Stories by Hugh Yonn
Me and the Good Ol’ IRS
(At the Ripe Old Age of 23, 1969)
Rick is my younger brother. Our dad had helped us get a very lucrative contract in the business known as interstate freight forwarding. This has nothing to do with this sordid tale other than to make the reader aware of just how badly he and I managed to screw up many thousands and thousands of dollars. Might as well ‘fess up . . . I managed to fuck up a whole bunch of money. Rick basically got hauled into it because his name was on a lot of stuff with mine.
Most of that stuff was pretty easily resolved: We told the banks, “Hey, we ain’t got the dough . . . yup, spent it on boats, motorcycles, fast cars and just a hot damn good time in general.” The banks were OK with that (kinda). You know the old story, “You can’t get blood out of a turnip.” And we were a couple of full-blown turnips.
The only entity that was not OK with our screwing up a whole bunch of money was the IRS. Somehow, through pure dumbass luck, we had managed to keep Rick away from whatever it was that brought down the dreaded . . . those guys. And, of course, I had to find it out the crappiest way you can ever get bad news. Through one of the banks that I just happened to owe a lot of money. We had had some repair work done on one of the vehicles that provided us with our livelihood. The bill was a couple of thousand dollars. I wrote the lad who had done the work a check from one of our business accounts. No problem . . . I knew that we had several thousand in the account. Within half an hour after giving the boy the check, he was back in our office saying that the bank had refused to cash it.
Whoa, hold your horses. They couldn’t do this to me. I had been a long and valued customer . . . up until now. I, of course, scurried down to the bank full of righteous indignation.
When I presented the check to a teller for immediate redemption of cash, she looked like she was going to bust out crying. She and I had become buddies over the last couple of years, and she didn’t want to give me the news.
“Hugh (that’s me), Mr. Somebody, our vice president, asks if you would join him in his office.”
“No problem,” says I. “I will take this up with him.”
Hmmm . . . a vice president, no less. I didn’t realize just how much weight I carried around there.
After being ushered into Mr. Somebody’s office, I presented him with my check and requested the like amount in cash. I knew that my balance far exceeded the amount required.
Mr. Somebody asked that I have a chair. Being a gentleman, I , of course, obliged.
“Hugh,” he began, “you ain’t got no money. The Internal Revenue Service sent this letter by courier an hour ago.” He passed to me an official-looking document that turned out to say nothing more than, “We took all of Hugh’s money because he owes us a bunch more.”
Curses! And there wasn’t a thing that I could do. Luckily, my brother and I had a stash of cash that we kept on hand in case any good deals on toys popped up. (You might say we were fond of toys.)
At least I was able to pay the young lad who had been so diligent in his efforts to repair our equipment. Sadly to say that my thinking in that era was, “Screw the banks . . . just don’t screw the individual.” And I must say that I did, at that time, lump the IRS right in there with the banks. Such was my poor outlook on the ways of the world. I like to think that since that error in judgment, I have mended my low-down ways.
Back to the letter presented to me by Mr. Somebody.
Included in this missive was a gentleman’s name with the IRS office located in West Palm Beach, Fla., a short drive up the road. In his letter, he asked that I call him at my earliest convenience. This was late on a Friday afternoon. Fortunately, I was able to reach this person in his office prior to his leaving for the weekend. Yes, he agreed to meet me the coming Monday for a chat regarding the seizure of my funds.
The weekend passed quickly as I mustered my wits and a satisfactory argument to extricate my money from the filthy hands of the IRS. You see, I needed the money on which to operate . . . the old business adage, ‘cash flow.’ Surely they would understand that. In preparation for the drive to his office the coming Monday, I rolled out my brand spanking new Norton 750 Commando road-burning, scorch-ass, shiny-pretty motorcycle for the pleasant sunlit ride to world-famous West Palm Beach.
When I arrived at the federal building, I parked my scoot, carried my shiny matching helmet into the lobby and soon located this Mr. Somebody’s office.
