#SaturdayStorytime: Take A Number

(Beth Turnage Blog)

The IRS agents arrived at ten fifteen on a Monday morning.

There were two of them, both wearing dark suits and expressions suggesting they’d never laughed at a joke in their lives.

“Are you Helga Hilderbrand?” the taller one asked.

“Depends. Are you selling something?”

“We’re from the Internal Revenue Service.”

“Then yes, unfortunately. Come in.”

I moved a stack of tax forms off the sofa and gestured for them to sit. They remained standing.

“We’re here to collect your soul,” the taller agent announced.

I blinked.

“Not my tax return?”

“No, ma’am. Under the recently enacted Presidential Invasion of Privacy Act, we’ve already accessed your banking records. Thank you, incidentally, for keeping your accounts at only two financial institutions. It simplified the investigation considerably.”

“How thoughtful of me.”

“Unfortunately, our examination of your finances indicates that you possess no assets of sufficient value to secure your outstanding tax liability.”

“I’ve been telling people that for years.”

“Consequently, we’ve determined that your soul represents the only viable collateral.”

“Oh.”

I considered this for a moment, then reached for the notepad beside my computer. I wrote a number on a sheet of paper, tore it off, and handed it to him.

The agent examined it.

“What’s this?”

“Your number in line.”

“Line?”

“Yes. You can wait in the kitchen. Lord Pluto makes a fantastic cappuccino.”

The agent looked at his partner.

“Lord Pluto?”

“God of the Underworld. Roman. Very dramatic fellow. Insists on wearing a crown indoors.”

“Pluto is waiting in line?”

“Yes.”

“For your soul?”

“Obviously.”

The taller agent straightened his tie.

“Who, exactly, is ahead of him?”

“The community college library.”

Both agents stared at me.

“The library?”

“Apparently, I was a very bad girl. I borrowed a book twenty years ago and never returned it.”

“Twenty years?”

“I was busy.”

“What book?”

“The Guerilla Guide to Credit Repair.”

The shorter agent made a strangled noise. His partner shot him a warning look.

“Surely the library has written off the debt by now.”

“Oh, there’s no debt. Community college libraries don’t charge overdue fines.”

“Then why are they here?”

“They won’t let me register for classes. I made a complaint. She’s here to investigate.”

The agent blinked.

“After twenty years?”

“It’s a state institution.”

He absorbed this information with the gravity it deserved.

“And they have first claim?”

“They arrived first. I believe in fairness.”

“But the Internal Revenue Service is a federal agency.”

“And the community college library is a state institution. Are you proposing to start a jurisdictional dispute in my living room?”

He hesitated.

“Not without consulting legal.”

“Good. Kitchen’s through there.”

Pluto stood at the counter, operating my espresso machine.

He wore a black robe trimmed with gold, a crown bearing his planetary symbol, and an expression of profound dissatisfaction.

“Another one?” he asked when the agents entered.

“IRS,” I explained.

Pluto rolled his eyes.

“Of course.”

The taller agent approached him cautiously.

“Lord Pluto?”

“That’s what the crown says.”

“We understand you’re attempting to collect this woman’s soul.”

“Attempting?” Pluto drew himself up to his full, imposing height. “I am the Lord of the Underworld. I strip mortals of their illusions, dismantle their defenses, and reveal the terrible truth of their existence.”

“He’s been doing that to my printer all week,” I said.

Pluto ignored me.

“I have come to claim what is mine.”

“And yet,” the IRS agent observed, “you’re waiting in line.”

Pluto’s expression darkened.

“The librarian has precedence.”

As if summoned by the mention of her profession, a small woman in a gray cardigan emerged from the pantry.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Who moved the sugar?”

Pluto pointed toward the cabinet.

“Second shelf.”

“Thank you.”

She opened the cabinet, removed the sugar bowl, and examined the two agents.

“Are you federal?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m from the community college library.”

“We understand.”

“Twenty years,” she said severely. “Twenty years overdue. Do you have any idea what that does to a library’s circulation statistics?”

I sighed.

“Here we go again.”

“And we haven’t completed the investigation.”

The taller IRS agent frowned.

“What investigation?”

“The Quantum Shelf Check,” the librarian replied.

Pluto stopped frothing milk.

“The what?”

“The Quantum Shelf Check. Institutional subsection 404-F. When a patron reports that a borrowed book may have been returned but cannot be located, the library initiates a thirty-day investigation.”

“That sounds reasonable,” the agent said.

“During that period, the student’s registration hold is temporarily suspended.”

