Death of a CPA

No hour was too early for an appointment with Phil. Before rush hour would clog the roads one could slide off the Route 100 ramp onto Furnace Branch Road on the outer edges of what is loosely called Glen Burnie and see the non- descript little concrete structure with the mansard roof surrounded by  storage yards and a school bus yard. The dark M300 Chrysler would already be tucked on the side of the building where Phil had his own little escape hatch, he could almost drive right behind his desk.
I would enter from the front, Monica not yet there, Phil came into view in the back room bouncing around on his rickety chair, piles of files in front of him, at times a take-out breakfast from which he took a bite every now and then. There were brown file boxes all around the room and up an entire wall. Next to the side door hung George Bush, the W President. The back wall next to the window had a picture of the Inner Harbor when it still had sheds and warehouses and a working harbor.

Phil would offer me one of the two chairs on the other side of his desk, one would sink deep down into some broken spring upholstery and watch him  shift papers back and forth and occasionally hammer a few numbers into an old style battery powered calculator printing columns of numbers on a paper roll. His right hand typed the numbers in rapid fire way over there while his blue eyes scanned the spreadsheets in front of him. This blind typing always impressed me, especially when he would rip the results the paper roll, nod and then with a #2 pencil log a new line into the spreadsheet. The spreadsheet would go on top of one of the files, he would shut it, shove to the side, lick an envelope, toss a few errant bits off paper into the bin under the desk until the space immediately in front of him was clear. Then he would look up and say, "show me what you got" and the process would start over.

He would say "this is crazy", or that "it gets worse every year"; that "they don't know what they are doing over there", meaning presumably the IRS or the government altogether, especially when it was Democratic. He would report from another training course in which yet another set of rules were explained and how crazy it all was, especially the feds. For the State he had "this girl". He would call her out of the blue, rattle off the tax number, and even protracted issues would be resolved in seconds. I could see that the more local government had somehow a human side and that Phil worked this angle well.

Phil may have had highfalutin clients, but mostly I picture plumbers, glazing company owners and car repair shop owners sitting on those broken springs, folks who hated to pay taxes and for whom Phil was the God that made them go away, or at least seem smaller. "Monica, give me that file!" he would bark when Monica showed up at 8:30 sharp, or "where is this and that" and Monica would magically find things in the organized chaos, and Phil clearly expected she would. Monica was sufficiently no-nonsense to not expect praise or much warmth. The efficiency was like what happens at dental surgery when the assistant wordlessly hands the tools to the surgeon.

Phil loved efficiency. For a while he used a phone ear-peace and had some automated gizmo that lifted the receiver of his old land line phone so he could speak the hasty and breathless "ya, Phil Fewster" without taking his eyes of the charts or the fingers of the calculator. A caller greeted this way would immediately be on alert not to waste any precious time. For all the efficiency, though, he would find time to ask how business was, complain about the stupidity of government, talk about good real estate deals in Ocean City or some trip he made. Or how well his son did who didn't want to work in his office but did more lucrative things. Usually he would conclude the chat with "its crazy" and resort back to the numbers. We couldn't talk about politics, we were worlds apart and he would get way too excited. I had been worried about him getting a heart attack for almost all the 25 years I knew him. How could he possibly keep up this much pressure? Back in my office I found myself copying his moves when sorting through stuff on my desk, including his habit of running the hands through his hair until he looked as ruffled as his desk.

This went on quarterly after quarterly for 25 years, from the office where one had to climb up to on wooden exterior stairs in downtown Glen Burnie, to the one on Rose Anne Road. Phil was part of my routine and my business and in between enough glimpses of Phil the father, the husband and the human seeped through to make his sudden departure much more than a tax catastrophe. It lifted the curtain on the human condition and represented a loss quite close to home, because, really, a friend has left.