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.
