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Copyright © 1998 by Shane
Tourtellotte
First published in Analog Science Fiction and Fact, November 1998
"Evening, dear." Mary Wright pecked John on the cheek. "Thirty minutes okay for dinner?"
"Fine." John kicked the snow off his shoes, and sorted through the mail on the hall table. A large booklet dominated the bundle, with a large "1040" on the stiff cover
page. "Happy New Year to you, too," John groaned.
He tried opening the booklet, but found it sealed with four small stickers. With nothing better to do, he tore them open. A single letterheaded sheet fluttered out.
"Gregory, let our accountant handle that," Barbara Smithson said across the cut-glass centerpiece.
Gregory disregarded her. He set the booklet atop his Wall Street Journal beside his plate, and read the insert softly aloud, with mounting pique.
"'Dear Taxpayer: Pursuant to recently enacted statutes, we have completed extensive computer surveys of all our contributors. We regret to inform you that your intelligence
range, as determined by our analysis, makes you liable to surtax. The enclosed forms ...' Those sons of--"
"Gregory, what is it?"
He raised the insert in his fist. "They're assessing me the Stupidity Tax!"
"'... forms are tailored to make completion as simple as possible. Further assistance is available ...' Honey, calm down. The neighbors will complain."
Ty Dokes's mind wasn't on their thin apartment walls. "Where'd they get the right to send you that, Louisa? Where do they get off telling you that you're dumb? That you
gotta pay higher taxes 'cause of that, when it ain't true, either?"
Louisa shrugged. "They're the government."
Ty stormed off. "The Man's sticking it to us again! Treating the little fellow like dirt!"
Louisa put him out of her mind, until she found the section that interested her. "Ty, listen. 'To appeal your surtax liability, call the toll-free number below ... offices
will be open extended hours to accommodate ...' Ty, you hear that?"
"I heard." He returned to the kitchen. "How you gonna appeal a computer? How you gonna appeal the IRS?"
"I'll just go and do it. I have my half-day off Thursday. I'll arrange an appointment."
"No. You make it Saturday. They've got those long hours, right?"
"Yes, but why?"
"Why? 'Cause I'm going with you. I can get the time off. They bad-mouth you, they answer to me."
Louisa beamed. "Okay, Saturday."
"Go yourself? Whatever for, Gregory?"
"Because they require it, dear. 'All appeals must be made in person,' it says. 'No appeals from accountants or other agents will be accepted.'"
Barbara shook her head. "Deliberate inconveniencing. These people delight in afflicting people because they're rich."
"That's as may be, but it changes nothing. They'll have to treat with me instead of Mister Appleton." His mouth curled. "And when I'm done, they may wish they had dealt
with my accountant after all."
"Why not, John?"
"Because." He paced away from his wife. "I'll have to scrounge up school transcripts, test results. Might as well ask to be audited."
Mary sniffed. "It's like admitting they're right, if you ask me."
"I didn't. Besides, fighting it's liable to cost more than I'd save. Easier to go along." He riffled to the 1040-D forms in the center of the booklet. "Hm. Does look
simpler. I could save myself hours of grief this year." He closed it in self-satisfaction. "I'll take that deal any day. So, who's stupid now?"
Mary turned back to the kitchen, so he wouldn't guess her answer.
The Chief of Staff placed a binder on the desk. "The preliminary report on tax status appeals, Mister President." The President picked it up and read, his face remaining
impassive. "Bad news, as if the media hadn't told us already. Phone lines are jammed, offices are swamped. The Post is reporting the IRS has given up processing, that
appeals automatically get the status rescinded. It's a disaster."
The President laid down the papers, and smiled. "No, it isn't, Tom."
"Sir?" The Chief of Staff goggled. "Mister President, with all respect, you expended every ounce of your political capital implementing this tax. Every group in America
thinks you're discriminating against them personally. Worst of all, compliance numbers are plummeting. Apparently, even stupid people -- no offense to them," he muttered, "--
aren't stupid enough to let themselves get taxed."
"Good. I never intended them to." He watched his aide reel, and finally showed some mercy. "I was never targeting unintelligent people. Apathetic people, on the other
hand--"
The Chief of Staff looked like a deer in headlights. "Bu--th--what about the cutting-edge computer program?"
"Picks people randomly." The President turned to watch the budding trees outside the Oval Office windows. "Stupidity isn't the worst drag on democracy. Indifference is.
If people who can't be bothered to rouse themselves in their own defense take a hit in the wallet, that's the least they deserve. If the rest get galvanized out of their less
pervasive complacencies, well, it's worth it to bear a little of their wrath. But that doesn't leave this room, understand? Not until April sixteenth, anyway."
"Uh, yeah. I'm going to head home a little early today, Mister President."
"Trouble with the family, Tom?"
"No, just ... paperwork."
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