For all the years I was away from Provincetown, one vision came to me whenever I thought of the place. No doubt everyone leaves here with memories and impressions, each unique to that person. For me, it’s a windless, fog-bound night, and I am standing on Commercial St, in front of White Wind Guest House at the corner of Winthrop St. I have no idea why my vision is always in this location. Nothing in particular ever happened to me there, while plenty happened in many other places around town. Still, it’s always the same, and there is always the fog horn. The soft call floats over the harbor to me through the cottony air, and I can feel the healing peace of Provincetown, even when I’m far away.  I don’t leave here so much anymore, and many foggy nights have found me listening for that soothing voice as I stand cloaked in damp night air, looking up at the halo around a blurry moon. To be able to do this until the end of my life is one of my most worthy goals, I think

Keys.

My nemesis.

My cross to bear.

The bane of my existence.

This may seem excessive, unless you are my wife, Betty. If you were, you’d know all about my private war with the little metal slivers. Poor Betty has been witness to more than a few key-related tantrums. I appreciate her fortitude. I don’t know why I’m so key-challanged. Probably some hideous childhood experience I’ve completely blocked out. Maybe it’s some kind of subconscious rebellion against locks and all they represent: distrust, exclusion, the need to protect. In my perfect world there would be no locks. No need for them. If we had no locks, we’d need no keys, ergo, we’d have nothing to lose, nothing to inspire crazy, frantic searching. No handbag would require dumping upside down on a rainy doorstep, nothing for demon holes in pockets to gobble into linings.

But, NOT!. In fact, there are more locks now than ever, when you consider those hateful passwords. Let’s not even go there.

I’ve tried everything to solve this. I keep my keys in only one place, I think I’m very careful about this, but sometimes I’m not, and they wind up somewhere ridiculous. And I wasn’t kidding about the handbag. I can stand there and go carefully through every pocket in the thing, not finding the keys, and then suddenly there they are, in the first place I looked. Mocking me. G-r-r!

For a while I had a keyless car. What a luxury! As long as I had the fob in my bag, the car would start at the touch of a button. It also unlocked itself upon my approach. Genius! Why aren’t they all like that? I’m lucky to live in a town where locking one’s car is the exception to the rule. At the risk of sounding like the old fart I seem to have become, I remember when we never locked our doors here, never mind the car, unless we were going away, or “off-Cape”. Now I lock my door whenever I leave the house, carefully putting my house keys in their own special pocket in my bag, confident they won’t be there when I look for them upon my return. Right now, in fact, I’m preparing to go out to the supermarket. After I locate my keys, that is.

TAXES

On 15 April, every year,

Most among us wipe a tear

As into Federal coffers seep

The meager coin we hoped to keep.

One third of every working day,

Our efforts will support and pay

For programs, arms or just because

It’s Washington. That’s what one does!

   It’s hard to write about taxes when I sort of agree we have to pay them. I realize it’s a necessary evil, and a rather small pill to swallow in return for the privilege of living in the good old USA…a small, bitter pill, nonetheless. Most of my life I worked in service jobs, starting with waitress (we called them that in those days.) in a coffeehouse to bartender, a job that definitely looked more glamorous than it is. I never made much more than minimum wage, (not counting tips, which we didn’t, in those days.) I also worked in show business, and did okay there, and that’s where I first became acquainted with our tax process. In show biz, you’re pretty much working for yourself, so you have to see to it you’re paying your quarterly taxes. Please believe me. I learned this the hard way, so I know.

   “Pretend it’s not your money,” a helpful friend advised. “Take one-third of whatever you earn and put it in a savings account. Pay your taxes out of that. Anything left over, you get to keep.”

   Great advice. By the time I took it, I owed $1500 to the Feds, (a gigantic sum, in those days.) That’s when I discovered the best people to owe money to are the good old IRS.  You can make almost any deal with them and as long as you send the money each month, even if it’s only $5 or $10, they’ll leave you alone. Eventually, I got it paid, and I never did that again.

   Now I’m “retired”, whatever that means. For me it means no more real estate, and no more property management, a job I’m delighted to turn over to my son, Duff. I haven’t stopped working, tho’, and I still pay taxes. I just mailed the checks off yesterday. It’s a strange feeling. I feel bad having to pay them and good about doing it, all at the same time. At least I know I’ve done my part to keep the lights on in Washington.