The media have been reporting a boat load of horrific stories lately, and with the apprehension of alleged multiple kidnapper, rapist and dungeon keeper Ariel Castro in Cleveland, it all got to be a bit too much for my girlfriend Cerise. “I’m going to the zoo this weekend, Tom,” she announced to me on Thursday, “and afterward, I’m going to see a musical comedy. And you’re coming with me.”
Cerise is very strongly convinced as to the capability of both cute, furry wildlife and musical comedies to create an uplifting, cheerful and positive mental state, whatever else might be happening in the world. And I believe in doing whatever my girlfriend tells me, within reason. I don’t mind the zoo and there’s certainly nothing unreasonable about attending a musical comedy, not that it would, by any means, be my first choice of entertainment. The National Zoo, which we visited first, has a world-class collection of absolutely winsome, charming and adorable creatures, including a number of exotic cats, such as the clouded leopard, two species of frolicking otters and, of course, pandas. It’s very difficult to remain glum while watching panda bears cavorting in the sunshine.
Furthermore, I must admit she got us pretty good seats at the musical comedy – second row center – but from my point of view, there were three rather daunting aspects to that portion of our outing. First, the musical comedy was Hello, Dolly, which, for the benefit of those readers who may be unfamiliar with musical comedies, I will note constitutes the quintessential apotheosis of cornball Broadway comedy kitsch. For example, while surely everyone has heard the eponymous song, if they haven’t been subjected to a performance of the entire work, few would imagine that particular number welcomes the heroine to a New York restaurant named the Harmonia Gardens, which is staffed by a troupe of tuxedo-clad dancing waiters and has both pheasant under glass and stuffed turkeys on the menu. The major plot point of the second act is the rich guy who doesn’t want to be there and the poor guy who can’t afford to pay for the most expensive dinner in the Big Apple getting their wallets switched. Obviously, reality is not one of this musical comedy’s strong points – nor that of any musical comedy, I suppose, and perhaps that is the point, but lordy, in my humble opinion, this particular one severely taxes the capacity for willing suspension of disbelief possessed by anybody older than about nine. Second, it was a matinee, which meant that there would be a disproportionate number of old people and children there. And third, the venue was Ford’s Theater, which, on a Saturday afternoon in May, virtually guaranteed that the crowd would also be crawling with the perennial bane of every professional, educated, longtime Washingtonian – hordes of tourists.
Despite those circumstances, however, I will reluctantly confess that by the end of Act One, I was feeling the insidiously giddy, relentlessly upbeat and irrationally optimistic buzz imparted by watching an hour of the impossibly unlikely amusement offered by the musical comedy genre. So, craving an effective antidote, during intermission, I visited the museum.
The museum at Ford’s Theater is, as one would expect, devoted to the assassination of President Lincoln. It features such exhibits as videos explaining the conspiracy, life-size statues of the conspirators, and various memorabilia, such as John Wilkes Booth’s moustache comb. I was contemplating the pride of the collection – the Philadelphia Deringer that Booth used for the assassination – when a familiar voice resounded over my shoulder.
“Tom Collins!” I heard the voice proclaim. “Never in a million years would it occur to me that you’re a Jerry Herman fan!”
I turned. It was Pittman – Senior Special Investigator with the Treasury Department’s Inspector General For Tax Administration. He’s been to my office on Treasury business several times, the last just over a year ago. “Not exactly,” I explained, “I’m only here because my friend Cerise said she wanted to go.”
“Jerry Herman’s a genius, you know,” Pittman volunteered. “He’s one of my favorite Broadway composers – He wrote the music for Mame, La Cage aux Folles, From A to Z, Milk and Honey, The Grand Tour…’
“And Hello, Dolly, of course,” I added.
“Great family musicals,” he vouched.
“You’re here with your family, then?” I inquired.
“Well, actually,” he confided, “they don’t know I’m here. We all went to see it four times, but nobody else wanted to go for Hello, Dolly Number Five. So I decided I’d just sneak in another visit or two on my own before it closes. Um… say… since I ran into you here, just by chance and all… and they say you’re the smartest person in Washington…”
“Which is a lot,” I broke in, “like being the tallest building in Baltimore.”
“Baltimore?” Pittman gasped, gazing around with a spooked air, “isn’t that where John Wilkes Booth was from?”
“No, he was from Bel Air, in Harford County, near Havre de Grace,” I corrected. “But he got his start acting in Baltimore, at the Holliday Street Theater.”
“Yeah,” Pittman enthused, “that’s what they say about you – ‘Tom Collins, the man with the encyclopedic mind.’ Say, Tom, since we’re both here right now, it’s like fate, you know? You’ve heard about that, ah, problem the IRS has with the Cincinnati office, haven’t you?”
