w h y t w o p l y ?

                              E   e   E   e   Y   y   Y   y   E   e   E   e   E   e

The Bookkeeper

Drew met the bookkeeper in the hallway and pulled him aside.

The bookkeeper, a simple, pimply, contract player, who, up to this gig, was lucky to do tax prep papers for seniors, now finds himself in over his head, and realizing that fact, had hoped to avoid Drew altogether. But there was no ‘exit’ without passing Drew’s door, and he pounced : 

Wait up!

"I'm on a short lunch break...” the bookkeeper said.

I'll buy. Give me a minute. How do we look?

You can't afford it…the Lunch…

Tell me.

You won't meet your projections, not even close…but I'm still crunching...and I really don't have the time. You want it by Friday? I've got to ‘move myself in’ and plow through this, out of  sheer necessity.

Anything you need. Name it.

An office for a couple of all-nighters, maybe a sofa for short naps, close to a john, and some room to spread out.

Take mine. Small conference table, Private john. Sofa, pillows, blanket. Use it often myself, for…’all-nighters’. I'll be useless here for the next couple of days…just be pacing, and annoying, anyway. I think I might take a hike tomorrow…pitch a tent…sleep under the stars. Perspective – that’s what I need. Take the office…give you some room to work.

I think that's a great idea...you getting out of the office, if you don't mind me saying…

Not at all. What's that?

Read out.

Will it mean anything to me?

Not yet. I'm looking at the regionals. North Central, won't make much of an impact to the bottom line, but I thought I'd better review it over a burger...save some time.

Fine. But, not downstairs…don’t eat there.

I was...I thought it easier…quicker.

It's handy and it's crappy. For the next few days order in, or take a short break, and walk over to Ray's.

I don't have a Ray's budget. I'm a brown bag guy...

Take this. I need those numbers to work. I need you focused and on top of your game, not running to the toilet with ptomaine.

This card is almost max’ed out, as I recall…the numbers, are the numbers...I’m just a bookkeeper, not a miracle worker. You may need a good accountant….a very good accountant, maybe a legal team, to deal with this…

Oh, that’s Bullshit. Make your own miracle. Put lipstick on the pig...give it a facelift...I don't care how. I’m not about to pay some high-priced ass…

Sir, I can only feed in the data....I can’t …

Data can be interpreted. Assumptions can be drawn. Forecasts can be predicted...decimal points have been know to shift...accidentally. Hell, ‘Government’ does it all the time!

Certainly not substantiated…

Finesse it! Who looks beyond the bottom line? 

Oh, there are legions and legions of those, too.

If we pull this off, there’s a CFO position waiting! C – F – O.  Get that? Now, go. Eat. Do your sheet. I'll have you set-up in my office in an hour and out of your hair, headed for the woods and fresh pine air.

Well...ok, it does sound more workable, if you don't mind.

Not at all.  I’ll  be using tomorrow to clear my head for Friday, and then we figure out where we go from there.

I don’t possess a lot of optimism.

Well, get some, son. I’ve been in tighter pickles. Show me some fight - Courage! “Guts under pressure!”

It’s ‘grace under pressure…”

Fuck ‘Grace’. Has anyone won a war gracefully? Hell no. I’ll shove this mess right up their asses and they’ll kiss my pinky ring for a share. Now, Go! Mangia!

Knowing the task before him was not just formidable, but impossible, and knowing it would drain every ounce of his wisdom and stamina, both of which were in limited supply, he ordered the $18 burger, rare, with bleu cheese for $2 dollars more, a $9 bowl of chili bean soup, sweet potato fries @ $7.25, and hankered for a fine draft beer (for $11), but let that slide for an iced-coffee

(@ $6 ), instead. A beer would be great, but one can’t be nodding off, when the long night ahead calls your name…your name…on the door. As impossible as the task might seem, with a mere AA degree, nowhere near a CPA, he  had just received the shot at a dream – CFO. He wouldn’t be the first to go down that road, as crooked as it might be, many have done so, and so many had deceived and achieved beyond their wildest dreams. Why not he? He ordered a shot of bourbon. Fuckin’ good bourbon, Neat…for the balls he would need to pull off this feat.

He did the math in his head, and left a generous tip. The card just clicked into “maxed-out”. He had advised his client accordingly. He felt no remorse nor pain in putting it down.

