The IRS in San Diego

 I finally decided to do it. I would take on the Internal Revenue Service. 
   I have not paid taxes for the last several years. But I had a good reason not to pay. I will not go into my reasons today, but will keep you updated.  
   The Internal Revenue Service  is located at 880 Front Street. It is under the bridge that links two court buildings. I believe it is called the Schwartz building, out of respect for one of San Diego's great men. 
    I had arrived the week before but a checker told me the room "and return at eight o'clock in order to get heard." I did what she had told me two days later. 
   I arrived under the arch and planted myself against the wall.   Already five others had cued up and waited on this cold windy day. Archways always bring out the best in breezes. Just ask the buses. 
    My Charles Dickens story book made me forget the turbulent winds. Dickens'es family once served time in debtors' prison and sitting in the cold passageway made me aware of how they must have felt.  Cars whizzed by, sirens sounded and the usual cuss words were thrown in my direction. A few waiters moved away in a huff for a puff. The wind carried the smoke into my lungs. 

  The door opened at eight forty and I emptied my pockets and removed my belt. A few coins spilled from my pockets to the floor.   I felt nervous from a night of endless sleeplessness. And since my retirement check had been late, my stomach growled is displeasure. I asked a man who screened the protesters how long it would take. 
  "We are understaffed, and it has been this way for over one year."   
  I stood in line and a chap told me to take a number and wait  to be called. I was the fifth to enter the building. The same type of a speaker system came on every thirty-or-so minutes. "Will 501 go to door number 11."    
   501, 502 and 503 took one and one half hours. I wished to go to a senior lunch at the Immaculate Conception Church by eleven. I would forgo the lunch and ignore the wishes of my stomach. 
   Number 504's number was called. This man spoke like a barker in a circus. I knew the "hoody" might take all of one hour. I decided to ignore my stomach.
   Just then an alarm went on. The alarmed registered went from C flat to E sharp, again and again. God told me to try another day, but this time to bring food, coffee, and a sleeping bag. 
   At least I felt good at finally tackling my number one problem, The Tax collector.

  Before you leave, my trials with the tax collector brought to mine a story my Reverend told last Sunday. I go to the Immaculate Conception church in Old Town. He spoke about a tax collector in the City of Jericho. I will paraphrase the story. By the way, the old church provides peace and succor when I am without. Not bad for a reborn Jew.
  "Jesus entered Jericho and an enthusiastic crowd circled him. Above them watched the tax collector or Caleb for the city. He climbed a sycamore tree to witness this so-called-son of God. Jesus walked over to the tree, and spoke to him."
   The tax collector invited him in for the choicest of foods. After a while the tax collector collected himself and spoke. 'I sill give one half of my possessions to the poor.' Of course his role now was reversed and he felt good about his repentance." 
     
    " A father asked him son Billy what is needed to get to heaven?"
    " He can go to heaven by dropping dead, or becoming a tax collector."