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The Audit

Like most of us, Don Hughston doesn’t like to pay taxes. Unlike most of us, he did something about it: he kept every receipt and tried to legally write off as many expenses as he could as “business” expenses.

Some years ago, he said, he had a small apartment in Denver, a living room-kitchen combo, one bedroom, one bath. He said he slept on a futon in the living room.

Don Hughston
Don Hughston

His deductions were way outside the norm and the U.S. Internal Revenue Service was auditing his tax return again.

Don had claimed his bedroom as an “office” and, as a result, had written off a good portion of his rent and utilities.

“Where do you sleep?” the IRS tax examiner asked, and he obviously did not believe the answer — in the living room on a futon.

Because the tax examiner said, “OK, let’s go see,” or words to that effect. And they got in the taxman’s car and drove to Don’s apartment.

In the living room, just like Don said, the tax examiner found a futon and it looked like it had been slept on.

But the examiner would not give up.

“Where do you keep your clothes?” he asked.

“In the closet in the bedroom, but I didn’t claim that space as a business expense,” Don told him.

How do you get to the closet to get your clothes.”

It was a tiny win for the IRS: The examiner disallowed the deduction for the pathway from the living room to the clothes closet.

Coming Monday: Hold Your Nose, Pat

Payback!

I don’t remember what my brother, Pop, had done to me. Kicked me out of bed on a winter night, probably. Pop, Brother Dave and I slept in double bed in the “boys room” at our farm near Gadsden, Alabama, and sometimes Pop made me sleep on the floor. He was eight years older, so there wasn’t much I could do about it.

Or was there?

This is not Pop, or his car. But this is how he started it.
This is not Pop, or his car. But this is how he started it.

Pop had an old car — and I do mean old. I don’t remember the make or model, but I do remember he started it with a hand crank.

I decided to put nails under all four tires, back and front, so no matter which way he went all four tires would be punctured. And then I got to thinking about it and decided that would be too obvious. I’d get caught.

So I picked one tire. I propped nails against the front and back of the tire and covered them with dirt.

It worked. Payback! And he never suspected a thing.

Coming Friday: The Audit