The One Thing

The "One Thing"

By

j. d. johnson




Bo Dockett was a sorry individual.

He was sorry he forgot his mother's birthday every year, up until the day she died… on her birthday.

He was sorry that he got up every morning at the same time and went to the same job, facing the same fate his father and grandfather suffered before him.

Bo was sorry he never said goodbye to his grandfather and sorry that, according to his mother, his grandfather's final words were: "I'm not ready to die. I spent my life working to give my family a future, and I never took the time to do the one thing I always wanted to do."

Bo was sorry he didn't know what that "one thing" was.

Bo knew we all kept that "one thing" tightly stored inside the core of our souls. Everyone waited until all other tasks were completed, and then "their time" would come for that "one thing." Bo also understood that most people's time for that "one thing" never arrived.

Sure, some people made time without a thought about anything or anyone around them. However, Bo wasn't like that. He never stopped loving or caring for his family any more than his grandfather did. So, Bo knew his death lingered inside the shadows of his future, and those exact words waited to pass his lips on that last breath.

Bo was sorry his memory just meandered into that sudden, regrettable realization as he sat in the lobby of the Internal Revenue Service's building, waiting for a meeting with an Income Tax Auditor.

*****

"Mr. Dockett, your tax return for 2022 reveals a few issues," the IRS auditor said as Bo's gut sucked his tongue down the back of his throat.

Bo gulped again, "Issues?"

The Tax Auditor looked precisely like a Tax Auditor should. He wore a black suit, a white shirt, and a black tie. Spectacles dangled from a silver chain around his neck, swaying as he dropped into the chair before Bo. The Auditor was about the same age as he was, thirty-something, with short blonde hair and pale skin. Bo tried avoiding bookkeepers and analysts because he felt inferior under their scrutiny.

"There seems to be a discrepancy between your bank balance during that period and your reported income."

"That can't be. I mean, I don't make enough money for there to be a discrepancy." Bo left his copy of that 2026 tax return at home because he thought it wouldn't be necessary. He barely made enough money to itemize, so how could there be any problems? "Are you sure you have the right tax return?"

"Yes, Mr. Dockett. We don't make mistakes like that." The Auditor thumbed through several papers until he found what he had searched for, which he pulled from the stack before him. "Ah, yes, here it is. Your savings account balance from July 2022 through November 2022 is over $1 million, with interest income of $6,930.26. The money was withdrawn, along with interest, and quite frankly, Mr. Dockett, we haven't been able to find it--yet."

"That's crazy. Where would I get over a million dollars?" Bo screamed.

"That's precisely what I'm here to decide, Mr. Dockett. I'm here to find out where it came from, where you put it, and how much interest you've gotten since. We also have three other incidents like yours. Do you know the parties involved: Harry Butterman, Thomas Lloyd, and William Butler?"

Bo asked, "Bill? Tom and Butterman, I mean, Harry? What do you mean, incidents?" Then he swallowed audibly.

"They also had similar balances for a while during 2018. All the occurrences were at different intervals during the year and for different amounts under similar conditions. There was no claim on their taxes for the interest, and the money disappeared afterward. If you have information, Mr. Dockett, now would be the time to share."

Bo felt a giant fist slamming into his chest. The Auditor implied that he was guilty of a conspiracy, which he knew nothing about. He wanted Bo to make a "plea bargain" with him, so they must have confidence that they can get a conviction. "Someone, or several people, must have made a mistake."

"Yes, Mr. Dockett, I think someone did." The Auditor stated as he shuffled through the stack of papers.

Bo's stomach churned, feeling as if it would release its contents. His only thought was that this guy was from the Internal Revenue Service, and they don't mess around. They don't make mistakes. They are backed by the full weight of the United States Government behind them, and the IRS doesn't quit until you're inside the jailhouse. And my family? If the Government made a mistake, "they" would never admit it. He was screwed, but he couldn't let his family suffer.

"Mr. Dockett, you don't seem prepared to deal with this. Do you need a few days to gather your documentation?" The Auditor asked.

"What? Yeah, I, huh, there must be a mistake, and I do need a few days to get everything together. I'll need to go over everything with a fine-toothed comb, then I'll present my case to you. Would that be acceptable?" Bo begged.

"Of course. At this point, this is just an audit. Still, I recommend that you not complicate matters by conferring with any other parties, indicted…, er, I mean, indicated by our conversation today. What about next Tuesday?"

"Indicted?" Bo didn't like that slip of the tongue. "Tuesday? Tuesday will be fine. I need to talk to an attorney and an accountant. Which do you feel I need most?"

"That's up to you, Mr. Dockett."
* * * * *

Bo almost vomited in the elevator. There were at least twenty people in the elevator with him, and the smell of a full day's work filled the stale air inside that tiny, falling, coffin-like contraption. When they reached the ground floor, Bo shoved people aside, holding his hand over his mouth and mumbling, "Please excuse me. Please, I'm sorry; I'm feeling ill." Then, as the crowd parted before him, "Thank you."

