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ACCOUNTANTS.
[AVAILABLE SINCE: 13 FEBRUARY, 2002]
I have terrible luck with accountants. I think it's because
I choose them the same way I choose my friends – by their
ability to amuse me -- when in fact accountants don't need to
have a lot of character; they just need to have an adding machine
and a slightly loose, but client-oriented grip on ethics.
My last accountant moonlighted as an amateur photographer, and
was known to most of his clients and all of his friends as Jim
"the ass man" Braddock. The name was not given, but
earned, for reasons directly related to the subject matter
of his photography. Jim had a second studio somewhere in the Caribbean
- on a remote island where women are culturally more comfortable
with having strangers ply them with American dollars and chocolate
for a chance to photograph their bare asses - and he spent most
of his year there. The last time I visited Jim, I walked away
with a substantial refund and two copies of his latest collection
of photography, "Delectable Derrieres". He didn't even
invoice me separately for the books, which means I get to write
them off as a tax deduction this year. For the record, that's
the best thing Jim ever did for me.
Filing taxes with Jim was a slightly uncomfortable experience
for me, and not just because his office walls were plastered with
photographs of oiled-up asses. His Manhattan apartment looked
like a complete flophouse, or the waiting room of a free clinic.
It was decorated in "shabby chic" style, with all the
chic elements TBD. (this style is also commonly known as "low
budget adult film chic") It's rather difficult to place your
financial future in the hands of a man whose entire living space
could have been furnished with your $300 accounting fee. I originally
assumed the home office was transitional, yet each year I returned
to his apartment it remained completely unchanged except for the
small addition of a miniature model Ferrari for his cheap, drugstore
toy collection, or a new stain. All of this squalor made me wonder:
what was this guy doing with his money? He didn't even wear shoes.
He just prepared my taxes at an old bridge table with a pencil
and bare feet. Oh yes, and sometimes he wore clown makeup. Looking
back now, that probably should have set off an alarm in my head.
The only truly modern convenience in Jim's home office was a
25-inch television set, which was left on throughout his entire
working day, and at a volume so deafening that even nearby nursing
homes called to complain. This meant I had to answer questions
about charitable donations while Joy Behar cracked wise about
her hot flashes, somewhere right over my left shoulder. Was this
professional? No, was it hilarious? Absolutely. As they say in
Show Business, Joy Behar has "It".
Morgan, my accountant previous to the ass man, also prepared
my taxes in his bare feet. (Based on my experiences, if I were
writing a book on choosing the right financial advisor, I would
probably have to include footwear as a minimum credential.) Morgan
only accepted cash as a fee, spoke in an incomprehensible, raging
stream of consciousness that usually ended with a confidential
wink, and filed my returns in Crayola marker. I probably would
have stayed with him, too, because, unlike the ass man, Morgan
actually owned a computer. Unfortunately, he just disappeared
one day. I called his cell phone number and got a Payless Shoes
location instead. Stranger still, they had a forwarding number
for him and it was an Olive Garden location. Upon being connected,
I didn't have the heart to ask for Morgan by name, fearing even
the slightest note of recognition.
I have a new accountant this year, and I'm expecting I'll fare
better. Unlike my previous advisors he has a long line of high-profile
references, with clients including Billy Dee Williams, Hammer,
and Ike Turner. (he's been featured on VH-1's Behind the Music
on several occasions, usually with his face and voice obscured.)
I look forward to the change but I must admit to a bit of trepidation.
First of all, his business card has visible, rough perforation
lines around it. And next to the phone number it says, "Ask
for 'Sweet-Dick'". Isn't "Sweet Dick" the kind
of name that would be more appropriate for, say, an orthopedic
surgeon? I must be careful not to judge.
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