collided in the driveway and the sound of their trucks set the dog off into a lengthy round of barking.

         Two more returns came in on the twelfth. I managed to complete all of these, and in addition put the finishing touches on the return of the Eight Million-Dollar man. Federal Express had a two-day boomlet as I shipped off the finished products. In the meantime, Ilsa is playing her cards close to her vest. Aside from a piece of mail in late September I have not heard from her.

         Saturday evening the thirteenth, when I should be able to put my feet up and say “It’s over for another year”, I begin to get her emails and faxes. The first one tells me that she cannot complete her return, but asks me to do the part about the real estate so Gisela can file hers. I ‘white-lie’ and say that I have a visitor, but she will let me take an hour to do it. There is nothing like laying on guilt trips, and in reality, Ilsa is so organized that it takes longer to fax it back than to do the work. In the morning I find a big ‘Thank you” on the fax. The next day is the deadline. Nothing more can happen.

         And nothing does except the onset of a fever complete with chills, thrills and terrible pains in the mouth. My late wife's doctor sees me at 5:30 and gives me prescriptions. While getting them filled I pick up some soup because the cold sores do not let me eat food. At home I open the can of pea soup and start to heat it when I see I have a message on my personal phone. I assume it is Pamela, asking me about the doctor. She worries long distance. She is sweet that way. I push the “Play” button…..

         Wrong-O, Fool! Who else would call on the evening of the deadline but another tax consultant, my friend in Connecticut? She has forgotten it is the deadline and she has this return we talked about at the last deadline in August. I call her back. “Only you would call me back.” I disclose that my temperature is 101 and hope that tempers the quality of any advice I can give. I also put the soup on simmer. Later I find I cannot eat the soup anyway, it is too hot on my sores.

         As far as I can see in my fevered haze, the return she is doing must be steered carefully between the rocks and the reef. Despite having to wrap a thermal sweatshirt around me, I enjoy the work and only wish my head weren’t stuck in a backwater. She resolves her problems and I go off to my soup, and a call to Pamela to tell her I am alive, and three more days of fighting fever as I procrastinate over finishing this piece.

         Well, it’s Friday and here it is, finally. Ry Cooder’s wonderful score from "The Long Riders" fills my head. Jesse, Frank, Jim and Cole pick up their feet as Belle Shirley drives off to Texas. I mark my calendar. I must remember that next year I should add a few new names to my dance card at the Procrastinator’s Ball.