The meeting very quickly moved to the point for which I had made the trip. “So, Mr. Somebody, what needs to be done so that you might release my funds?”
“Well, Hugh,” he replied, “you need to bring me a cashier’s check for just over $28,000.”
Whoa . . . now bear in mind, class, 28 grand in 1969 is about $95,000 in 2008 money speak. Holy crap, my puny little account that had looked like so much before, it being just over $10,000, now began to look like the proverbial chicken feed. Of course, being quick of wit and having had an entire weekend to formulate a prime solution for this quagmire that I currently found myself in, I responded, “Mr. Somebody, I will be very happy to take care of this balance in whatever monthly installments that you would care to specify. I certainly do not intend to shirk my duty as a citizen and fail to pay the federal government their required and lawful due.”
Mr. Somebody basically floored me with his next comment. “Hugh, we would love to accommodate you, but you must understand that the federal government is not a finance company.”
“Yes, I understand that,” I responded, “but I don’t have the dough, and I understand that you cannot put a U.S. citizen in jail for being broke.”
“No, of course not,” he agreed. “But we can put you in jail for tax evasion.”
Be damned, I had not thought of that!
“Well, Mr. Somebody, how much time can you give me to put together the required sum?”
Looking thoughtfully at his desk calendar, he said, “Let’s see . . . today is Monday . . . Friday should do it. We can work with that.”
“Friday,” I muttered, ever cool, even under the most intense pressure. Never let them see you sweat . . . even if you have to release it down the crack of the ass.
“Yes,” he continued, “Friday . . . I am sure that you have physical assets that you can liquidate to comply with this date. I will see you on Friday with the balance, or we will proceed with evasion charges.”
“Holy mackerel, Mr. Somebody,” I stated in a perfectly calm voice. “That’s going to be tough.”
“It won’t be as difficult as you think, Hugh. Come on . . . I have another appointment shortly. I’ll walk you out to the parking lot.”
Little did I know what this seemingly kind gesture meant. Not until we arrived at my shiny-pretty brand new Norton 750 Commando.
“Say, Hugh, this is a nice motorcycle.” Leaning over the gauges, he eyed the odometer. “Wow, this thing is brand new . . . it’s only got 800 miles on it. What did this thing cost?”
“Right at $2,200, Mr. Somebody,” I answered. “It’s the flagship of the fleet . . . the baddest cat on the block, a true road-burner from hell.”
“Well, Hugh,” Mr. Somebody drawled, “it looks like even I will be able to help you reach your goal by Friday. I’ll give you $800 for this bike right now.”
And there it was . . . right between the rock and the fucking hard spot. It was definitely time to come up with a winning game plan. No way would this arrogant bastard ever see the cheeks of his ass caressing the seat of this motorscooter. No fucking way!
(to be continued with “And That’s How I Got in the Pot Bidness”. . .)
(. . .or something like that.)
Going for the Gold
Me and my buddy John were on what may have been called a ‘double date’ . . . meaning we were both going to try to get laid this evening.
Following an incredible dining extravaganza at the local pizzeria, we took our ladies on a romantic stroll. We headed down one of the public docks that jutted into the St. John’s River in the thriving metropolis of Palatka, Fla.
This dock extended several hundreds of feet into the darkness of the surrounding river. About every 50 or 60 feet was a brightly lit pole throwing its light into its neighbor’s lighted area. Where the lights ended, total darkness and the beloved river.
John, having been a ‘trained lifesaver’ with the Jacksonville Beach Life Saving Corps, was muchly proud of his swimming abilities. And his much-worked-on and honed physique. He never passed up a chance to dazzle the ladies with his chiseled and carved musculature. Nor did he this lovely evening.
As we strolled along, arm-in-arm with our target pussies, John decided to give his girl a preview of what kind of man she was no doubt lusting after. He blurted in a drunken drawl, “I’m gonna take a quick swim . . . cool off.”
