Dreams are free (until further notice)
I trudged through the night shadows, a weather-beaten figure in a trilby hat and a crumpled Macintosh, my footfalls echoing into the embracing darkness. If Jung were watching me from his apartment, I hoped, the perspective would be curious, foreshortening me and communicating sadness.
Ever since I’d become an Internal Revenue dream auditor, cases such as his had troubled me. It had only been a few years since the federal government had begun enforcing its dream tax policy, and yet already I had a number of cases like Jung’s on my files: taxpayers who were not, so far as we could tell, exercising any form of tax avoidance and yet who were engaging in dreams of absentminded transgression (cigarette smoking and drug-taking dreams in particular belonged to this upper tax bracket), or who were experiencing dreams that were subject to tax when they had failed to maintain previously agreed payment plans.
Jung was a middle-aged taxpayer of 45. He had given his profession as “artist”, but his records indicated that he had sold no paintings for several years. And yet even with no income stream he had the affront to experience taxable dreams.
While dreams of animal transformation and scrambled memories of childhood had been declared tax-exempt following the intervention of human rights campaigners, lucid dreams, sexual fantasies, delusions of grandeur and religious ecstasy were all above the threshold, and were detected by our compulsory cortex implants.
It aggrieved me to be visiting Jung. His demeanour was one of perpetual sarcasm, as though he didn’t care about not paying his dues to society. And yet infuriatingly, Jung always found sufficient funds to cover these obligations.
“Officer Hobson!” exclaimed Jung upon seeing me. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He beckoned for me to enter, so I removed my hat and stepped inside. “I am here, Mister Jung, to deliver a communication from the Internal Revenue Neurological Department.”
“What does the communication say?” Jung asked, glancing at the brown envelope in my hand.
“In accordance with the Privacy Act I am not required to be acquainted with the document’s contents, only to deliver it to you in person.”
“Then open the envelope and read it to me.” I opened my mouth to protest, but Jung held up his hands. “You’re an agent of the Department, after all,” he said smugly.
I was so irritated by his smile that I looked at him for a long time without saying anything.
“Open it, Hobson.”
I tore open the brown envelope. Inside was the printed IR7 form with Jung’s address at the top. The humiliation was unbearable, but I read from the form as bidden. “Dear Mister Jung, of the dreams listed in the Internal Revenue Exemption Charter, certain are eligible for a rebate from this Department. These include but are not limited to positive dreams about your spouse; pets either living or dead; and dreams of natural harmony…”
I had to pause for a moment to prevent tears of rage from welling up in my eyes.
“Go on, don’t stop now,” said Jung. He was beaming all over his face.
“You are hereby granted a rebate of three thousand five hundred dollars and ninety-one cents. This rebate, which will be credited to your nominated bank account, has been granted for a series of six dreams during the current tax year about civil service employees and which have been classified as ‘good natured’ by the Internal Revenue Department’s cortex implants.”
“God bless you, Hobson,” whispered Jung as the IR7 form fluttered to the floor.
Ever since I’d become an Internal Revenue dream auditor, cases such as his had troubled me. It had only been a few years since the federal government had begun enforcing its dream tax policy, and yet already I had a number of cases like Jung’s on my files: taxpayers who were not, so far as we could tell, exercising any form of tax avoidance and yet who were engaging in dreams of absentminded transgression (cigarette smoking and drug-taking dreams in particular belonged to this upper tax bracket), or who were experiencing dreams that were subject to tax when they had failed to maintain previously agreed payment plans.
Jung was a middle-aged taxpayer of 45. He had given his profession as “artist”, but his records indicated that he had sold no paintings for several years. And yet even with no income stream he had the affront to experience taxable dreams.
While dreams of animal transformation and scrambled memories of childhood had been declared tax-exempt following the intervention of human rights campaigners, lucid dreams, sexual fantasies, delusions of grandeur and religious ecstasy were all above the threshold, and were detected by our compulsory cortex implants.
It aggrieved me to be visiting Jung. His demeanour was one of perpetual sarcasm, as though he didn’t care about not paying his dues to society. And yet infuriatingly, Jung always found sufficient funds to cover these obligations.
“Officer Hobson!” exclaimed Jung upon seeing me. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He beckoned for me to enter, so I removed my hat and stepped inside. “I am here, Mister Jung, to deliver a communication from the Internal Revenue Neurological Department.”
“What does the communication say?” Jung asked, glancing at the brown envelope in my hand.
“In accordance with the Privacy Act I am not required to be acquainted with the document’s contents, only to deliver it to you in person.”
“Then open the envelope and read it to me.” I opened my mouth to protest, but Jung held up his hands. “You’re an agent of the Department, after all,” he said smugly.
I was so irritated by his smile that I looked at him for a long time without saying anything.
“Open it, Hobson.”
I tore open the brown envelope. Inside was the printed IR7 form with Jung’s address at the top. The humiliation was unbearable, but I read from the form as bidden. “Dear Mister Jung, of the dreams listed in the Internal Revenue Exemption Charter, certain are eligible for a rebate from this Department. These include but are not limited to positive dreams about your spouse; pets either living or dead; and dreams of natural harmony…”
I had to pause for a moment to prevent tears of rage from welling up in my eyes.
“Go on, don’t stop now,” said Jung. He was beaming all over his face.
“You are hereby granted a rebate of three thousand five hundred dollars and ninety-one cents. This rebate, which will be credited to your nominated bank account, has been granted for a series of six dreams during the current tax year about civil service employees and which have been classified as ‘good natured’ by the Internal Revenue Department’s cortex implants.”
“God bless you, Hobson,” whispered Jung as the IR7 form fluttered to the floor.
—oOo—
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