Aug 26 2006
A Fate Worse Than…
I was suspicious when my agent called out of the blue and wanted to see me. Since he never wants to see me unless I’ve sold something and I hadn’t sold anything in ages, I knew something was up.
I sauntered into his office and grunted at the girl at the front desk. She offered coffee without sincerity. Jake appeared in time to stop me from forming real words and telling the little chippie just what I thought about her big hair and Barry Manilow shoes.
“Come on back,” Jake said, moving like a pigeon on the scent of stale bread. I followed him through the familiar maze, past junior agent cubicles, catching snatches of conversation always poised on the edge of a “deal.”
I plopped into the leather sofa that defied escape when you decided it was time to go. “So?”
Jake smiled and nodded, “In a minute.” He spoke into his squawk box. “Gloria, is Mr. Grayson here yet?”
“Yes Jake, I’ll send him back.”
My back convulsed as if someone had rammed their knee into
it. “Grayson?”
Jake nodded again. “Just hang on.”
The door opened and a guy so good-looking and well-groomed that he had to be gay, walked in. Not really walked, glided. Jake nearly scaled his desk to thrust out his hand to the man. “So nice of you to come in person, Mr. Grayson. Please, sit down.”
The man took a chair juxtaposed between me and Jake.
I tried to sit up straighter but the damned sofa felt like it was eating me alive. I managed forward and teetered on the edge, wanting to look taller and better poised, but feeling like an old maid hoping for a blind date. I put out my hand. “I’m Jack Emmet.”
Grayson nodded and said, “I know who you are Mr. Emmet. You are the subject of our meeting this afternoon.”
“The subject of our meeting?” I chuckled. “Shouldn’t I be in the next room, if you’re going to talk about me?”
“We’ve all ready discussed you,” Grayson said without humor. “It is now time to confront you.”
I laughed but they didn’t. “Confront me about what?”
Jake had that hangdog look that meant bad news. “Jack, you haven’t been doing much lately…”
“Yeah, I know. It’s called writer’s block.”
“Yeah, I know,” Jake said. “But two years?”
“We’re still getting royalty checks,” I reminded him. “That last book took a lot out of me. It’s not easy creating a whole new universe every time you write a story. And it doesn’t matter whether it’s a novel or a short story or a screenplay, you still have to create a whole world, a whole population for that world…”
“Yes Mr. Emmet we are all familiar with the plight of the modern writer,” Grayson said. “No one is saying it isn’t a difficult and challenging job…”
I wanted to get up but my legs went weak.
“What we are saying,” Grayson went on, “is that not everyone is intended to pursue a career as a writer. It is a demanding profession and generally non-sympathetic to those who cannot withstand the pressure.”
“What are you saying?” I asked.
“Jack, it isn’t personal,” Jake assured me.
“It’s been determined that you should be assigned a new profession.” Grayson consulted a notebook. “As of today, you are an accountant.”
The word planted nausea in my gut. “Accountant,” I wheezed like an asthmatic.
Grayson returned his notebook to his breast pocket, stood up and shook Jake’s hand. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Shammick.”
“Wait a minute,” I whispered. “You can’t do this. You can’t just walk in here and say, hey, you’re an accountant now.”
Grayson shrugged. “If you disagree with the decision, you have the right to appeal to the Board of Employment. Good day.”
He left.
I glared at Jake.
“This wasn’t my idea,” he insisted. “They called me. I had to tell them the truth! They could pull my license!”
I wasn’t listening, because I was too busy spinning. The next thing I knew, I was on the phone, entangled in talking telephone systems, that defied contact with real human beings. “If you have a question about disability press one, if you would like to verify your health insurance coverage press two, if would like to change professions and need assistance with the proper forms press three, if you…”
It took weeks to get the forms, the phone numbers and to actually speak to someone about an appeal. But I had a lot of down time since I wasn’t allowed to write anything. All of my equipment was removed and held in trust pending the hearing and I was inundated with requests to interview at accounting firms which all required written protests explaining I was currently pending appeal and would not attend interview.
