“Joyce’s Fifty-Nine-Dollar birthday wrist watch on time, plus Two Dollars and Seventy-Five Cents cab fare to the Bronx for that wedding reception to which we was late, minus Twenty-Nine Dollars and Eleven Cents old-age dependency insurance, plus miscellaneous Five Hundred and Seventy-Nine Dollars and Twenty-Two Cents, minus One Dollar and Fifteen Cents work-clothes deduction—man! I ain’t never gonna get it straight.”

“What’s all this high finance,” I said, “concerning birthday watches and nondeductible cab fare?”

“Income tax,” said Simple. “I deducts all.”

“Pshaw! Just think of the movie stars and Wall Street people who really have to worry about income tax,” I said.

“I don’t care nothing about them folks,” answered Simple. “All I know is that tomorrow the man is demanding—not asking—for money that I not only don’t have—but ain’t even seen.”

“The Bureau of Internal Revenue seldom makes mistakes, Jess. If it does, they’ve got people to check and recheck, and if they miscalculate even as little as two cents, you’ll eventually get it back.”

“I just like to check for myself,” said Simple. “So I been figuring on this thing for three days and it still don’t come out right. Instead of them owing me, looks like I owe them something which I don’t know where I’m going to get.”

“Why didn’t you just take your figures to a public accountant and let him figure it out for you?”

“Man, I took ’em to one of them noteriety republicans once and he charged me so much I got discouraged.”

“Maybe next year things will be different, old man. According to the papers, Congress is considering a bill to reduce taxes.”

“By the time Congress convenes, I’ll be without means,” said Simple. “Besides, I don’t get enough for my taxes. I wants to vote down South. It’s hell to pay taxes when I can’t even vote down home.”

“‘Taxation without representation is tyranny,’ so the books say.”

“Sure is!” said Simple. “I don’t see why Negroes down South should pay taxes a-tall. You know Buddy Jones’ brother, what was wounded in the 92nd in Italy, don’t you? Well, he was telling me about how bad them rednecks treated him when he was in the army in Mississippi. He said he don’t never want to see no parts of the South again. He were born and raised in Yonkers and not used to such stuff. Now his nerves is shattered. He can’t even stand a Southern accent no more.”

“Jim Crow shock,” I said. “I guess it can be as bad as shell shock.”

“It can be worse,” said Simple. “Jim Crow happens to men every day down South, whereas a man’s not in a battle every day. Buddy’s brother has been out of the army three years and he’s still sore about Mississippi.”

“What happened to him down there?”