“Also reasonable.”

“On the twenty-ninth day, the patron receives notification that the search team has encountered an unspecified navigational anomaly in Stack Seven.”

Pluto lowered the milk pitcher.

“A navigational anomaly?”

“Correct.”

“In a library?”

“Stack Seven has always been problematic.”

The IRS agent rubbed his forehead.

“And then?”

“The student must submit a Request for Extension of Investigation.”

“Which allows you to continue searching?”

“Precisely.”

“And do you?”

“Of course not.”

Silence descended upon the kitchen.

The agent stared at her.

“You don’t search for the book?”

“Not unless the investigation is authorized.”

“But the student has already requested an investigation.”

“An initial investigation. The extension authorizes a continuation of the initial investigation, which cannot commence until the continuation is authorized.”

The IRS agent covered his face with his hand. “I will regret this, but why hasn’t an authorization to continue the investigation been issued?”

“Oh,” said the librarian. “The state consolidated Connecticut’s 12 community colleges into a single unified institution—Connecticut State Community College and downsized the workforce. Individual college library administrative offices and campus-level operational structures were merged into a centralized shared services model.”

The shorter agent paled. “You mean—”

“Well, think of it.Fewer people to do the work for twelve colleges? It’s a bureaucratic nightmare. Her request is in the queue waiting for review.”

“For twenty years,” roared the taller IRS agent.

“No need to shout, dear,” said the librarian. “With a severely scaled-back workforce, what can you expect? As you can see, the workload is crushing.”

Pluto looked impressed despite himself. “I will have to add a library section to Tartarus.”

“Tartarus?” said the agent.

Pluto smiled, and it was not pleasant. “The deep, dark abyss located far beneath the underworld. It is my dungeon of torment for the wicked and a maximum-security prison for defeated deities. They could use a new torture.”

“What happens if she doesn’t file the extension?” said the shorter agent.

“The investigation is declared a failure of faith. The book is classified as Metaphysically Disappeared, and the student’s identity is permanently archived. She can never register for classes at any state institution.”

“Archived?” the IRS agent repeated.

“Administratively speaking.”

“And if she files?”

“The registration hold remains suspended for another thirty days.”

“So every thirty days, she has to submit another form requesting that you search for the book?”

“Correct.”

“And you never actually search for it?”

“Not unless the investigation is authorized.”

“Isn’t that time-consuming?”

“Not at all. The forms are processed automatically.”

“I meant for her.”

“Oh.” The librarian looked surprised. “That’s not our department.”

Pluto leaned against the counter.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Twenty years.”

“And she keeps filing?”

“Religiously. We admire her persistence.”

“Seven hundred and thirty forms,” I said. “Give or take.”

The IRS agent turned toward me.

“Why don’t you just buy another copy?”

“Because then I’d have to fill out a different form.”

“In triplicate,” the librarian added.

“And,” I continued, “the extension fee is fifty cents more than the price of the book.”

The agent looked bewildered.

“But most importantly, the book is out of print. You might say it found its own Stack Seven.”

“Then why keep doing it?”

“Because I might want to take another class someday.”

The librarian nodded approvingly.

“We encourage lifelong learning.”

The agent studied the foam on his cappuccino.

“May I ask how many other claimants there are?”

“After you?” I said.

“Yes.”

“The Connecticut Department of Revenue Services.”

“The state income tax collector?”

“That’s right.”

“What do you owe them?”

“A dollar.”

He stared.

“One dollar?”

“Why didn’t you just pay it?”

“Because between writing the check, printing the return, buying an envelope, and putting a stamp on it, it would cost more than a dollar. And since it is related to the expense of filing taxes, I can’t deduct it. Look, I’m not an idiot.”

The shorter agent made another strangled sound.

His partner closed his eyes.

“So you’re refusing to pay a one-dollar tax liability. That is absurd!”

I folded my arms.

“You’re standing in my kitchen trying to repossess my immortal soul over seven hundred seventy-three dollars. Let’s not start throwing around accusations of absurdity.”

Pluto snorted into his cappuccino.

The taller agent looked at him.

“And what’s your claim based on?”

Pluto straightened.

“A conjunction with her natal Chiron in Aquarius. I have come to transform her understanding of power, mortality, and the illusions of control.”

“Do you have documentation?”

Pluto stared.

“Documentation?”

“A signed agreement? Court order? Notice of lien?”

“I AM PLUTO!”

“Yes, sir, but the IRS requires supporting documentation.”

For the first time since arriving, Pluto appeared genuinely frightened.

