My heart pounds. My fingers shake. “Be strong,” I scold myself. “You can handle this- no matter the outcome. Just. Open. The. Mailbox.” Key in slot. I turn it slowly. It makes a cinematically shrill creaking sound. My heart is now threatening to explode, blood pressure is dangerously high. I take a long, deep breath and with great trepidation, force myself to reach inside. My eyes automatically scan for the least threatening of the contents: Time Out New York (“Excellent! Can’t wait to find out the newest hot sushi joint!”), Ikea catalogue (“Fantastic. We need a new shag rug.”) A handmade envelope from my mother— one of her newest crafty endeavors (“Aw! Her latest artistic undertaking in the scheme to assuage the boredom of her recent retirement.”) A packet of those neighborhood coupons that one will consistently go through, pull out three or four that seem pertinent to one’s lifestyle, and then three months later realize that they’ve taken over your refrigerator door, and that you no longer have enough magnets (“Meh.”) And, then. Oh, God. Oh, No. There it is. What you’ve most been dreading for the past three months.
An ominously thick, plainly marked envelope from the I.R.S.
Some pieces of seemingly threatening mail can be ignored: collections letter for a $107.63 electric bill that you apparently “owe” because you forgot to call the power company to turn off your service after your lease in your Los Angeles apartment ended, and you moved back to the East Coast. Bank statements that seem to come in groups of four or five when you’ve overdrafted— listen, you already know that they’ll suck that obscenely high $35 charge right out of your account the second you deposit your next check, despite the fact that your checks usually take seven days to clear— apparently the bank can overlook the time delay when it is, in fact, THEM who is owed the money. Pleading letters from your college alma mater, requesting that you PLEASE donate AT LEAST $500 to them, as they are in dire need of funds to help expand the cafeteria (evidently the $45,000 a year you paid to go there was not enough). And last, but certainly not the least, the parcels that can fairly simply be ignored: $1096 “administration” bills from the Emergency Room, which you were forced to drag yourself to on Christmas Eve, because rather than being on a plane home to rejoice in the season with your family, you are puking your guts out from apparent salmonella. Now the devils want you to pay over a G for the ten minutes that the rude person who checked you in “devoted” to you? Yeah. That one’s getting trashed.
You cannot, however, ignore the I.R.S. Well, Ok, Correction: You CAN ignore the IRS for about an hour. You will have tossed that envelope on the kitchen counter. “I just can’t deal with this right now,” you’ll say to yourself. But the fact of the matter is that that hour will not let you rest. You’ll try to watch TV. You’ll try to make spaghetti. You’ll take a long shower. But you can never, ever forget about the presence of that envelope. And then, finally, you’ll rip it open, torn envelope cascading to the floor, and rapidly scan the frighteningly official document. “Give it to me! Give it to me!” you’ll think exasperatedly. “Am I being audited? Penalized with a very high interest rate? Seized of all my personal belongings?” These are serious concerns. And this is why you cannot ignore the IRS.
No. You, my friend, are a freelancer (i.e. you work only when someone chooses you to, and without any sort of benefits). Often times, you’ll go days/weeks/months without a gig. You’ll be stressed, and depressed, and probably living off of Ramen noodles. And then…You…Get…A…Gig! It’s two weeks long, $40 an hour, 6 hours a day. $2400!! $2400!! $2400!! You can pay your rent ($900 for your Upper-Upper West Side- re: Harlem- studio), and your cellphone bill $100, ConEd ($60), your American Express bill ($500— you’ve bought A LOT of Ramen in the past few weeks), your student loans ($300), and a big bag of Kibbles for your feline companion, Mr. Bob ($55). Great! Now you’ve got… $485 to live off of…until your next gig. “But, BUT! Your forgetting someone!” Uncle Sam says with a smirk. “You owe US roughly $720 of that check!” Suddenly you’re in the hole by $235. So, obviously, you don’t pay them out of that check. And, of course, the cycle just keeps repeating itself. The IRS will advise you to put aside a third of each check. A THIRD. How. Is. This. Possible?! It isn’t. It just IS NOT.
People who aren’t freelancers, or, the more P.C. term- “Independent Contractors”- will easily look askance at you when tax season roles around and they’re busy planning trips to Acapulco with the $3500 they just got back. “How in the world do you OWE $5000?!” They’ll exclaim, looking at you with that “WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN DOING WITH YOUR MONEY?” judgy-face. Um, surviving?
People who have salaried jobs don’t realize how great they have it. You know, without a doubt, week after week what you’ll be making. You can budget. Put $300 a week aside for rent. Pay your phone bill on time every month. Have a few celebratory drinks on Friday and not live with the regret that you just spent $50 on alcohol, without knowing when your next check is going to arrive. You don’t have to wince with every purchase that you make. You budget- yes, but you know, that every pay day, your check will arrive, and you can do whatever you have to/wish with the money until the following week, when you get paid again. There’s always another check waiting to come. You can comfortably buy Tropicana Orange Juice, which is a solid $2 more than the “Grocery Store Brand” that we freelancers purchase, berating ourselves for our love of Vitamin C.
Sometimes I wonder why I don’t just join the normal 9-5 job force. The comfort, stability, and scheduled lifestyle sure do seem appealing. But of course, with a regimented routine also comes a loss of freedom. The ability to sleep in late when one has stayed up too late the night before watching Judge Judy re-runs. The freedom to take or reject jobs at will. Going on vacation after working diligently for a few months, which seems like a reward. The constant variety of gigs. It’s an exhilarating lifestyle for those who can handle it, and in a way, cooly bohemian. Romantic, even. But like with all seemingly pleasurable experiences, there’s always someone or something to keep us in check. And for we freelancers, that thing is the IRS.
"To think perhaps it won't all have been for nothing." -Beckett
Jesse Barton lives in Washington Heights, where she is affectionately known as "Snowflake." She reads, writes, runs, and rents (apartments to other people). Jesse is a former actress/model and is planning on getting her MA in Journalism next fall. She loves easily and abundantly and tries to always do as she'd have done.
Jesse Barton lives in Washington Heights, where she is affectionately known as "Snowflake." She reads, writes, runs, and rents (apartments to other people). Jesse is a former actress/model and is planning on getting her MA in Journalism next fall. She loves easily and abundantly and tries to always do as she'd have done.