With that, he stripped down to his jockey shorts and took off running toward the end of the lighted area. The girls and I continued our walk and watched as John reached the end of the lighted area and launched into a perfect straightforward dive. His legs perfectly together, head, neck and shoulders aligned, legs flexing back, toes extended to tight points, arms leading with hands forming a flawless entry projectile. It was a beautiful dive. Straight as an arrow, he passed into the darkness as if shot from a bow.
And then . . . KERSPLAT! A huge, nauseating plopping sound complete with a loud and healthy grunting “UGGHHH!”
Where the lighting ended, the dock did not.
No big deal, a couple of cracked teeth, maybe a quarter pound of flesh missing and Diver Dan had accomplished his mission. He had shown me and our ladies just what kind of lifesaving sumbitch he truly was.
I really hated to see the lad bust himself up like that, but if it had to happen, I’m glad I got to see it.
Shoulda Robbed a Bank
When I awoke to the smell of stale piss, I knew that things had not gone according to plan. The nightmare became live and in living color.
This was the real deal.
I had been busted!
I was in jail.
Not a pretty place to find oneself, in a North Florida jail cell.
I had been charged with conspiracy to import and distribute 12,000 pounds of marijuana. A “very serious offense,” according to the DEA. This is the federal entity that had placed handcuffs on me and my friend from Colombia, Jorge.
I thought we were performing a public service.
Twelve thousands pounds of marijuana, my last ring of the cash register.This mission would have netted the tidy sum of just over one million dollars.
Even after abandoning the aircraft . . . like a disposable shopping cart.
I should have quit while I was ahead. I suspect my downfall was my infatuation with toys: cars, boats, motorcycles, airplanes and antiques. Items that just seem to add more zest to life. Items that bring a supreme amount of pleasure, just being able to look at them, touch them, own them.
I may have been able to find the same satisfaction with a nice Matchbook collection.
Then again, maybe not.
Today, Jorge and I were being sentenced in a United States Federal Court. Over the past several months, we had been tried and found guilty before a jury of our peers. Six ladies old enough to be our grandmothers, one retired Air Force colonel, three bored housewives, a young, good-looking creamer . . . and one fat chick who had slept thru the majority of the trial.
Oh, and one alternate juror. A very stern, tight-ass-looking older lady who managed to have the good-looking young creamer kicked off the jury. It seems “Ms. Tight-Ass” claimed to have heard the creamer slander the prosecution’s star witness. The judge, in all fairness, removed them BOTH from the jury. He tolerated nothing that violated his order: “The jury will not discuss the case, or its merits, prior to the deliberation process.”
Really too bad for us. The young creamer was a definite vote in our favor. She could have at least hung the jury.
Such was not the case.
With the creamer gone, the remainder of the jury said, “Yeah, they done it.”
So here we sat.
Neither of us was having any fun. We had been in a county jail for the past three months. This is where federal “detainees” are held during trial.
For the last thirty days, the judge’s office had been conducting a “pre-sentence investigation.” He wanted to know just what kind of desperados he was dealing with.
In a nut shell, Jorge was a 20-year-old lad from deep in the interior of Colombia, South America. The son of a farmer. Just a really clean-cut young man with a very dear, hard-working and loving family.
Me, the worst thing that I had ever done was break Mrs. Mabry’s gazing ball, a very large mirrored ball that was in her garden. I was mowing her yard when I was nine years old. The glass ball sat on a pedestal in her back yard beside a bench. Here, she often spent the afternoons enjoying her garden. As I passed with my lawn mower one fateful day, I struck the pedestal and watched the ball drop to the ground. That bastard broke into a thousand pieces. I picked up every shard and placed them in a cardboard box. Then bicycled the evidence three blocks away and deposited it in a dumpster.
I felt bad about that. Mrs. Mabry’s garden and the gazing ball were beautiful.
Two weeks later, when I returned to again service her lawn, Mrs. Mabry asked me about the ball.
Yes. . ., I lied.
I told her, “No, ma’am. I haven’t seen it.”
I was really a sorry-ass little scoundrel. To this day, for that indiscretion, I feel tremendous shame.
Where was I?
