Last evening I had a tiny, Indian man do my taxes. It’s interesting how the having of a full-time job pays the taxes on my freelance work. In other words, the amount of money I’m supposed to get back from the government goes straight back to the government and I break nearly even. I was worried this year I might get screwed. I didn’t. Not until I got into the cab, headed home.
The D.C. taxi situation works on something called zones. I could spend the time now explaining this strange set up, but even after understanding it, it doesn’t make much sense (to me). Anyhow, I have taken cabs to and from work a few times and it’s always between 6.90 and 7.90 (depending on rush-hour, number of passengers, etc). Last night the taxi driver talked my ear off about how HR Block is made up of a bunch of nazis who work for the government and how I should take my taxes elsewhere in order to win.
That’s fine. O.K. But my only goal was to not owe a lot. And I didn’t. He kept on keeping on, telling me stories about his job and what he had to deal with and how there is no reason anyone should get any of his money, yadda yadda yadda. (What a chump).
How much do I owe you.
I know the answer to this, but I ask it every time. I just don’t like to assume anything, one never knows if they’ll get a deal of some sort.
6.90 plus (something inaudible) ummm 7.90. NO! 8.00.
Ahhhh the old taxi driver, zone rip-off.
9.00. Yes, 9.00.
I guess you have to pick your battles, this was not one I cared to pick. I gave him a ten and moved on inside to have dinner with the coolest boy in the world. And it’s that simple. When you lay it all out on the floor in front of you, and you realize how nice it is, who can complain about ten bucks?
Mihow 
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