Worry Most About Gullible Individuals

The recent notoriety of America’s conspiracy-obsessed, militia-forming, tax-protesting fringe comes as no surprise to me.

I know those people. I watched them ruin a man’s life about 12 years ago.

I was living on the west side of the state at the time. My involvement began, oddly enough, with a few pleasantries at a gas station. A man who I’ll call Bob was the proprietor of my favorite gas station. He was a simple, optimistic soul, with a face that reminded me of Jack Gilford, the comedy character actor. Bob always had a few cheerful words for me when I stopped in. We became acquainted, and I once wrote a Christmas column thanking Bob, and others like him, for brightening the days of everyone he came into contact with.

A year or so later, I noticed that Bob wasn’t quite so cheerful. When I asked him why, he told me that he was having problems with the Internal Revenue Service. He said the government claimed he owed $16,000 in back taxes. He was worried about losing his gas station.

I offered to do what I could to help. A few weeks later, he called and asked me to come over to the station to talk about it. He said, cryptically, that he was working with some people who could solve his tax problems.

So I went over one rainy night, and Bob introduced me to a new friend of his, an intense man from Bellevue dressed in a suit. He said he worked for Boeing, but his passion was the U.S. Constitution.

Then this man launched into a 90-minute monologue. He said that American paper money is worthless, because it is not backed by silver. He said that the Trilateral Commission is an international troika bent on taking over the United States and the world. He said that the Zionists are in control of the Federal Reserve and are part of a vast worldwide Jewish conspiracy.

These were typical John Birchstyle rantings. Finally, in frustration, I asked what this had to do with Bob’s tax problems. He said it meant the government has no constitutional authority to levy an income tax on its citizens. He said it meant that Bob doesn’t owe the government one dime.

Bob sat in the corner, nodding his head, desperately grateful to hear somebody offer such a simple solution to his predicament.

As it turned out, Bob had already acted on the advice of this man and others on the anti-tax fringe. He had fired his lawyer and sent letters to IRS officials, senators, Congress members and even the Secretary of the Treasury, informing them that he didn’t have to pay his taxes since American currency is worthless and the income tax is unconstitutional.

This strategy was hardly calculated to succeed. But with his new-found pals whispering in his hear, he refused to compromise, even though he claimed he could easily come up with the $16,000. Finally, after months and years of warnings, the IRS went after his most valuable asset: The big, well-kept suburban home that Bob and his wife owned.

At this point, I remember begging Bob to drop it. His wife, too, I heard, was begging him to drop it. She loved her home. Common sense dictated a compromise, some kind of payment plan. But Bob, never a rocket scientist, was too busy listening to his new friends. They told him he was standing tall against government tyranny.

I’ll never forget the scene at Bob’s house on the day that the IRS had set for seizing the home. He and about 40 of his supporters were gathered tensely in the living room, waiting for armed federal agents to come through the door. The room was heavy with the atmosphere of siege and danger.

Meanwhile, I remember the sound of sobbing coming from the other room. It was Bob’s wife.

Nothing happened that day. The IRS people were smart enough to merely wait a few days, when all of Bob’s belligerent friends were gone. Then they quietly posted the seizure notice. Bob’s house was sold out from under him about two months later, for less than half of its value.

Before long, Bob also lost his gas station franchise. I don’t know what became of him after that - he had quit speaking to me. The last I heard, he and his wife had moved to another town. Maybe he came to his senses and worked out the rest of his legal and tax problems. Maybe he became even more deeply involved in the anti-tax movement and remained proud of taking a stand.

To me, however, the whole thing was like a Greek tragedy, in which a man self-destructs from pride and stubbornness.

However, I never thought this was Bob’s fault. I will always believe that the blame falls on those “friends” who whispered their paranoia and nonsense into Bob’s ears. They took advantage of his simple soul and gullible nature to play out their own obsessions. It cost him his home and his business.

So when I think about America’s conspiracy-obsessed fringe, I don’t worry so much about bombs.

I worry about whispers in ears of the gullible, which can ruin lives almost as effectively.