On Friday night, I went to dinner with my buddy Griff, in town from Seattle. Griff is an old friend – we lived on the same floor freshman year at BC – and it was good to catch up with him over ribs and beers. When the check came, we decided to split it and threw our cards down (I mean, we weren’t going to have sex later, so a 50/50 split is fair). The waiter took our cards and walked away, but soon can back and asked, “Who’s Jason?” I said that I was, and he said that my card didn’t go through and asked if I had activated it.

I told him that was strange, because it was a debit card, and then I paid my portion in cash. I wasn’t embarrassed, because though I won’t say this is a common occurrence, it happens occasionally. See, at any given time, I only keep about a grand in my bank account. This is divided, with a few hundred in my checking account, but most in my savings account. This means that I often have to transfer money from the savings to the checking when I know I’m going out big time or am about to make a big purchase. The rest of my money I keep in an ING account. The ING account is wonderful, because it takes two full business days to transfer funds between my accounts. The ING account and the $1000 in the bank account (with most in savings) are both efforts to save me from myself, particularly to save me from those $200+ bar tabs and $300+ meals that I so often enjoyed in NYC. When I moved to LA, I said that I looked at it like a stint in rehab – physically, emotionally and financially. Even though I hate it here, at least I’ve learned to be more responsible with my money. Which is nice, I guess, if not a lot more boring.

As Griff and I finished our beers, I pulled out my iPhone to check my bank account and move money from savings to checking. I still thought it was strange that my debit card would be denied – my portion of the bill was around $50, and I was certain I had more than that in my checking account. But after I logged in to the Citibank site, I saw they were having technical difficulties. Whatever. I figured I’d look into it later.

That night, I went home and had to work until 2am (don’t get me started). While waiting for a response on something, I logged back into Citibank’s site again, and again they were down. But still, whatever – I knew I had about a grand sitting in the account and I would just got to an ATM the following day to sort it out. No biggie.

Long Tangent I: I have been occasionally making out with my roommate Selena. The short of it is that I knew her and her roommates Mark and Chris through mutual friends before I moved to LA full-time. I was all set to move to LA and had found a place though Craigslist with a girl I had never met (though I wanted to live alone, knowing LA was temporary, I didn’t want to drop a few grand on couches, TVs, pots, etc and decided I had to live with a roommate while out here), when Chris called me up. He said that he was moving out of the huge, three-bedroom party central house he shared with Mark and Selena and wanted to know I wanted in. I deliberated for a bit: I knew the commute would suck, but I knew and liked Mark and Selena, the rent was balls cheap and they had a yard and BBQs and the largest TV (62″) I’ve ever seen in a home. Living with two people I already knew and got along with was more appealing than living with a stranger, so I moved in.

Now, Selena and I had made out prior to me moving in, but we had a discussion that no funny business should occur if/after I moved in. This worked (for the most part). But as of this weekend, I’m moving out. I found an ideal situation: a gigantic fully-furnished one-bedroom 1.6 miles from my office in Westwood with a lease that runs from June 1 until December 1, which just so happens to be my target return date to NYC. I can’t get into how excited I am to move, because my head would explode (or at least my fingers would be unable to type). But early last week I learned that a buddy and his new lady were going to Big Bear for part of the long weekend, and since I am the Road Trip King and am moving far, far away from the South Bay into the civility that is Westwood, I suggested Selena and I head up as well.

And so we found ourselves at a gas station on Saturday morning, ready to drive up to Big Bear, when I went into the mini-mart to hit the ATM and figure out this bank account nonsense once and for all. I put my card in, entered my PIN, and then immediately got an error message and a receipt that said “Unauthorized User.”

Now I knew something was wrong.

I wanted to get up to Big Bear as soon as possible and figured I would just handle it up there – hey, if someone stole my identity, it was probably too late already – so away we went, two part-time lovers heading into the mountains. The drive was an exciting, up 9000 feet into the sky along a series and narrow and winding roads (I would NOT recommend the drive at night, unless you want a death wish). Finally, when we got to Big Bear, I called Citibank and explained the situation. The woman spent some time looking into my account. She said I had $800-something in the account and that it appeared that when I hit the ATM at the gas station and got “Unauthorized User,” I entered the wrong PIN. When I mentioned that I couldn’t access my information online, she said that Citi’s site was, um, having problems. At any rate, I should be fine to access cash now. Whew.

I left Selena and went out to gather supplies, namely Budweiser, Doritos and assorted cupcakes and related dessert items. I went to the liquor store and before gathering my sundries, hit the ATM there. I swiped the card, carefully entered my PIN and, once again, “Unauthorized User.”

What. the. fuck.

Now I was getting angry. Without returning to the room, I stepped outside the liquor store and called Citi again. I got a different woman and gave her the rundown, perhaps in a not-so-happy tone. She put me on hold for two minutes and when she came back, asked me to hold just a little longer. She then took me off hold and offered up this doozy: “Sir, it appears that there was been a court-ordered restraining order put on your account. You have to call back Tuesday.”

(???)

(I mean, ?!?!?!)