We were being sentenced today. From what I could discern from the jailhouse lawyers, and my not-so-hot attorney, we were facing a potential 15 years in federal prison. But surely, I thought to myself, there was no possible way that honest, clean-cut young men such as Jorge and I could possibly be handed down such a disproportionate sentence.
I mean, this was a crime involving marijuana.
Even the federal authorities had calculated that in this era, over 40 tons of weed per day were being consumed in the United States. We only had six tons. This equated to what? A three and a half hour supply?
What kind of contribution was that to Party Central, U.S.A. ?
How about a break here!
We were not talking about death and destruction!
We were talking PARTY FAVORS!
And so on.
My Colombian buddy and I had been arrested when we landed my plane near the thriving metropolis of Malone, Florida. The plane was a 1945 Lockheed PV2. An old WWII Navy bomber that I had picked up at a yard sale. This puppy could carry 12,000 pounds of cargo 2,700 miles. She didn’t have to outrun anyone . . . she just stayed in the air until a pursuer ran out of gas.
My Colombian friend was on board merely as a guide. Once a plane entered Colombian airspace, it was not a matter of the Colombian Air Force pursuing. It simply became a matter of landing on the right airstrip. There are so many airstrips in the jungles that, when an aircraft came in low, the people owning the strips scampered out and put down bed sheets. They were in hope that a pilot would identify their sheet as the correct landing strip. To land on an incorrect runway placed one in an awkward position. Not only would the airstrip owners attempt to sell you your own airplane, but also your freedom had to be purchased. Not a very fair deal, but the only one they offered.
Hence, my Colombian friend’s only reason for being on board was pretty much as a tour guide. He had done nothing wrong. Just pointed out the correct address. And he rode back to the United States with me because he had Christmas shopping to do.
Anyway, today he was being sentenced, too. Poor bastard. His entire English vocabulary consisted of two words: “okay” and “cheeseburger.” I am sure that he understood jack-shit about what went on during our trial.
Yes, the federal government had provided him with an interpreter, but this person really did not speak his dialect that well. During the entire fiasco, Jorge sat with a puzzled look on his face.
This entire affair seemed like some kind of very bad joke. I knew deep down in my heart that any minute, the authorities would set us free. With an admonition: “You guys get on out of here. And don’t be doing this shit anymore.”
We had been sitting in a “holding facility” for over three months. It takes that long to go to trial, have your character evaluated and set a date to share what they intend to do with you.
Three months may not sound like a long time . . . but when you are using a roll of toilet paper for a pillow, and a swatch of carpet for a blanket, it seems like forever.
Just when I had had all the fun I could stand, our day in court arrived. This was the day the judge would share with us his decision as to our punishment, if that were to be the case.
The U.S. marshals (the lads that transport federal prisoners) had sent word that we would be picked up at 9 a.m. and transported to the courthouse.
As usual, they were right on time.
Of course, being a “positive thinker,” I expected the judge to say, “You guys have been in jail long enough. Get the hell out of here and don’t do this again.”
But what the son-of-a-bitch really said was, “You will be remanded to the custody of the Federal Bureau of Prisons for a term of 15 years.”
And to Jorge, “You will be remanded to the custody of the Federal Bureau of Prisons for a term of five years.”
Well, Jorge waited three weeks, then tried to hang himself. He did not do it correctly, so they shipped his ass back to Colombia .
Me, I spent five years as their guest. They finally released me early because I had been such a nice guy.
But I will share this with you: Those boys cured me!
If I ever again want to accumulate toys, I am going to rob a bank. I watched bank robbers come and go during my stay. These lads only spend about a year and a half.
But, if a person is in prison on a marijuana offense, his ass is going to do some BIG time!
Hopefully, this sorry tale will deter others who may be contemplating a “drug offense.”
Rob a bank instead.
Hugh Yonn, 61, a native of Jacksonville, Fla., worked in the field of sales until a divorce in the 1970s led him to a bartender’s job in Delray Beach, Fla., where he met what he calls the ‘customer base’ for his marijuana sales. He holds two associate degrees, one of them earned while in federal custody.