He slammed through the glass door at the front of the building, gasping for air. As soon as he reached the bottom of the steps outside, he collapsed onto a concrete retaining wall under some dwarf apple trees and briefly sat breathing the sweet fragrance of their
blossoms while clearing his head.

"What the hell am I going to do? This must be a bad dream. I gotta get help from someone. But who?" He suddenly noticed a small crowd gathering, watching him babble at ghosts. After a few seconds, he gathered his composure, folded his coat over his arm, stood, and walked down the sidewalk with as much dignity as he could muster. He had to get out of there, and it didn't matter to him which direction he followed. He just wanted to escape — everything.
After only a few minutes, Bo stumbled through the door of a pub, where he heard soft music and found a pleasant atmosphere with no crowd. He rushed straight to the bar and ordered a screwdriver. "Double up, please."

Bo let the burning elixir slide down his throat in several quick gulps until the bottom of the glass surfaced, and he found himself sucking at the remnants of an empty glass. "Bartender! Give me another one just like this one."

The bartender smiled, "Sure, buddy. Is it that hot today, or do you have problems?"

"All of the above." Bo realized he was about to spill his entire story to a stranger, so he stopped and thought it over. He had not gotten drunk since college. "Well," he thought, "maybe that once during the company Christmas party," the embarrassment of that night's memory lasted just a second before he felt a surge of "calm" in the wake of the liquor, spreading through his circulatory system. "Let's just say I have problems and leave it at that."

"Sure thing, mister. Here's your drink," the bartender grinned behind his answer.

Bo lifted the drink near his face, staring down the glass's throat, his mind swimming inside the liquid alongside his thoughts. Every possible disaster surfaced inside the contents of that glass, then swirled through his mind, sponsoring the next horrible thing to ascend into his imagination. "Jail! I'll be someone's 'Best Girl.' What will happen to Lorain? Will she divorce me and remarry? Sure, she will. Probably some prick like that Auditor who wants to send me to jail."

"Excuse me?" the bartender asked.

"Nothing. I'm just talking to myself and slowly going crazy here, but I think I've found the cure," Bo said, then he raised his glass above the counter. "How about prescribing another dose of medicine, Doctor?"

"Sure, Buddy. Another double?" the bartender asked with a chuckle.

"Yep, there's no turning back now." Bo's courage swelled as the warmth spread through his chest.
*****

Bo awakened with a sharp pain in the back of his head and a jolting gag rising from his stomach. His brain throbbed just before his eyes opened wide, and his head raised above his pillow's edge. "Oh, shit!!!" he said as he gently lowered his head back into the hollow of his pillow. Then his hands fell from his eyes, and the sunlight burned the morning light into his consciousness. The sun streamed into the room through his bedroom curtains. "My bed? It's my bedroom! I'm home?"

A sudden surge of elation filled Bo, but only briefly before the agonizing pain regained a foothold inside the liquor fumes, clouding his brain. "Oh, Lord, let me die."

"You're not going to die, not yet, anyway," a female voice proclaimed.

"What? Lorain, I can explain." Bo begged, then swallowed his words, knowing he couldn't explain.

"You drunken fool. You don't have to explain because you already did. Don't you remember last night? You explained everything and passed out before I could ask any questions," Lorain said.

"Oh, darling, I'm so sorry. Ohhhh! My head is throbbing, and I think..." Bo jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom.

Lorain sat on the side of their bed, screaming across the room so Bo could hear her in the bathroom. "You explained a little last night when you got in. So, this morning, I went down to your office," she paused while grimacing and shielding her ears against the sickening sounds gushing from the bathroom.

"When I told your boss what you told me, he called the Accounting Department and left me in his office while he joined them in the conference room. About forty-five minutes later, he returned and thanked me for informing him about what the IRS told you."

Bo stumbled, propping himself inside the bathroom doorway, "Why did he thank you? Are you getting a reward for turning me in?"

"No, you idiot. They searched all their records and found that over a million dollars had been temporarily transferred to several different accounts a few months back. Yours, Thomas Lloyd's, Harry Butterman's, and William Butler's savings accounts. All three of you have your salary checks automatically deposited into your savings accounts. Remember, you set up your savings account to feed your checking account. So had the other three gentlemen. The money was returned after just a few months, so they thought someone at the bank just made a mistake," Lorain said.

"How did that money get deposited in our accounts by mistake?" Bo asked, still wobbling.

"Well, it wasn't a mistake. With a little detective work, they found that Harry Butterman, in accounting, was the person who transferred the money, and he kept all the interest. They called the police and the IRS. Mr. Butterman was arrested, and you were cleared of all wrongdoing." Lorain grinned as she finished.

"Butterman? I always knew he was a crook," Bo said as he rushed to hug his wife. "You're my hero, Lorain. You always have been. I've always dreamed of taking a trip to the Riviera. What if I take a month off, and you go with me? There is this one thing I've always wanted to do."

"One Thing?" Lorain smiled, "That's crazy, but who am I to deny you getting that—one thing?"