Mocking Little Numbers

I swallow and look at this display in my hands. Was I going to call him? I could. Actually I probably should call him. But What was I going to say? I told him I'd be fine. That doing taxes was going to be a piece of cake because I learned from the best. How wrong I was.



I never thought something I watched him do year after year with such easy could be so... So Evil. At first it seemed easy. Name, address, social security number, income. All the basic stuff I knew. I thought he was just slow because he was so old. Till the basics were done and the calculating began. Multiply by something, subtract something else, add a number and look at box whats its name. Divide everything by zero and the outcome is total chaos. Papers strewn over my coffee table, laptop on the seat next to me, calculator somewhere buried in the mess of notes and envelopes on the floor. When the numbers started to dance around I fumbled for my phone. This had to stop.



Nodding to myself I pressed the number and the call button. I waited patiently as the phone rang, my heart starting to pick up pace and my cheeks colouring a soft shade of pink. Once, twice, five times in total. "Jefferson residence. Harold speaking." The all to familiar voice on the other side on the line said. Of course he was the one to pick up the phone. Taking a deep breath I spoke up. "Hiya Papa. I think I do need your help." Here. Done.