A few days ago, I squeezed onto a crowded subway train. Though there was barely enough room to maneuver, I did get a spectacular view of an immense, unusually gender-free individual lurching to his or her feet, shoving his or her way across the aisle, and vomiting spectacularly against the far door. In a flash, we passengers on my end of the car shoved our way over to the other end, where we huddled and listened in horror to the gastrointestinal pyrotechnics that seemed to go on for some minutes.

If we had been on a plane or a boat or even a donkey cart, it would have tipped over.

At the next station, we all burst out of the car and gasped for breath. Everyone seemed annoyed, but not in the least bit surprised.

***

Several weeks ago, in an attempt to prepare for this year’s return and find out the status of previous work, I began trying to contact the man who had reviewed my taxes last year. We will call him Arthur. Arthur is a spooky, middle-aged man of a sort that only exists in New York City, usually in one of the outer boroughs. He is pale and puffy with thick glasses, shifty eyes, perpetually greasy hair, and not a single natural fiber in his wardrobe.

He is, however, oddly endearing in a disheveled sort of way, and he works very cheaply. The best thing about him was that he discovered I had overpaid my state taxes by almost two thousand dollars and immediately began a campaign to get me a refund. A campaign that he promptly abandoned when he disappeared without a trace. My email was bounced back, his phone was disconnected, and his office said that he no longer worked there. I would have become convinced that he had stolen my identity and run off to Mexico, except it stands to reason that anyone who is intelligent enough to decipher my taxes must also be savvy enough to realize that adopting my identity would bring more bad fortune than good.

So I accepted the mystery and made an appointment for today with another accountant.

And guess who I heard from yesterday.

Arthur apologized for being out of touch. He explained that, in January, he had been run over by a car and had spent much of the intervening time in a coma. He is to be released from the hospital in early April and wanted to make an appointment to go over my taxes with me then.

A coma.

If a hussy five years my junior shows up, seduces my boyfriend, and then reveals herself to be my long-lost daughter, I shall endeavor to determine which soap opera I am currently inhabiting.