[stylist] Creative non-fiction writing excersize--Taking the Fall for Federationism

[Barbara Hammel]

I LOVE the last sentence.  It summed it up so well.
Barbara




Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance. -- Carl Sandburg
-----Original Message----- 
From: Jacobson, Shawn D
Sent: Monday, January 28, 2013 9:50 AM
To: 'Writer's Division Mailing List (stylist at nfbnet.org)'
Subject: [stylist] Creative non-fiction writing excersize--Taking the Fall 
for Federationism

OK here's my entry.  Sorry for being late with this.

Shawn Jacobson
Mathematical Statistician
Phone# (202)-475-8759
Fax# (202)-485-0275

Taking the Fall for Federationism
by Shawn Jacobson
"Are you alright?" the man asks as I lay there on the pavement.
"Yes" I say reflexively, what I say whenever I take one of these pratfalls. 
I look down.  This is one of those entrances to a parking garage.  The 
driveway is divided starting halfway to the street.  The divide is nicely 
delineated by yellow pavement, a color change I hadn't paid attention to as 
I hurried to get IRS forms.
My quest for IRS form 1099-MISC (for miscellaneous) had really started five 
years ago at an NFB meeting for state presidents and treasurers.  One of the 
speakers, a gentleman from a business school in Utah, was explaining the 
importance of keeping records.  He explained that a corporation was like a 
child and failing to keep proper records was tantamount to child neglect. 
'Was this guy for real?' I wondered.  Apparently, the big wigs in Baltimore 
felt that he was or he wouldn't be there.  The business school guy droned on 
about a lot of record keeping tricks that I have since forgotten, but he did 
mention the need to fill out 1099 forms for people who work for us (readers 
and drivers); so here I was, getting the paperwork I needed.
I pulled myself to my feet.  My right thigh hurt with a pain that wasn't 
supposed to be there, not one of the aches and pains I had acquired through 
getting older gracefully.  I took an experimental step, ouch, and continued 
one step after another.  "Where is 77 K St. NW?" I ask an older black 
gentleman you had seen me go down.
"It's right in front of you" he said.  I hobbled towards the entrance; must 
not neglect the child after all.
I enter the building and limp across the cavernous foyer (pain makes all 
things bigger) to a security guard.  "Where is the IRS office?" I ask.
"You've got the right building, but the wrong entrance" the guy answers.  He 
then explains that I have to go out and around the corner.  I thank him and 
stagger on my way.
I don't waste a lot of time wondering if I would have fallen if I had 
carried my cane.  I've seen enough blind people with canes fall to know that 
a white cane is not a magic wand.  I've also seen enough sighted people go 
down in my time to know that the magic of eyesight is also limited.
I get to the IRS office and enter the building.  A sign on the door to the 
office reads, in print big enough for me to see, "Employees Only".
"Can I get in here?" I ask the guard at the metal detector.
"Go ahead" he says.  I put my stuff on the conveyer belt going through the 
scanner.  First, the coat followed by my shoe bag, then I empty my pockets 
into the tray proved for such things.  I then pass through the detectors, no 
problem.
Inside the office, I look through the racks of forms for 1099-MISC; no luck. 
"Try in the other room" a helpful gentleman says.  I go in the open door, 
move through the rope maze to a desk.  "Where is form 1099-MISC?" I ask. She 
points me back out the door to a rack of forms just outside the door.  As I 
limp to the rack, I notice that I am still holding the tray from the metal 
detector.  I feel like Mr. Magoo; I hurt too much to care.
Finally, I leave with my treasure.  As I limp back to the subway station, I 
remember other spills I have taken.  There was the time I was taking an 
evening stroll with my tape player and stepped into a culvert.  I ruined a 
good Wilson Phillips cassette and, incidentally, scraped my left knee to the 
point I needed a large band aid.  Then there was the time I tripped in our 
apartment and left a "V" shaped mark on my forehead.  And there was the 
unforgettable time I rammed my forehead into the top of our shed splattering 
blood all over my tea shirt.  This is now known as the OJ tea shirt in honor 
of a famous football player with his own bloody adventures.
I did get home without further incident, and the day I took off work to lick 
my wounds gave me time to fill out the required IRS forms.  I think the 
corporate baby is doing well.  Think I need to stop neglecting myself.


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