Me: “I’m sorry, did you say ‘court-ordered restraining order?’”

She said that yes, she did. I asked what that meant and why there was a “court-ordered restraining order” on my account in the first place, and she said that she couldn’t tell me and I’d have to call back Tuesday (bear in mind, this conversation was happening at 2pm on the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend). I told her that I’ve been with Citi for years and would call on Tuesday but would also be calling on Tuesday to close my accounts with them and take my banking elsewhere if someone didn’t immediately explain to me what was going on.

She put me on hold for another two minutes, then transferred me to a manager, who did his best to explain the situation. He informed me that the IRS (!) had frozen my assets (!!) and were the ones who put the restraining order on the account (!!!). He said he didn’t know why – all the bank does is get a notice from the IRS providing a name, bank account number and an order to freeze, which Citi got at 4:29pm on Friday. This was something that I needed to address with the IRS itself and he gave me a reference number and a 1-800 number, but told me that they were not open again until Tuesday morning. Until then, “Sorry”, but I was unable to withdraw funds or otherwise use my Citibank account.

I thanked him, completely dazed, unable to complain about the first woman I talked to blatantly lying (wrong PIN? site down?), and hung up. There I was, standing outside the local liquor store in the mountains of California, having just been informed that the IRS was trying to destroy me; I was being treated like an international criminal, a flight risk. I went through the scenarios: I actually got money back this year, and the most recent letter I got from the IRS said that I had overpaid when filing my taxes and would get more back, so that wasn’t it. I wasn’t laundering money or doing anything illegal – I mean, sure, I gamble a little bit, but where are we, Russia? Besides, I am a small beans gambler and mostly bad at it, so it wasn’t like I was not declaring thousands of dollars in gambling winnings. If not owing taxes or being investigating for something illegal, what the hell could it be? My only thought was that it’s a mistake. It has to be a mistake. It has to be a mistake.

But I had more practical concerns. Namely, here I was, one hour into a two-day mini-vacation and I had no access to my bank account. Worse, I don’t carry credit cards on me – I don’t use them (which is good), though I have two stashed in my dresser drawer in my bedroom for “emergency” situations (emergency situations like, you know, when the IRS freezes your assets for three days). But of course, I didn’t have these cards on me for the weekend and would have to live with whatever cash I had on my person.

I looked in my wallet and counted $18.

I had absolutely no means to pay for anything for the next 48 hours. None. Nothing. Nothing at all. Eighteen bucks. That’s it. Standing outside that liquor store, I was faced with the task of going back and telling Selena that she would be treating. All weekend. For everything.

After my unique walk of shame, when I did explain the situation to Selena, god bless her, she was understanding. I told her – and she realized, thankfully – that I was good for it, and then when we got back to LA, I would figure this all out. I told her we’d keep every receipt and I’d pay her back for every last penny and, in the meantime, she could order lobster with every meal. Spare no expense, it was all coming back to her. Promise, promise, promise.

But still, it was humiliating. I don’t have much to offer women, and chief among the things I do have to offer is my whatever-the-opposite-of-frugality-is. I’m old school, baby, and I take pride in being able to take a woman out, to treat her to nice things, and to pick up the check and tip well when the waitress puts the little black wallet on the table (after smacking her on the ass, of course). And now this poor girl was going to pay for absolutely everything for an entire two days. What a nice weekend. What a deadbeat.

(I should mention that on my Friday evening drive home from work, with Griff in the car, I got pulled over and my car was nearly impounded by the po-po because after a year out here I still don’t have CA plates and my PA registration has been expired for two months. The only reason it didn’t get impounded was because I nearly wept in the car, saying, “I’m sorry, officer, I just lived in NYC for eight years and I don’t know anything about cars! And my dad will kill me if anything happens to this car! He’s a mechanic and a real man and he thinks I’m gay! I’m so ashamed!”)

(By the way, I’ll be 30 in seven weeks, have a good job, and, believe it or not, am not a junkie. Friday 6pm – Saturday 3pm was not the best stretch for Uncle Jason. Real “we’re going to talk about this when we get home” moment.)

Anyway, aside from that minor bump in the road, the weekend went off without a hitch. Well, actually, that’s not true – Selena got sick, likely due to being in such close proximity to a financial/life cancer. We did, however, go bowling, which was lovely. My first game: 97. My second game: 157. Then just when I was warming up, Selena said she was going to faint, so we had to go home. There’s your weekend.

(Also the night before, the band at the bar we were at played Styx’s “Too Much Time on My Hands” and I nearly lost my shit. I mean, there are few joys in life like cover-band Styx – and an overly appreciative crowd to go with it. Truly one of the highlights of the past few months. Big Bear really deserves its own post, but suffice it to say, it’s one of the greatest and most interesting places on earth. I would go back this weekend if I could.)

Fast forward to Tuesday morning, back in LA: Before I even sat down at my desk in my office, I was dialing the IRS. I got through quickly and spoke to Mr. White. I explained that there was a misunderstanding and that my assets were frozen and restraining order and mistake and I have no idea what happened and he stopped me half-way through my jumbled story and asked for my social security number. I gave it to him and, after a few seconds, he said, “Nope, nothing here – we actually owe you money.”

