Ass Tax
To sit on the top of my desk, you must pay an ass tax. It’s just the way it is.
When a handsome coworker sat his gray starched designer trousers on my desk today, I whispered that he owed me an ass tax.
“I’ve never heard of such a thing!” he laughed much louder than I spoke. I was serious. He was incredulous and offered me his bag of Luv Bunny carrots instead.
“Thanks, but that won’t do.”
“You’re worse than the IRS.”
“Am I?” I smirked. “Twenty-five cents. Pay up.”
I held out my palm, upturned, for payment while crunching a mini carrot.
He stood up, all six foot something of him, and while keeping his blue eyes on me, reached into his pocket and produced a shiny quarter.
“Satisfied?”
“Now I am.”
“I find that hard to believe; we’ll have to talk about your low expectations and how we can raise them.”
“I’m counting on it.” It worked for me. I would find quarters left on my desk in my absence by desktop sitters with an honest streak. Most paid the ass tax; one wouldn’t sit because of it. Instead, he’d lean his non-existent ass against my desk and bring me a diet Snapple iced tea when he was in the mood to talk, which was infrequently. He played the “shy card.” Once after a drunken afternoon at a local watering hole which ended in a strip club, he visited several times to make sure I was OK. It was the most we ever spoke in person instigated by him. He also wanted me to explain the not-so-casual offering of activities behind Door Number 3. I played the “shy card” and refused to divulge my thoughts. I wasn’t shy, but thankfully I was sober enough not to talk dirty to him and explain the scandalous options lurking behind Door Number 3. When we found ourselves working together at another firm, drinks and snacks were not subsidized and hovered in the dollar range. The ass tax seemed too meaningless to impose, and his visits were scant. I had outgrown my novelty, I guess. So I’d visit him and sit on his desk where he would snarkily comment, “That’s why we have chairs.” I found myself sitting on a cushioned rollout chair/filing cabinet with my feet dangling child-like in his cube. It’s hard to have a serious discussion when you’re feeling tres petite. I bothered him anyway, perhaps out of habit and a tenacious desire hold onto a friendship that we had both outgrown. I didn’t like admitting something was over. I still don’t. Perhaps it will have a resurgence like the ass tax; we’ll see. People change, needs change, expectations aren’t met, and feelings get hurt. However, if his non-existent ass sat on my desk today I would let him go without paying…just this once.
Drinks and snacks were a quarter from the vending machine three jobs ago, and so I decided the tax would be a quarter. I’d get a free diet iced tea or a bag of M&Ms from male coworkers who placed their jean-clad derrieres on my desk to chat.