There's a saying that goes, 'When it rains, it pours…'

And when you live in upstate New York – even in April – sometimes when it rains and it pours, it even turns to snow.

Well, slush, actually. Snow in April only happens if you're really lucky.

But the government basically pays our firm to provide free tax assistance to low-income families and individuals. So – freak snowfall or not – when it's your turn on the group roster, you go.

And you're not allowed to wonder what all these low-income families and individuals are doing at the mall during the day, when – you would think – they could be at a job somewhere. I mean, it's pretty clear that they're not hanging around just to see us, what with all the Gap and Macy's and Victoria's Secret shopping bags they're dragging around with them. Like, come on, I can barely afford to go to the mall, and I'm an average-income sort of guy.

But anyway, that's how I ended up in the food court with my government-issued-and-subsidized laptop, showing people who generally fear and dislike people like me (accountants, that is…) how to try to avoid having to give away any more of their already meagre income to the Big Bad IRS. I'd been here – with the few others from the office roster – for about four hours. Just a few more 'prospective clients – remember, they're all prospective clients' left to do and I could take my lunch break.

"Next?" I asked, glancing over to the long line of largely despondent faces. "Step right up. Don't be shy."

Well, shy she wasn't. And step-right-up she did. She gave me a not-so-subtle once-over, which she finished off with a kind of pitying look.

Great, the Queen of the Teenage Goth Squad is feeling sorry for me? (I presume this can only be Her Emminency, judging from the piercings, the black eye makeup and lipstick…) Ha. Well, at least I could take solace in knowing that the tables would likely be turned by the time we finished. After all, I'd never seen anyone walk away from a financial review unscathed, much less with a smile on their face. …Though, to be honest, I'm not sure if goths can even smile to begin with.

She finally plunked down quite dejectedly into the seat beside me, accepting her fate.

She stared at the ground intensely, then cleared her throat. "…What's the procedure, sir?"

I glanced in my periphery, looking for the juvenile detention judge that she was speaking to.

…And then I realized that "Sir" was me.

"Uh, do you have your W-2s?" I asked. "…Also, this isn't an interrogation. You're allowed to breathe."

The fluorescent lighting glinted off her eyebrow piercing as she cocked a wary glance at me.

"Don't laugh." She said, reluctantly shoving a small and slightly-crumpled-around-the-edges stack of forms at me from her black messenger bag.

"Why would I?" I began thumbing through the papers, to see what we had to work with.

She blew at the stray strand of her jet-black hair that was in her eyes. "'Cause I'm poor."

"Why would I find that funny?" I started separating her documents into a couple semi-orderly piles. "Maybe if I was some kind of cheesy, B-movie oil-tycoon-slash-evil-villain…"

She brought her hand to her mouth and cleared her throat to cover a smirk. "You kinda look like one."

I glanced down at my attire. "…I have to wear a suit for work."

"Well, maybe you shoulda got one that fits you better." She suggested, trying to be helpful. "One that's not so…"

"Second-hand?" I finished for her. "Hey, I'm not rich either."

She shrugged. "You are, compared to me."

"Well, I've worked at it longer, Miss, uh…" Luckily I noticed the eviscerating warning look she was giving me before I found and could unthinkingly utter the name printed on her forms: Jubilation Lee. Almost as strip-club-worthy as "Kitty Pryde", except that "Jubilation" wasn't a nickname. It was on her social security card, for Pete's sake.

I swallowed. "Uh, Miss Lee."

Phew. With the murderous glint in her eyes slowly subsiding, I started inputting the standard Name, Sex, Date of Birth, and other demographic details, noting that she wasn't actually too much younger than me. Queen of the Twenty-Something Goth Squad, then.

As I clicked into the background of the computer program to move on to entering her Income and Deduction lines, she cleared her throat again. "Aren't you gonna tell me what you're doing?"

"Uh…" I looked up, surprised. "We generally don't… Unless a client asks."

"That's a smart way of keeping in business." She gave me a look, like that was the kind of game she knew all too well. "But tough luck. 'Cause I'm asking."

"You really want to know?" Color me impressed.

She pulled a face that clearly said I couldn't be more wrong. "What I really wanna do is never wait in line for an hour again, for something as lame-o as getting my taxes done."

Ah. Fair enough.

"And," she continued, "If I don't learn how to do it myself, I'm gonna have to keep coming back to see you every frickin' year, won't I?"

"Well, yeah…" Not that I was personally seeing much of a downside in that. "But this is free, you know."

"All the more reason to show me what you're doing." She moved her seat around beside mine, to better see the laptop screen. "Then you'll have one less person mooching on your time next year."

I glanced around at my colleagues, all absorbed in their own clients. None of them looked even the slightest bit interested in knowing how to do what we were doing.

Well. There wasn't any harm in doing it. And if it meant she'd be sitting this close to me the whole time… Well, hey, why not?

