Unbalanced: Accounting Tales

Unbalanced

Accounting Tales

by

Lawrence Seinoff

Copyright 2012 Lawrence Seinoff

Smashwords Edition

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Contents

Unbalanced

Flat Tax

The Chair

The Old Master

The Calculator Olympics

Classical Training

The Co Op World

Body Bags

Rx

The Client that Wouldn’t Die

N O L

Leap of Faith

Unplugged

Numbers!

Electronic Filing

The Journal Entry of Doom

The 8:09 to Penn

Ripkin and Ripkin

Partner of the Year

April 15th

The Court Of Absolute Justice

Albert

About the Author

Unbalanced

Let’s take my car, Eric Rothenberg said.

Not a problem, Epstein said, but it was a problem. They should have driven separately. He’d left fifteen minutes early for no reason.

Everything’s in my car… my brace, my racquet, tennis balls. I don’t want to forget anything.

Not a problem, Epstein repeated.

You can put your car on the side of the driveway.

Yes, boss.

Epstein leaned into his car to grab his tennis gear. Waiting for Rothenberg to point to one of the three cars parked around the circular driveway, he was eventually directed to a beaten up Mazda.

Let me show you around. We have plenty of time.

Because you asked me to get here early, Epstein continued his conversation with himself. Then the front door opened even before they got there, and a short-haired woman in her sixties handed Epstein an envelope.

I had Barbara print something out for you, Rothenberg said. Just a few tax questions. Don’t look at them now.

Epstein slid the envelope into the pocket of his tennis shorts, but he could practically taste the lump of car keys in his other pocket. Wouldn’t that be a nice way to stop the tax questions? Just pull on the pin and toss the grenade on the house.

I won a battle with the town to get this place zoned for business.

That couldn’t have been easy.

I’m used to fighting.

I hate it.

Good, I’m in your head already.

Join the crowd.

Oyster Bay…Islip, Westchester, I’m in nasty fights with all of them.

"Why?

Zoning.

Just like you’re going to be in a zone when we play, Epstein joked.

Exactly.

I own a resort in Utah, too.

Fighting there yet?

Actually, I am. So how good are you in real estate?

It’s not my specialty, Epstein lied.

What is?

International, he came up with.

Take a look anyway. I’m checking up on my lawyers and accountants.

You have money. I get it, but I came here to play tennis, not to do your goddamn taxes.

Let me show you around.

Trailing Rothenberg yet again, Epstein could practically hear Lawrence Seinoff, his blogging persona, typing away: What to do with ass holes who try to control you? What to do with ass holes who tell you how much they have? What to do with ass holes who are just ass holes?"

I own about twenty developments.

Great.

Do you know anything about tax free exchanges?

No, Epstein lied again.

Man, what kind of an accountant are you?

A pretty bad one, obviously.

I’m just kidding. But they never check the tax basis on these things. I’ve sold quite a few properties years later and never picked up the original gain if you know what I mean. I’m probably ahead millions from something I finally dumped last year. Sometimes using an accountant who doesn’t know what he’s doing isn’t such a bad thing.

Or one that you can push around, Epstein said.

Is there any other kind?

It depends on your sleep factor.

My office upstairs used to be bedroom, Rothenberg laughed. If that means anything.

It’s getting late.

Can’t wait to get me on the court, huh?

They headed right up to the hot shot’s office. Leaning against the desk, a pair of skis practically touched the ceiling. I guess you don’t get to ski in your business, not when you’re a slave of a nice snow-filled tax season, Rothenberg jabbed.

No, but I see the gift tax returns on your desk, douche bag. Epstein went right to the Social Security Number…100-22-7676. The last four represented two close sets of tennis. All he had to remember was a little 22 since his Social also began with 100. Epstein wins two tie breakers, Lawrence Seinoff typed for him.

I’ll be heading to Aspen pretty soon, and then to the Caribbean.

You have places there?

What do you think?

You have anyone other than Barbara working here?

I do everything myself. I have property managers on the sites, of course.

Of course.

"But I wouldn’t mind a controller one of these days…someone with real estate experience, of course.

Of course.

I just set up grantor trusts for my kids, but my wife won’t sign a post-nuptial. It’s for her good, not mine.

I’m not sure I understand that one.

I’m not into cars, was Rothenberg’s response, as if that made any sense. They left his office with Epstein on the usual leash. A few minutes later, in Rothenberg’s car, a spring stuck into his butt like a vaccine shot. No doubt he wasn’t the first opponent transported via Rothenberg’s hot seat.

Trying to ignore the discomfort, he visualized Rothenberg on the court. He’d seen his stupid under-spins and drop shots and thought, until this moment, that he could overpower him. The problem was that Rothenberg’s head game was powerful. He’d already aced Epstein with his real estate developments, moved him from side to side with his tax questions, bounced topspins over his head with his skis, and even slammed an overhead in his face with his comment about the controller, all while sticking him in the ass with the car seat.