You know how after getting laid, you lay there, and you’re smiling, and you take a deep breath, and you think (and in my case, say aloud), “You know what? That was pretty sweet. Pret-tee, pret-tee, pret-tee sweet. Wowza.” Well, I felt the complete opposite of that when Mr. White said, “Nope – nothing here.” All weekend long, all I looked forward to was that Tuesday morning call in which I’d clear my good name. And Mr. White had nothing for me. Meltdown in five…four….three….

Perhaps sensing the distress/imminent explosion in my silence on the other end of the line, Mr. White tried offering help. “Do you owe alimony?” “God, I hope not.” “Have you paid your student loans?” “Yep.” “Maybe it’s a state issue – have you contacted New York State?”

No, I had not contacted New York State. Mr. White gave me the number to the NYS Department of Taxation. In a few minutes, I was on the phone with Marissa, and the mystery was soon solved.

Long Tangent II: I think I have previously mentioned this, but in 2006, I had some tax issues with the IRS. See, when you get a book advance (like the one I got from my first, now-defunct publisher), no tax is taken out. So if someone says, “I got a $100,000 book advance,” they got a check for $100,000 and it was up to them to save for taxes. (Note: I did not get a $100,000 advance.) This is problematic for someone as financially-irresponsible as myself, but that’s not where the problem was. The problem was that H&R Block person who prepared my taxes for 2006 completely forgot to include the portion of this first book advance that I was paid in 2006. The result was that eight months later, I got a letter from the IRS basically saying, “Hi Jason – You owe us $6000. Send that over now. Thanks. PS – Hope you’re well!”

(About an hour after getting this letter, my mom called me and told me, out of the blue, that she was getting remarried. Later that night, while sleeping I dreamed that an intruder had walked into my bedroom. I woke up on my bedroom floor, after I dove out of bed to tackle this “intruder,” my shoulder hurting from jumping through this imaginary intruder and into the side of the closet. Yet another “we’re going to talk about this when we get home” moment.)

After cleaning the poo from my pants after reading the IRS letter, I called H&R Block and a few days later, brought them my prepared 2006 taxes. The book advance was the second item in the folder and the H&R Block person now reviewing the taxes said, “Yep, there it is – we messed up.” And because I paid $29 extra for their “Peace of Mind” guarantee, since they so obviously fucked up, they were going to – and did – pay the entire $6000. A better $29 spent, I can think of none.

But what they also did in this process was re-file my entire 2006 taxes. These were sent out by H&R Block in July 2008, one month after I moved to LA. When they re-filed these taxes, I thought I was in the clear and the long, national nightmare of the 2006 taxes was over. Little did I know that, once these taxes were re-filed, I owed NY State several hundred dollars for 2006. Had I known this, I would have paid it off immediately. But I was not aware of it because, as Marissa and I figured out:

- When I moved out here initially, I was unsure how long I’d stay in Redondo Beach, and so gave my work address as my official address to a number of companies. NY State had this address, but they didn’t have my company’s name in the address, just the street numbers. My office building is over twenty stories and shared with over a dozen other companies, and I am not a named partner in my firm or any other firm in the building. Marissa went through each and every notice that was sent to me, noting the dates and contents of each letter – none of which I received. I asked her if any of these were returned to NY State and she said yes, all of them (!!!) were, likely because my company was not in the address.

Hey, NY State, after getting every letter mailed to me sent back, you didn’t think that I was no longer there? Or that you should probably try to get in touch with me another way? No? Really? Never crossed your mind?

- Well, actually it did cross their mind. I moved out here in June 2008. The taxes were filed in July 2008. In June-July 2008, I had my old NYC/646 cell phone number and never thought I’d have to change it. Then in August 2008, I got an iPhone and was forced to changed my number to an LA/310 area code. The NY State tax people were calling this old 646 number. Over and over and over again. And no dice.

So at least they tried both mailing and calling me. But here’s something else: why not give Google a shot? Facebook? MySpace? Twitter? As a friend who I told this story to said, collection agencies have no trouble tracking people down. And here was NY State, after getting every letter returned and a disconnected signal for every phone call, deciding to not try anything else – and to freeze my bank account at 4:30pm on the Friday of a holiday weekend (!!!).

(Anger rising…must…go for walk to get ice cream…)

******************

As of this writing, my assets are still frozen. The about-$800 in my account is just short of what I owe, so I have to wait for my ING account transfer to kick in at midnight Thursday night before paying (remember: two business days, so even though I requested the transfer on Saturday, that’s really Tuesday because of Memorial Day). Then on Thursday, I will presumably spend all day on the phone with the IRS and at Citibank getting this sorted out. Then I’m immediately cutting Selena a check and paying off the credit card debt I’ve accumulated since returning to LA. After that, I’m changing bank accounts, always carrying $40,000 on my person, getting a fake passport and switching my affiliation to the Republican party. Because never again will the government be able to hold me by the short and curlies again. Word is bond.