By noon, the discussion had become heated.

The IRS maintained that federal tax liens generally took priority over other claims. The state librarian argued that Connecticut’s sovereign interests could not be dismissed. Pluto insisted that his authority predated both the United States and the Roman Empire.

I sat at my desk trying to finish a romance novel.

From the kitchen came a tremendous crash.

“WHAT WAS THAT?” I shouted.

“Nothing!” Pluto called.

“Did you break my espresso machine?”

“No!”

A pause.

“Possibly.”

At one fifteen, the taller IRS agent appeared in my doorway.

“We have a problem.”

“Only one? Things are looking up.”

“We’ve been reviewing the competing claims, and it appears that the community college library may indeed possess a superior claim based on the date of the original obligation.”

We were, of course, at an impasse, which was fine with me, since the impasse was theirs to resolve.

The IRS couldn’t seize my soul without resolving the library’s prior claim.

The library couldn’t close its investigation without a properly authorized shelf search.

Pluto refused to acknowledge the jurisdiction of any mortal government.

“I told you.”

Pluto was standing in the hallway holding a broken ceramic lid.

“It’s not my fault,” he said. “The handle came off.”

“You’re a god. Fix it.”

“I govern death and transformation, not ceramics.”

“Then transform it into an unbroken sugar bowl.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it.

The IRS agent looked thoughtful.

I finally had enough.

“EVERYBODY INTO THE LIVING ROOM!”

They assembled reluctantly.

“First, the IRS.”

The taller agent stood.

I held up a copy of my installment agreement request.

“I’m paying fifty dollars a month. I’ve been paying fifty dollars a month. I have filled out your forms, printed twenty pages one sheet at a time, and arranged to mail the entire miserable package to Kansas City, Missouri.”

The agent studied the paperwork.

“This appears to be in order.”

“Wonderful.”

“Subject to approval, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And interest will continue to accrue.”

“Of course.”

“And—”

“Get out.”

He and his partner left.

Which brought me to Pluto and the librarian.

Pluto stood in the center of my living room, magnificent in his black robes and golden crown.

“At last,” he said. “We are alone.”

“Not quite. The librarian’s still here.”

Pluto raised his hands.

“Now, mortal, you must confront the ultimate truth. You cannot control everything. You must surrender your illusions and accept transformation.”

“Excuse me,” the librarian interrupted.

Pluto lowered his hands.

“What?”

“You cannot collect her soul.”

“I BEG YOUR PARDON?”

“Her student identity remains under administrative investigation.”

“What does that have to do with her soul?”

“Due to her request for an investigation, which includes an ID check in the extended investigation, we cannot verify her identity. Legally, she is in limbo, so nothing can be done with her until the matter is resolved.”

“THE SOUL BELONGS TO ME!”

The librarian adjusted her glasses.

“Not without a resolved investigation.”

“I AM AN IMMORTAL GOD!”

“And yet your claim does not supersede our administrative rules.”

Pluto stared at her. He turned toward me.

“You planned this.”

I smiled.

“Seven hundred and thirty forms, Lord Pluto. Give or take. I do plan ahead. Or did you think I took all those astrology lessons ‘for entertainment only’?”

He looked defeated.

“Time to go, Pluto.”

With a dramatic flourish of his cape, the ground underneath us shook and a huge crack opened in my livingroom floor.

“You will regret this, mortal,” he boomed as he disappeared into the crack.

“At least you could clean up after yourself,” I screamed into the abyss.

The librarian smiled. “My work is done here. I’ll show myself out.”

At four o’clock, the house was finally quiet.

The IRS had its installment agreement request. Pluto had retreated to the Underworld, muttering about the indignities of modern civilization.

The librarian had returned to the college, satisfied that institutional subsection 404-F remained in full force.

I sat down at my computer and opened my manuscript.

My email chimed.

A new message appeared.

SUBJECT: QUANTUM SHELF CHECK — DAY 29 NOTICE

Dear Patron:

Our search team has encountered an unspecified navigational anomaly in Stack Seven.

To prevent a failure of faith determination and permanent archival of your student identity, please submit a Request for Extension of Investigation within twenty-four hours.

Thank you for supporting your community college library.

I opened the attached form.

Filled in my name.

Checked the box marked Continued Investigation Requested.

Clicked Submit.

YOUR REGISTRATION HOLD HAS BEEN SUSPENDED FOR AN ADDITIONAL 30 DAYS.

I smiled.

Somewhere in the Underworld, Pluto was probably screaming.

THE END