“You mean,” I asked, “the targeting of conservative political groups applying for 501(c)(4) tax exempt status for detailed investigations based on their names?”
“Yes,” he confirmed, “that one.”
“Groups with the phrase ‘tea party’ or the word ‘patriot’ in their names on the required IRS 501(c)(4) applications,” I recalled, “were singled out and sent huge, long complicated IRS forms to complete.”
“Unfortunately, they were,” Pittman confirmed. “Although after they filled out the forms, not a single one of them was denied the tax exempt status they applied for.”
“And now,” I continued, “Mitch McConnell has demanded a ‘government-wide review’ in order to make sure that such ‘thuggish practices’ never occur again; Eric Cantor has decried Gestapo tactics and called for a House investigation; Darrell Issa and House Ways and Means Committee Chairman Dave Camp have promised to hold hearings on the matter; Representative Charles Boustany of Louisiana has requested copies of all IRS communications containing the phrase ‘tea party’ or the word ‘patriot;’ Orrin Hatch has rejected an IRS apology as insufficient; and the White House has announced that, ‘If the Inspector General finds that there were any rules broken or that conduct of government officials did not meet the standards required of them, the President expects that swift and appropriate steps will be taken to address any misconduct.’”
“True,” Pittman agreed, “but did you know I was the one appointed to head the investigations?”
“No,” I averred, “that’s one aspect of which I have yet to be informed.”
“Not to worry,” he confided, “I just found out about it myself at five-thirty yesterday afternoon. So you can see what kind of situation I’m in. Sure, the Treasury is responsible for the IRS, but that’s pretty much like a father being responsible for how his seventeen-year-old son behaves. If the kid’s good – plays varsity, makes straight A’s, gets named valedictorian, then nobody gives Dad any credit at all. But if the kid’s bad – whatever it is he does, it’s the father’s fault. So no matter what good things my investigation finds, they will all be ignored. And whatever bad things I find, they’re going to disgrace the Treasury Department. Talk about a no-win situation! Can you help me out here?”
“Doug Shulman, the previous IRS Commissioner, issued a statement which denied Tea Party allegations that the IRS was making it difficult for conservative organizations to obtain 501(c)(4) status,” I noted, “and he was appointed by George W. Bush, a fellow Republican. And, of course, it was Richard Nixon, another Republican, who is most infamous for using the IRS as a political weapon. Meanwhile, every single voice raised about this matter in Congress has been a Republican. How often can they pull the trigger on that particular sixgun before they shoot themselves in the foot with it?”
“I don’t know,” Pittman sighed as he shook his head resignedly, “but they appear determined to find out.”
“So, what’s your gut feeling?” I probed. “What made the document managers at the IRS Cincinnati offices tell their specialists to select applications from organizations representing political movements favoring smaller government and lower taxes for extra scrutiny? Do you really think it might have been some sort of master directive passed down the chain of command from the Obama White House?”
“Nah,” Pittman opined derisively, “I seriously doubt it. I mean, sure if I come across any evidence of that, I’m going to run down every lead it generates, but it’s more likely I’ll win PowerBall next week than I’ll find any.”
“So,” I concluded, “it was more likely a case of a misguided self-preservation strategy? Perhaps the document managers thought that it would be in the best interests of the IRS to make it as difficult as possible for people who want to abolish the IRS?”
“Much more likely,” Pittman acknowledged. “And that’s what I’m afraid I’m going to find, too – that IRS employees don’t care who’s President – all they care about is keeping their civil service jobs.”
“There!” I told him. “You said the magic words!”
“Which ones?” Pittman wondered, perplexed.
“You said ‘civil service,’” I pointed out. “Remember – everything your investigation uncovers will be subject to interpretation. One interpretation might substantiate the theory that IRS employees are a bunch of nasty, selfish prigs who will stop at nothing to guarantee their continued employment with the federal government. But another interpretation could be that they are typical US civil servants, which is to say…”
“They’re a bunch of bumbling, lazy, incompetent, ignorant half-witted morons!” Pittman exulted. “Yes! Exactly! And how each piece of evidence is presented in my report will depend on which interpretation I apply to it! Oh, that’s perfect, Tom. Nobody will have any trouble believing that those IRS employees in Cincinnati were just behaving like any other gaggle of the usual parasitic federal civil service idiots. Brilliant! How come I didn’t think of that?”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a recorded female alto voice politely intoned, “the performance will resume in five minutes.”
“Oh, well,” I remarked, with what I will admit was considerable relief, “looks like we better get back to our seats.”