By the time they made the last turn and drove along Oyster Bay, the car keys had turned to mush but the envelope was bothering him as much as the seat. Rothenberg was enjoying it, too. He knew exactly what he was doing, Epstein thought, as the club finally appeared on their right.

It looked like an airplane hanger, but the two courts housed under its slate roof bespoke graceful living. The damn place even had a manager living in a small apartment inside the building. Only on the North Shore, would you walk into a tennis club whose lobby greeted you with a fireplace and pictures of old ships. Neither he nor Rothenberg would have been allowed to set foot in the place in the previous generation. Now, that was all they had in common.

I brought the balls, Rothenberg said. I prefer the Penn. They have Wilson here.

Epstein wondered if his friends had set up surveillance equipment. Were they having a good laugh from inside the manager’s apartment? Rothenberg had a reputation. Now he knew why.

Looks like both courts are available. Let’s use the far court.

No problem.

It’s in better shape. I still want to sweep the court before we start.

You’re a purist, Epstein said, but the courts were fine.

Never-the-less, he swept one side while Rothenberg swept the other. Then he waited for Rothenberg’s endless layers of clothing to come off. The guy was like a moth coming out of a cocoon. Knee and elbow braces followed the clothes. Finally, while Epstein began stiffening up on his side of the net, Rothenberg topped it off with a pair of goggles.

I prefer a certain type of warm up if you don’t mind.

Not a problem.

Rothenberg’s warm up translated to each of them standing about two inches away from the net and hitting the ball before it bounced, not that there was any room for it to bounce, totally ridiculous.

Let’s not play a regular set. We’ll play a twenty-one point game.

Fine.

With no serve.

What do you mean?

We just hit the ball over the net twice, a couple of easy forehands before we start the point.

Okay, Epstein acquiesced for about the tenth time. He looked at the empty court next to them. Only a few days earlier, he’d played a fun doubles match there. A week earlier, he’d played singles with another friend. Life was too short to put up with this.

Think I’ll hit the bath room before we start, Rothenberg said, and left Epstein thinking about the night where many of the members, including the dick he was now facing, had taken a CPR course out in the vestibule. Rothenberg had cornered him for the match just before they’d applied the defibrillator to a dummy. That was the bad news. The good news was that he wouldn’t resuscitate him, should that wonderful event occur.

When Rothenberg returned they finally began the dumb twenty-one point game, but the prick was truly in his head. He couldn’t keep anything on the court. Bottom line 21-3, Rothenberg.

Then Rothenberg took another bath room break and came back asking Epstein if he wanted a spot of 10 points. Bottom line 21-2, Rothenberg.

Now Rothenberg wanted to play a set, offering a three game handicap which Epstein refused. Bottom line, 6-3, Rothenberg

And just like that, they were back in Rothenberg’s shit box with the spring up Epstein’s ass. Oyster Bay was on his right this time. He stared across the water at a few of the estates. Then, as if he’d been unconscious during the rest of the return trip, they pulled into the driveway.

The three game spot would have made it more interesting, were the last words Epstein heard as he crumbled out towards his car. A block later he realized he didn’t have his cell phone. After pulling over several times to search, he finally headed back to Rothenberg’s place. Shit.

Sensing eyes on him as soon as he drove in, Epstein walked over to the Mazda. As expected, the phone was on the seat. Luckily the door wasn’t locked. Facing the ground, he waved the phone up in the air and headed back to his car. Let the ass hole put two and two together. Let him call one of his property managers.

Have your people call my people, Weinstein said in the car... because he had a property manager too

His name was Lawrence Seinoff. The property was Epstein. He was still in the development stage. He hadn’t come out the blog closet yet. He didn’t have to because he had a very cool alter ego who ranted on continuing education, peer review, the American Institute of Certified Public Accountants, the IRS, the CPA journal, Napoleonic managing partners and mostly, thankless, scum-sucking clients.

Rothenberg was the quintessential torturer, the embodiment of a lifetime of unreasonable demands on a desperate accountant to sign off on just about anything. Worse, he knew the truth. He flaunted and savored it… that Epstein couldn’t afford to live in the area without cheating for his clients. He’d transformed the tennis net to the difference in net income between them. He’d turned a Sunday morning tennis game into a cage match between the man with the money and the counter of money. It was one thing to play well and bring someone’s game down. It was another to rip out your guts!

Reliving the most humiliating point, Epstein went back for a lob over his head and barely got his racquet on the ball. Rothenberg’s response was a drop shot mixed with laughter. Epstein got there but Rothenberg lobbed and laughed again. They repeated the exchange a few more times until Rothenberg sent Epstein to the ground with a fake slam. Then, trying to keep the point alive, Rothenberg tapped the ball softly to him. He managed to hit it back, even while on his knees, but Rothenberg slammed the final one, and not far from his face.

