We were feeling reasonably snug in the section of concrete drainpipe we’d been living in those following months, when one day, in the middle of a pouring rainstorm, a fellow with a change belt and a pocket calculator popped his head inside our section.

"Wait a minute," I said.   You’re the guy from the F.S.L.I.C.  I’ve already paid you!"

The young man smiled indulgently.   "Not F.S.L.I.C. anymore.  G.S.A."

"What?" I demanded.   "If you’re going to deprive me of my property, you have to do it in English.  I know my rights."

"I’m not with the other agency anymore.  I found a better job with G.S.A.  You know, the General Services Administration?  We buy the things the other agencies use.  Buildings, swivel chairs, paper clips—everything it takes to run a government."

"Oh," I replied.

"Now, for a family of three with a per-capita rate of..."

"Hold it," I said. "Just stop right there.  What do swivel chairs and paper clips have to do with me?  Do I get any use out of them?  Where does anybody get off trying to wring money out of me for that kind of stuff?"

"Well," he replied, "other agencies of the government use them."

"So?"  (I fancied that here my rhetoric was beginning to take on a terse cogency.)

"Those other agencies all do things for you.  They inspect your meat, they keep the planes from all crashing into one another around the airport, they may even send you a Social Security check when you get old."

"So?"

"So, aren’t those all useful services?  Isn’t it only reasonable that if you’re going to benefit from them, you should pay your fair share of the cost?"

I considered his logic.  I realized that I had finally had enough of his slippery reasoning. 

"Then what in blazes do I pay taxes for?" I thundered.

The young man adjusted his glasses.

"You must have G.S.A. confused with the I.R.S.," he intoned.

"No I don’t."

"Then why are you asking me a question you should ask the I.R.S.?"

He paused to wipe his glasses again before pursing this line of reasoning.

"Do you know anything about American government?  How a bill becomes a law?  Do you remember anything at all from high school civics?"

I glared at him.

"Well, if you do, why are you hounding me with all these questions?  Why don’t you just write your Congressman, like normal people do?"