Losing the love of my life taught me that inactions have consequences. My new bookkeeping job teaches me that numbers don't lie, but people do.
Sharing yoga with others is my refuge from the darkness pulling me to stay home. A ginormous pro footbal...
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I couldn't have been hotter under my collar. On the day nine-to-five workers cherished, I sat as miserable as a neutered dog wearing a cone of shame.
Why? My ass, specifically the bookkeeper's cheek, was fired.
The admission, and the smallest box of 'take your shit home' in working human existence, burned my face with heat. I left Midfield Accounting with a minuscule severance check, two Kind bars, my notebook, and a white Midfield coffee cup. I sidewalk-smashed the cup outside the entrance. Petty? Yes. Deserved? I thought so.
I lasted five fucking days. No, four and a half. What the fuck was I supposed to tell Michael?
Discovering all five charities in Sam's foundation withheld almost all of the total proceeds to recipients further provoked my disgust. Yet, being a glutton for punishment, I applied my highest due diligence, drilling into the expenses with a focused effort that tongue-flicking ass didn't deserve.
Initially, I thought a decimal was misplaced, but balanced numbers didn't lie. Click for click, five sets of bloated expenses and paltry recipient payouts unfolded into a directionless map. One percent. Four percent. Half a percent! Three percent. Two percent. Disgusting.
My efforts earned me tired, dry eyes from staring at a damn screen for two days straight. And fired. Fucking Sam Pearson.
After two days of wading up to my armpits in exorbitant manager salaries, advertising costs, and incidentals, I shared my concerns with Amir. He jumped into an NFL analysts' assessment of how likely Sam would start next season while I guessed how much French Roast was required to drown him. Amir only took me seriously when I threatened to stand on my chair and announce the awful numbers and an underestimate of Sam's dick size, on a bullhorn. Kinda seriously.
"Close it out." Amir shrugged, tossing up a foam football. "It started with Sam's money. If he doesn't care, then why should you?"
In hindsight, any discussion on moral, human decency needed was a red flag. So entrenched in the weeds, I missed the trees in the forest.
"Donors are being deceived." I waved the audacities in my notebook. "Maybe he doesn't know."
"If that's your way of admitting your crush on him," his singsong voice teased. He whipped up a wobbly spiral. "Go for it."
Second red flag.
"I don't...no." I snatched the ball. Air and squish poofed between my fingers. "I'm going to tell Benning."
Amir's head shake bounced his black waves. "Lost cause."
More flags than a golf course.
"And I ran into Benning's office like my notebook was Willy Wonka's last golden ticket, or worse, a fan seeking his autograph," I muttered, squeezing my steering wheel. "Fucking waste of a human existence."
