BEDSIDE MANNER

         For the first time since I began preparing his tax returns in 1984, Bobby K owes money. Bobby is a national sales manager for a chain of radio stations. He has always been a manager and was probably born one, never having to traverse the tribulations of being an 'account executive', the polite name for a glorified 'gofer'. Bobby is a good man. His jokes are funny and he gives away warm sweatshirts, not baseball caps. Though they sport his station's logo, the price is right to me.

         Now I am nervous about telling him the unspeakable. Bobby hasn't reached the email stage yet; maybe by retirement he might venture into the computer world, but for now the telephone will have to do. I dial his number and hope for voice mail, but instead his secretary patches me through to him. I launch into some song and snappy patter. He asks if I have heard from our mutual friend, Nervous Jim. The mention of the man who defines the expression that 'even paranoids have enemies' brings a few chuckles, but I know I am just putting off the dreaded moment.

         "Didja get my stuff?" Bobby asks, using Philadelphia street argot tuned over the ages.

         "I did and put the numbers on the computer. It doesn't come out quite the way I anticipated."

         "You mean I owe money?"

         "Uh huh, $2,635; you made too much money, a hundred K more than last year. On the plus side, you will get a $30 refund from Pennsylvania."

         "Oh thanks. I kind of expected to owe money. Are you sure there is nothing we can do, or maybe something we forgot?”

         “Hmmm, you mean did I miss an eight-thousand dollar deduction?”

         “Now that you put it like that, you are probably right. I made too much money. Send the returns out, and do you have any advice for this year?”

         “Made too much money, that’s a nice problem. You want advice? Fire your tax consultant. Check out this new guy, Arthur Andersen.”

         Bobby was laughing as he closed with “Say goodnight, Gracie.”

         My business requires a good bedside manner. My patients are not going to die, but for some their wallet and checkbook are very close to their heart. My call to Bobby brought Jimmy D front and center to my mind. Someone in the radio sales business had sent Jimmy to me. The sender worked for Jimmy and ‘highly recommended you’ as the latter recounted the first day we met.

         I do not get along with Type A’s, and Jimmy was one in all capital letters. Rather than take a seat, he stood as he talked to me. He practically threw his information on my desk, insisting it was ‘all there’ except for one item he would fax to me in a day or two. He fulfilled that promise and then began calling to find out what was happening.

         It didn’t take me more than five minutes with his papers to realize certain critical information was missing. One document showed that he had sold over $80,000 of his company stock that he had accumulated, but nowhere was there an indication of how much he had paid for the shares. In my jargon, Jimmy had given me ‘half a transaction.’ Unable to reach him on the phone because he was in meetings, I dispatched a note by fax that brought forth a telephone call in response.

         “I gave you everything you need,” he commanded. I patiently guided him through the ropes, letting him know that if he were correct, then he had $80,000 of pure income. A light dawned in his brain and he promised me the answer. The next day I found his response on my fax; he sent me the same documents I already had in my possession. When I called to tell him, he was in a meeting, or he was out of town, or not at his desk. He returned my call at night when my machine picked up. I returned the call the next day and missed him. He repeated his night routine and missed me. This dance went on a few days. A note of exasperation began to punctuate his messages. “You’ve got everything, why isn’t it done?”

         Our game of telephone tag ended one night when he caught me as I was leaving. I was not very patient with him, I guess, for he thundered out, “WELL WHAT EXACTLY DO YOU WANT?” When I explained, he said his old tax accountant never asked him this question and he had sold stock the year before. I pointed out he had sold five shares, and perhaps his tax man thought the number immaterial and guessed its cost, but I could not do that in this instance.

         I suggested calling the employer to get a record of the purchases. He wanted me to do this, but I pointed out they would not talk to me for fear of violating his privacy. Miracles of miracles, about a week later I received the information I needed and finished the return. It was evening. I called to give him the news. His voice mail picked up and I left a message, telling him that the return was finished, that he owed $900 and I thought the result excellent because his stock sale had netted him over $30,000.

         As I interviewed a client the next day, my secretary interrupted me to tell me that Mr. D was on the phone and HAD to talk with me. He was at an airport and could not wait. I picked up the phone assuming I would be hearing a very happy client.

         ‘David, I have been filing tax returns for over twenty years, and NEVER, NEVER, NEVER HAVE I OWED MONEY. DO YOU HEAR THAT?”

         I can’t remember where he was. I seem to recall Minneapolis or Kansas City, but it was evident we didn’t need a phone to have this conversation. I began to explain why he owed money, but he kept interrupting to ask if I deducted his children, his mortgage, or his charity. Every question was couched in the same loud voice that my client sitting with me could hear. She started laughing. He kept coming back to the fact that he had never owed money in his life.

         ‘WHAT ABOUT MY CLIENT ENTERTAINMENT, DID YOU PUT THAT DOWN?”

         Bedside manner was beginning to go out the window. “Of course I deducted it, and from the figure you gave me, I wondered if your liver was still working.”

         ‘WHAT’S THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN, THAT I LIED TO YOU. I’VE NEVER IN MY LIFE LIED TO ANYONE. YOU ON THE OTHER HAND ARE THE RUDEST, MOST ABBRASIVE SO-CALLED PROFESSIONAL I HAVE EVER MET.”

         When I tried to recount all the problems I had getting information from him, he kept interrupting, raising the decibel level even higher. My receiver was beginning to melt when I finally snapped:

         ‘ME RUDE? YOU WOULDN’T EVEN SIT DOWN TO TALK TO ME. YOU HAD TO STAND AND TRY TO ORDER ME ABOUT. YOU KNOW WHAT YOU ARE, YOU ARE A GODDAMNED BULLY.”

         At this point his flight was being called. He wanted to talk more when he got back to the City, but I wanted no more of him and had him on the run. Lowering my voice, I continued,

         “I am mailing your papers back to you. Go somewhere else and get it done.”

         “Fine, what do I owe you?”

         “Nothing, I couldn't do the job you wanted me to do.”

         The line went dead. He flew off into the sunset while I to the post office did hie, wanting his papers never to stain my office again. I think of Mr. D every year when the envelopes with tax data begin to arrive. I like to picture him up there in heaven, throwing his papers on the desk of Mr. Price Waterhouse and ordering him to get a big refund. I am sure some day Mr. Waterhouse will call me and ask if I know the CLIENT FROM HELL.