She saw the dim light of his office glow, from the street below, and felt a twinge of guilt. Oh sure, he deserved her doubts, whoring about all these years, but tonight he was burning the midnight oil trying desperately to keep the sinking company afloat, and  just maybe, restoring her faith in him, in the process. She felt the pang, and decided to personally pay her retribution, while on her knees, and perhaps boost his morale in the process. She parked in his vacant spot…vacant?…strange, but then, in off-hours, especially in inclement weather, he would, on occasion, park in a ‘Client’ spot, on the opposite side of the building, next to the front doors, and the only entrance available at this late hour – it made sense. The rest of the lot was empty, except for a couple of abandoned compacts, one badly dented, now dripping with dew. Her footfalls echoed off the building walls. She coded herself in at the security station (the code was her birth-date), she heard the door whisper shut and lock-down behind her, then rode the elevator up. Ping. The doors slid open quietly, efficiently, and she stepped onto the dimly lit floor. No one else was working, which made her respect him even more. She was obliged to give him credit; the Captain was going to stay with the ship, the last man aboard.

She took a moment to listen outside his door. What was she thinking? Would she catch him in some lewd act, as she’d done before, or pouring feverishly over overdue reports, like the young driver she married? Yet, it was quiet, so very quiet. She opened slowly, and found the room lit by the desk lamp turned low. Papers and spreadsheets were strewn about the room. There on the sofa bundled under the blanket and pillow that she bought for him years ago, (the one under which they had been so close, on so many occasions, here late at night…). He lay still, snoring softly... for him, anyway. She dimmed the lamp further, down to barely on, and the mood now shifted to romantic, as she stripped down to her delicates without a stir or a sound from the sofa mound. Kneeling beside him, she then reached under the blanket and found her goal. She slowly zipped him down and slid fingers inside, touching him gently, and to her surprise, while still sleeping, he quickly responded…and then responded some more…more than he’d ever responded before.

“Huh…” he muttered and started to stir.

“Shhh. Quiet now. Lie still and let baby do the work…”

The woman’s voice was throaty…grainy, but soft and fine, as if it were poured. The kind of voice that sounded smokey and sultry in one’s ear, spoken low, whispered in the dark… but could be harsh and grating over a PA system, or in the throws of verbal confrontation. 
But this? This, in fact, had become a rather pleasant 'oral confrontation', like he’d never experienced, yet readily welcomed. “ohhhhhhh….ohhhhhhhhhhh….’kay.”

I’ll take it from here, dear, you just keep it ‘at attention’. It’s been so long, I forgot how ‘alert’ you could be…and I must say you’ve exceeded my expectations, estimations, and memory…now…allow me...mmmmm….

I…aye…….

When it was done, they sprawled, fully spent, half on the sofa and half on the floor, breathless in the darkness, while all else was still. As their heart-rates became normal, and they heaved their satisfied sighs, she whispered, “You’re not him.”

No, M’am. Sorry.

Don’t be sorry. I’ve never been so satisfied.

I’m glad I…

Who are you?

Bookkeeper…

Aahhh…I see. And where is he?

He said he was going camping…

Hahahahaha….are you shitting me?

No, M’am….sleeping under the stars…

He is so full of shit. More likely to be sleeping under starlets…

I couldn’t say.

But I can. You know that blonde?

Blonde?

The ‘office bombshell’? Miss Grey?

Oh. Yes. Sorry.

Stop apologizing. How could you not notice? That’s boy candy. I hope he gets his licks in, because his days are numbered.

Yes, M’am.

Don’t you ‘yes M’am’ me, bookkeeper! I’m not some matron looking for a mercy fuck. It’s ‘Mona’…you can call me ‘Mo’…and don’t you dare apologize again, hear me?

Sorry…Mo.

So how bad is it?

Me?

No, The Company? Is it over?

I would say so, Mo. There’s nothing I can do to…

This is not on you, what’syername?

Oh. It’s Mike.

Well, Mike, I’ll tell you this - after this all goes down, Miss Grey won’t be…

Sorry to break the news.

Don’t be. This isn’t his first failure, by a long-shot, and I covered my ass and protected my assets long ago. Ten years to clear myself from his fuck ups. I own the house, the cars, the cottage, and an off-shore account. His ass is grass, not mine. In fact, I am one of his creditors, but he’ll never know that. Too many fuckups, and too much fucking around… what am I ‘chopped liver’?

No, Ma’m…er…Mo, not at all.

So, Mike, when I do take over the business and throw out the Boss, along with the assorted garbage, how’d you like a new position?

You just taught me two…

You’ve so much more to learn. But I was talking 'professionally', here…in fact, right here, in this very office.

Are you kidding?

Nothing would give me greater pleasure … present company excluded. In fact, Baby craves reciprocation. Want another round?

I have spreadsheets…

We’re on the same track. But leave this shit right here. You’re coming home with me. Fuck me in his office, fuck me in his Bentley, fuck me in his bed. His day is done. Come Friday, he's the one that's fucked and none of  this will matter. Michael, you’re now 'The One'.

Okay.

How does it feel to be on top?

I don’t know. We haven’t tried that yet.