I expected more of a formality than standing in a room in front of three people. Nothing distinct about any of them. They were ordinary. Yet they held my future in their hands.
“You may state your case, Mr. Emmet.”
“Ah…what do you want me to say?” I wasn’t prepared to just prattle on.
“State the argument for reversing the decision.”
“I don’t think it’s fair,” I said. “Just because I’ve had some set backs.”
“Fairness is not a criteria for argument,” the leader stated.
“All right,” I said, “but in order for me to argue my case, I need some straight answers. For example, on what criteria was this decision based? Why wasn’t I given any warning?”
“Don’t you read your pay stubs?” the woman panelist asked.
“Yeah, of course. And for all the taxes I pay…”
“No,” she shook her head, “the contract on your stubs. It is a law that it is written on every stub.”
I had no idea what she was talking about.
She opened a file and read from a pay stub. “The party is required to produce 10,000 words per quarter. If the party does not fulfill this obligation they will be subject to reorientation to alternative employment.”
The nausea in my stomach blossomed. “Oh, that. I thought that was…well, nothing.”
“You have not fulfilled your obligations,” the leader said.
“Okay, you got me there. But, why an accountant?”
“Your mother was an accountant.”
“No,” I said. “She was just good with numbers. She wanted to be an accountant, but she couldn’t afford the schooling. Back then, you had to pay for your education.”
The third one spoke for the first time. “What is 100 times 27, minus 1,000, divided by 3 plus 333?”
“899.67,” I said.
They all smiled and nodded. “Yes, the choice was correct,” they said in unison.
“Just because I gave the right answer?” I asked. “Just because I can do a math problem?” I shook my head. “No, that’s not a good enough reason. Writers need to understand numbers. Otherwise, they could never converse with their agents. They wouldn’t understand the contracts, royalties, points. You forget, we’re the smart ones. These other guys, these performers, singers, painters, sculptors, actors…they don’t need to understand numbers. They have entourages, assistants, private trainers…they have people to explain things to them. They rely on their emotions to fulfill their artistic demands. But writers they don’t have any of that stuff. It’s just them and the keyboard. Oh, maybe they have an agent who calls every now and then, more often if somebody wants to buy. And maybe even an editor or something who talks to them, but chiefly, these people exist to exasperate the writer, not to help them. So, we have to be smarter. We have to be able to add and subtract and multiply and divide, otherwise, we wouldn’t know if we were getting screwed. We’re the only ones who can protect our interests. But it doesn’t mean we have a calling as accountants.”
They huddled for a minute. “We fail to see the difference.”
I strode up to the podium so I could look each of them in the eye. “The difference is this; accountants tend to the needs of others. They protect the interests of their clients. That is their purpose, to protect others from being cheated. The only interest a writer protects is his own. We don’t give squat for somebody else’s interests. Which is why I would make a rotten accountant. I wouldn’t care how the numbers affected them, I’d only care how they affected me.”
They huddled again. “We concur, accounting is not an appropriate alternative profession for you, Mr. Emmet.”
I was so happy I wanted to take them all out for a drink. “Then the decision is rescinded? I can get my computer back?”
“No,” the leader said, “you won’t need the computer.”
“Well, how am I going to write without a computer?” I asked.
The leader stood. “It has been determined by this board that Jack Emmet, former professional writer, be reoriented to the profession of politician.”
copyright 2006
No responses yet
I love this one. Absolutely love. I’m a writer/politician. (Luckily not an accountant. I don’t actually enjoy using numbers, no matter how good I am at it.) Humor was right. I’m still chuckling, a good five minutes later.
Classic! You came back! This one was fun to write - and I know what you mean about being an accountant. Yikes! It really would be like prison for a writer, eh?
A politician and a writer? I’m intrigued. Tell me more.
sf
LOL! Not being a writer, I wouldn’t know for sure but, I’d bet you’ve nailed the deepest darkest fear of every writer. It was fun to read!
I don’t know about other writers, but it is certainly MY biggest fear. LOL - I think I wrote this when I was doing a lot of freelance bookeeping jobs.
sarah