Death and taxes

Financial advice for the young ex-addict.

I remember the financial collapse of Summer 2024 like it was only yesterday.

The bank machine declined to give me any more money. It was summer and my dealer was waiting impatiently outside the convenience store. I hadn’t slept in days.

“What’s going on?” I asked, when I finally got a bank representative on the line. The last time I checked there was tens of thousands in that account.

“We’d think you’d better come into the branch to discuss this, sir.”

“I won’t be long,” I told the dealer.

A few minutes later, I parked illegally in front of the bank. I left my crack-smoking associate Macey in the car.

“If a ticket guy comes, move the car,” I told her.

“I don’t know how to drive.”

Whatever.

A moment later, I was in someone’s office, facing an earnest young man in tight suit.

“Remember the last time we issued you a client card replacement?” he asked.

I guess. I mean, as a drug addict, I lost wallet pretty routinely.

“Well, that new card was somehow connected to your father’s savings account. Did you notice your balance online wasn’t going down — even though you were accessing funds?”

Didn’t bother to look.

“Well, you’ve been withdrawing from your father’s account.”

“That’s like…” I stammered.

“$21,369,” he deadpanned. “We spent the whole weekend, tracing every transaction — from ATMs across the city. You made a lot of withdrawals. At all hours.

Duh. Junkie.

“We transferred those funds from your original account back into your father’s account,” he droned on.

“How much do I have left?”

“Nothing.”

That was the day, I decided I’d have to accelerate my plans to be dead. You don’t come back from draining your father’s savings account for drugs.

Within a week, the car — my beloved Velma — was sold for a bag of dope and a handful of cash. The people who swore eternal friendship brutally shunned me. Someone said I owed them money and threatened severe consequences. I started sleeping in a stairwell in a public housing building downtown.

But somewhere on the way to dying, I got a call from my mother. And, as improbable as it sounds, I followed a different path.

Last week, I was reminded of the banking crisis that almost ended me when I found my account unresponsive.

“There should be money in there,” I moaned to the bank rep.

“I’m afraid, the account’s been frozen,” he replied.

Not again.

This time, it was the Canada Revenue Agency. A small matter of not paying taxes for a very long time.

It was a reckoning. There’s no feeling quite like spending an ungodly amount of money on drugs — and then having to pay taxes on it.

But it was worse than that. The money in my account was tuition. I dared go back to school. It was a student loan. The government took every penny.

“How is anyone supposed to get back on their feet again,” I sulked. “When I can’t even have a bank account?”

I thought of the grim future that awaited me. Dropping out of school. Panhandling. Avoiding the government for the rest of my short, brutish existence.

I know what you’re thinking. This recovery journey is paved with impossible people — crown attorneys and immigration officials — who radically changed their attitudes when I told them my tale.

But this is the Canada Revenue Agency. Its people are immune to stories of redemption. We’re talking taxation.

Still, I had to try.

Sandra from the Canada Revenue Agency took three despairing days to get back to me. We talked for a while. She’s from Nigeria. I told her a little bit about myself too.

Sandra said if I could file taxes for two years, she could request that my account be unfrozen. I raced downtown, found a kind accountant named Sherry. She filed almost instantly.

I called Sandra back.

“Fantastic!” she said. “You’re all good on this end.”

“I hope we never have to talk again,” I said.

“Well, you could call and say hello anytime,” she said.

“Yes! I mean, I hope we only talk socially again.”

“Oh, wait,” she said. “I’m looking at your file right now. Did you know you have an account with Tangerine Financial?”

“I have no idea what that is,” I replied.

“Well, you should. There’s $2,620 in it.”

What the…? How…? It must have been from 20 years ago. It was probably a benefit doled out by an ancient employer. It must have been collecting interest for decades.

“That’s… I don’t even…”

“Someone is looking out for you,” she said.