I dropped in on my friend Complaigne the other day to see how he was reacting to his BC Assessment notice.
Complaigne (rhymes with champagne) has a house in Northwest Elysia – a secluded, little-known enclave so exclusive that even its privileged residents whisper its name. The assessor must rent a black Bentley and wear jacket and tie so as not to stand out when he discreetly enters the area in pursuit of his duties.
As I mounted Complaigne’s steps I could see through the window that he was raging and stamping around the entry hall. He answered the door himself – in better times he had staff but none would stay more than three days. He threw open the door, brandishing papers and sputtering.
“Ah, I deduce you’ve received your assessment,” I said pleasantly. “Not good news?”
“See for yourself,” Complaigne growled.
As he poured drinks I did so.
“Why, this is fabulous,” I said. “Vancouver assessments are up as much as 30%. Higher taxes ahead, surely. Yours is up barely 3%. A tenth as much, according to my grade-school arithmetic. Rejoice.”
“Rejoice?” Complaigne shrieked. “It’s humiliating. Why hasn’t mine gone up 30%? Wait till the neighbours see this on the rolls.”
“But you’ll never sell this, this charming heritage house on a private, park-like view property,” I said, attempting realtor-speak. In truth the house is a bit tatty, and Complaigne’s habit of lavishing bird seed thrown on the ground attracts the odd rat who shows up for lunch too. Maybe just as the assessor rolled by?
“You’re lucky,” I continued. “You don’t intend to move. A slower-rising assessment is all to the good. It’s obvious, it’s simple reason.”
Complaigne looked at me with a shrewd eye.
“Stuff your reason. How can you have lived so long and not know the human being better?”
“I don’t think I do so badly,” I said, defensively.
“Ha. Then learn this. People aren’t rational. They want to moan about how badly things are going for them as much as they want to boast about how well things are going for them. Maybe more.
“Take the British. The English and the Scots exult in their defeats. Their best poetry is about when they got licked. They can’t do victory. Can you name one poem celebrating smashing Hitler? Nope. But take ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’: ‘All in the valley of Death rode the six hundred. … When will their glory fade?’ ”
“Possibly when schools stop teaching heroic poetry, which I suspect they have,” I ventured.
“Don’t interrupt,” said Complaigne, now in full flight. “Same with businessmen. They get all sentimental remembering the failures of their youth. They reminisce about the stock they bought that went so far south it didn’t come back from Arizona after the winter. When did reason ever drive the stock market, or make love?
“You’d think to read the business pages that business people are hard-eyed adding machines,” he chuckled. “Nonsense. They’re romantics – maybe the last romantics. That, my boy, is the real human nature. Don’t anyone dare try to turn us into dull rational beings.”
“Well, the conversation’s wandered a long way from Vancouver’s assessments, as they tend to do in real life, but anything that brightens you up,” I said.
Complaigne abruptly remembered I was in the room. “And your assessment?” he asked.
I tried to smile enigmatically. “Well, some poor devil must be making up my share of that 30% rise, too,” I said. •
