Joyce tapped a pen against the IRS Auditor’s desk nervously. The dark haired auditor was quietly reading from a stack of papers.
“So, this year you have worked in twelve states, earning $448,227 dollars from 37,000 some odd hours of work this year.” The pen tapped faster.
“Yes, that is correct.”
“How many identities have you sold this year?” The pen rattled against the table now.
“Just five.” Joyce stopped beating the table with the pen and stuck it in her mouth. Then took it out again to say “but the income from those sales is clearly indicated . . . here,” and she used the pen to point to a page in the papers in front of the auditor “ . . . and here.” The auditor nodded.
“You are the primary Joyce Whitman?”
“Umm yes.”
“But, seeing by your age . . . you are not the original Joyce Whitman, she is eighty-four years old, you’re? . . .”
“Thirty-one.”
“And how did you obtain this primary identity?"
"I bought it from a woman who was dying from cancer.”
“And she was the original Joyce Whitman,” said the auditor in a factual way and began to write something.
“Actually, no. The original Joyce Whitman is still alive. She sold her identity after she got into some legal problems. She’s my aunt, and I visit her in jail sometimes.”
“Oh, really?” the auditor mumbled as she wrote down these details in a notebook. The pen came wheeling out of Joyce’s fingers and she fumbled under the desk to retrieve it.
“When she gets out, I plan on giving her back her identity.”
“Why?”
“Because, it only seems right.”
The auditor raised an eyebrow. "Everything seems to be in order."
“So, this year you have worked in twelve states, earning $448,227 dollars from 37,000 some odd hours of work this year.” The pen tapped faster.
“Yes, that is correct.”
“How many identities have you sold this year?” The pen rattled against the table now.
“Just five.” Joyce stopped beating the table with the pen and stuck it in her mouth. Then took it out again to say “but the income from those sales is clearly indicated . . . here,” and she used the pen to point to a page in the papers in front of the auditor “ . . . and here.” The auditor nodded.
“You are the primary Joyce Whitman?”
“Umm yes.”
“But, seeing by your age . . . you are not the original Joyce Whitman, she is eighty-four years old, you’re? . . .”
“Thirty-one.”
“And how did you obtain this primary identity?"
"I bought it from a woman who was dying from cancer.”
“And she was the original Joyce Whitman,” said the auditor in a factual way and began to write something.
“Actually, no. The original Joyce Whitman is still alive. She sold her identity after she got into some legal problems. She’s my aunt, and I visit her in jail sometimes.”
“Oh, really?” the auditor mumbled as she wrote down these details in a notebook. The pen came wheeling out of Joyce’s fingers and she fumbled under the desk to retrieve it.
“When she gets out, I plan on giving her back her identity.”
“Why?”
“Because, it only seems right.”
The auditor raised an eyebrow. "Everything seems to be in order."
