There’s a fella in employ of Liberty Taxes who, to milk this lucrative season dry, stands outside on a busy intersection while wearing a grimy Uncle Sam get-up and waves with his plump unused arm resting on his gut. His ethic is that of postal carriers, come rain or shine, he’ll deliver your friendly, if not that, then non-committal, wave. He’s been there for weeks. Today finds him with his head bent over his bristled mustache and his pudgy fingers spasming ever so once in a while. Disconcerted by this change in demeanor, it took me a double-take to discover what was amiss. The crossword puzzle is a devious distraction, probably the complaint of middle management countrywide.