"So, since your income is all from W-2s, it's pretty easy…" I clicked back out to the tax filing program's main screen. "Which is why we're filling out the 'E-Z' return…" I glanced at her. "That's, uh, supposed to be the IRS's attempt at being funny, I think."

"I hope nobody quit their day job over that…" She rolled her eyes, but a hint of a smile was threatening the corners of her lips. "So… OK, what do I do with my W-2s?"

I progressed through the screens slowly, typing as I talked her through it. "On all your forms – for income and deductions – they have numbered boxes, and you just type in the amounts… Here, here, and here… And it'll add them up for you, and show the totals back on the first page. Here, click that." I let go of the external mouse and gestured for her to take it.

Her hand hesitated for a moment, hovering above mine, before she grabbed the mouse and clicked it. She watched as the computer saved and exited to the main screen again, where it now displayed the totals. "So, it basically does everything for you…"

"Just about, yeah." I nodded.

"And you get paid to do this?" Skepticism mixed with jealousy on her face.

"Hey, I do other stuff, too, you know. I have other, uh… skills…" In lieu of elaborating, I handed back her stack of documents.

"Uh-huh, I bet you do." She nudged me lightly in the side with her elbow.

"So, uh, now," I cleared my throat to get myself back on track, "If that's all your income and deductions, the next thing is if you have any assets to declare…"

She tried to surreptiously glance down at her physical assets to evaluate their worth.

"Uh, 'financial assets'…" I quickly clarified, "Are things like currencies, real estate, vehicles, equipment, patents, copyrights, trademarks, stocks, bonds, pension funds…"

"Oh." She sounded disappointed. "Nah, I don't have anything like that."

"Hey, no problem, most of us don't. It's just something I'm required to ask. Alright, well…" I clicked through a few more boxes, verifying that the information was correct and that there was nothing else to declare. A dialogue boxed popped up that the process was complete. "See? Easy."

"Yeah. Poor." She huffed at the portable printer that was spitting her completed return out onto the café table beside us.

"Okay, well, how poor does a hundred-thirty-six dollars sound to you?"

"What? Whaddya mean?" She turned back toward me, her eyebrows knit together in confusion.

I pointed at the message that had popped up onscreen. "Your tax refund."

She sat down again, perching on the edge of her chair as she stared at the screen for a few moments, reading.

"Why would I get a refund?" She asked, sounding a little bit offended.

"Well…" I shrugged. "Your employers' could have withheld too much of your pay over the duration of your employment…"

"The hell…" She sat up straighter and glanced around the food court suspiciously. "Why would they do that?"

"Uh, some employers overestimate how much you will cost them… And others don't trust you to spend it wisely."

She pulled a face. "Oh, like I'm gonna spend $136 wisely, now that they're gonna give me it in a lump sum."

I couldn't help but laugh, "So, what are you going to spend it on?"

She opened her mouth to say something, but I shook my head suddenly to stop her.

Remember, Bobby, you're not actually hanging out at the mall with a pretty girl. You're working with "a client", who just so happens to be a pretty girl, and we just so happen to be at the mall.

"Sorry, scratch that, I'm not allowed to ask that…" I explained lamely. "On the clock, the only thing I can do is advise you of the various 'financially feasible and responsible' ways you could spend your return."

She blinked very slowly at me. "Wow. That sounds super boring."

I cleared my throat theatrically, "Well, Miss Lee, 'there's nothing boring about financial stability and freedom.'"

She stared at me, obviously speechless, and utterly unconvinced.

I coughed. "Look, I know how lame that sounds, but… it is a good thing."

"Lordy-gourdy, you sound just like my dad…"

Way to go, Bobby. Somehow you've just parent-zoned yourself. And I didn't even know that was possible. Just another reminder that, even when you're still a couple years away from turning 30, that still makes you way old to college-age co-eds.

"So, you wanna grab a burger when you're done with your afternoon shift?" She asked while she stuffed her tax return and refund instructions into her bag.

"Uh," Huh? I glanced around again, to check if the someone she was propositioning was standing behind me somewhere.

She bristled for a split second. "If you don't wanna, just say so."

"No, it's - I mean - I do." I nodded in earnest. "I do. Uh, I'm done at 4 o'clock… So, we can meet up then, huh?"

"…Yeah, OK. See you then." She smiled.

And that smile. It was like someone flipped a switch. The Goth Queen disappeared. Time froze. Cherubs laughed. Unicorns sighed. Somewhere in the distance, fireworks went off. You get the picture.

I came back to my senses just in time to manage a quick wave as Jubilation Lee scurried away, vanishing into the crowd.

The line of impending taxpayers fidgeted in anticipation at the now-vacant seat beside me. Somewhere nearby, a squat-but-burly man with bad sideburns cleared his throat noisily.

"Next?" I sighed. Back to reality.