Still in his tennis shorts, he, no, Lawrence Seinoff, ace CPA, sat at his computer and signed on to The Unbalanced Accountant. He started with a nasty poem about the Big Four. Then he uploaded an image of a calculator and typed EAT THIS. As he looked at a few unpublished posts, an ad came to him and he uploaded a draft to the Help Wanted section:

OLD TIME CROOKED ACCOUNTANT SOUGHT

Must have had license suspended at least once. Jail time a plus.

Readying for the click he knew was coming, the crap-taking, tattered bagel brigade came to him. It was nice having an audience to watch his last shot. He knew a lot of them, too, their faces, their names, their stories, because he was their spokesperson. In a sense, he was their managing partner. He was managing their equilibrium. CPR for the CPA, he stored for a later entry.

Sensing footsteps, he finally tapped the link to IRS reward form 211 and swung a tension free stroke at Mr. Eric Rothenberg, 100-22-7676.

Larry, did you have a good game? his wife called from the other room.

Just won in the tie-breaker, dear.

Flat Tax

Weiss had the same dream frequently. He was sitting in his Jeep but not turning the wheel or stepping on the gas because he was also working a remote control device from another place. At first, he’d somehow make it just by feel, but sooner or later, there would be a blind turn and fear would engulf him. Then he would wake up.

Today he wondered if the opposite might happen. Might he fall asleep at the wheel because another dreamer was controlling him? With that thought, he pulled off the interstate into a ghetto looking place with a sky-high sign that had the letters TA precariously angled at its peak. The phone rang just as he parked. What a putz? Did he think his dreamer was calling to say hello?

Oh, hi there Mr. Weiss, I just wanted to tell you that I am your dreamer. And you, my friend, are the dreamee. You’ll crash when I lose control, not you.

He pressed answer on the third ring.

Where are you? his wife asked.

Eighty-four… just past Hartford.

What time is your audit?

Eleven.

You have plenty of time.

I just pulled off to take a little breather.

That’s smart.

I better get going.

You’ll be home for dinner, right.

A little late, maybe.

Know what you’d like?

"Whatever you want… chicken?

Okay. I love you.

I love you too.

And just like that, the little love, the little wife, the little roast chicken, the little kids in college, the little dog, the little house, the little clubs… they all rounded the turn and compartmentalized somewhere else as he walked into Truck Stops of America.

Immediately he was greeted by aisles of snacks, sunglasses, air fresheners, and tea shirts, not exactly brain food for an accountant on his way to handle an out-of-state audit. Stopping at a row of smutty magazines, he asked himself: how does a sixty-year old tax guy become a porn star?

Ever dream about that?

As if answering all the questions he ever had in his life, a busty girl in a bra smiled out from one of the covers. One cup had FLAT in bright red letters, the other, TAX. The words curved perfectly around the gigantic boobs. At least his dreamer had a sense of humor. It made sense, too. A flat tax would start small but eventually fill with more silicone than all the porn stars in the world.

He’d rounded his own turn! His little tax man life was in focus again. All he had to do was get back in his little car, step on his little gas pedal, drive to his little audit, get out his little papers, and put on his little smile.

But could a life get flat? Could you shrink so much inside yourself… not appreciating what you should cherish… could you lose a dimension? Could you get it back?

The Chair

Reiter sat in his car at the Fox Hollow parking lot and scrolled down his emails looking for Weintraub’s invitation. Eventually he gave up and searched by name. When it popped up, he opened the attachment and still didn’t find the answer he wanted. The problem was that the Fox Hollow had a separate catering facility directly west of the hotel which meant that he had to get out of the car to figure out which one the event was in.

Now he put his tie on, something he’d always been good at, probably because he wanted to strangle everyone. It was time. Exiting and plucking his suit jacket from the back seat, he looked at his hooded ski jacket as if he expected to see the real Eliot Reiter under the hood. On the way to the hotel lobby, he knew, he’d made the wrong choice, not from knowledge but from his perennial incorrect choices.

Is the Owl room here or at the restaurant? he asked a young woman at the front desk. Like him, she had on clothes that she didn’t seem comfortable in, a little too dressy, more of a uniform. Unlike him, she was good-looking, and wasn’t pushing the big SIX O.

It’s in catering,

They should have an owl sound coming from the place to hone you in.

What’s an owl sound like?

Is the Long Island Business meeting there? Reiter asked rather than do his owl impression.

No idea.

Back to the car and back on Jericho Turnpike, Reiter pulled in again and went straight this time. With the hotel on his left now, a parking attendant stopped him by the restaurant.

Can I park myself? Reiter asked, for no reason.

It’s valet.

I guess you think I’m a cheap guy.

The attendant, long-haired and probably a college student, laughed.

I didn’t say that.

But you were thinking it, Reiter said to himself in