“People open up. They’ll tell you things about their personal life that you aren’t even concerned with. It’s almost as if you’re a father confessor—uh, mother confessor. But if that’s part of their putting themselves at ease, then you have to listen.”
The IRS audit has become a sort of national short-arm inspection. There is nothing, but nothing, more intimate than someone’s bankbook. I’d rather walk around with my barndoor unzipped. It’s no surprise that people mother-confess at the IRS office: financially naked is naked: further secretiveness would be like wearing gloves at a nudist camp. Some time ago I met this woman who—after one quarter-hour—had told me a) about her husband’s mistress and b) about his very premature ejaculation. Then I happened to ask what he was earning. “That is none of your business,” she said. I had to apologize.
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