Leo pulled out his own records: a spiral notebook filled with gas receipts, mileage logs, the cost of a new circular saw when his old one died. He did the math on the back of the envelope.
His phone buzzed. A text from a number he didn't recognize: "Hey Leo, it's Dan from Shoreline Renos. Rick gave me your info. Need help with a built-in bookcase in Sea Isle. All cash, $800. You free next Tuesday?" 1099 misc form
But a 1099 doesn't withhold. No Social Security, no Medicare, no federal income tax had been taken. He owed another $9,000. Minimum. Leo pulled out his own records: a spiral
Leo stared at the form. Then at the text. A text from a number he didn't recognize:
He typed back: "Yes. But my rate is now $1,200. And I need a deposit."
Partner. That meant no health insurance when Leo’s daughter needed tubes in her ears. No overtime when a job ran past midnight. No unemployment when Rick ghosted him in November because business had "slowed down."
He picked up the 1099, felt its cheap, fibrous weight. This was the ghost that followed every handshake deal, every "we'll 1099 you at the end of the year." The promise of independence had a price, and it was due April 15th.