The Accountant

Saturday afternoon: time to do some errands. I call up my friend Mike, and he says he'll join me. I put my dress shirt on, dress pants, my polished black shoes, and I'm out the door to go pick that scoundrel up.

When I get to his house, I see a fatter, older version of Mike: it must be his brother, the one I've never met. I'll introduce myself.

“Hi, I'm Luke. Are you Mike's brother?”

“Yeah."

I shake his hand.

“Yeah, I'm just here to pick up Mike.”

“Where are you guys going?”

“To Walmart. I have a few things I have to buy for the family.”

“Oh...that's...that sounds interesting.”

“Haven't seen Mike lately; what's he up to today?”

“Nothing. He's a bum. He's barely working these days. My parents should kick him out.”

“I thought he was working at that warehouse in Ajax? That's too damn bad...Maybe I can help him find a job.”

“What do you do?”

“I'm a certified accountant.”

“Really? Good for you.”

“Yeah, I went to university at UOIT. Unfortunately, I'm not working now, but I'm putting resumes out.”

“Oh. Well, hopefully you get something soon.”

“I'm sure I will.”

I see Mike come out his front door: the short, long-haired, stocky man.

“Hey, what's going on, ya freak?” he says to me.

He's always coming up with the strangest expressions.

“Nothing much, you ready to go?”

“Yeah...why the fuck are you wearing a suit and tie?”

“Why not?”

“Were you coming from somewhere?”

“Just home.”

“And you wanted to wear a suit to go to Walmart?”

We get in my car and leave, waving goodbye to his brother.

“Man, that guy can be a real ass clown.”

“Who?” I inquire.

“My brothers. He's fucked in the head or something.”

“He seemed perfectly normal to me.”

“What were you talking to him about?”

“Nothing. He said you weren't working and I said I could help you find a job.”

“You help me find a job!? The last job I got you, you got drunk the second day and drew a dick on the wall of the change room.”

“Well, that was a mistake, but I've been applying to accounting jobs.”

“Accounting jobs? Do you really think you can get a job in accounting?”

“I went to university for it.”

“You didn't go to university; you dropped out of community college.”

“It was on the same campus as the university. It's basically the same.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that that doesn't count as university?”

Mike can be very irritable sometimes. He has a problem finding the good in life. He's always complaining, drinking, and getting into fights with people. Sometimes I wonder why I'm even friends with him. He can be a real negative person.

“Your brother was concerned that you're not working.”

“I took two fucking days off last week. Big deal. I told you, he's an idiot. I still have a job. My parents helped him buy a house, and he still hangs around here bothering everyone… He's just like someone else I know?”

“Who?”

Mike rolls his eyes.

“No one.”

I wonder who he's talking about, but I'll change the subject. Mike has to start taking responsibility for himself: it's time for him to grow up.

“Why don't you move out?”

“I can't afford that. What I make is essentially a joke.”

“I think it's time to move out, though… You don't think so?”

“I did move out. I was on my own for 5 years. I'm just back here for a bit to save up some money...and by the way, who are you to say anything? You've lived at your parents' your entire life.”

“No, when I was 21, I was homeless. I had nothing, and I've worked very hard to build what I have today.”

“You weren't homeless. You got in a fight with your parents and stayed in your car for a couple of days. You're not like my old buddy Rob, the one who's addicted to fentanyl. That's true homelessness.”

“What about your buddy Will? Isn't he homeless now too?”

“He is. He's a real fucking idiot, too. God, why do I know so many idiots?”

We pull up to a red light, Mike leaning his arm up against the window. There's something about the way he acts that just makes me....jealous? It's like he doesn't care about anything. The way he dresses, the heavy metal shirts: he isn't afraid to tell anyone off. Of course, if he tried to tell me off, I could easily beat him up.

“Do you mind if I crack a beer?” he asks.

“Go ahead, it doesn't bother me.”

He pulls a beer out from his sweater pocket and cracks it. It's a shame that Mike is such an alcoholic; he really needs to get that under control. I used to have a problem myself, but that's all in the past. Now I just have a few drinks here or there and know when to call it a night.

“So how've you been? Going on any benders lately?” he asks.

“No, I've been keeping things under control.”

“So no more visits to the hospital?”

“I haven't been to the hospital in over a month, Mike.”

He laughs.

“I just remember you telling me they knew who you were there the one time you went. They told the nurse just to put you in the back and let you dry out.”

He continues laughing and takes a sip of beer.

“Well, it's true. That did happen. Last time I went, when I showed up, they knew who I was. But that's not going to happen again. Everything is under control.”

Mike continues to laugh. I can't tell if he's being condescending or not.

“The one thing I don't understand is, why do you call an ambulance for yourself? I thought your parents would call it or something if you started freaking out. When I found out you call them for yourself, I was pissing myself laughing.”

“Because I knew things were getting out of hand. You know, one time it was really bad, but I don't know if I want to tell you that story… You seem very judgemental today.”

“I won't judge you. I don't care.”

“Well one time, when I was really out of control, drinking vodka like crazy. I called them because I knew I was going to be sick and something bad was going to happen. When they came to my house, my parents let them in, and they found me rolling on the ground in my room naked.”

“Really? What did they do?”

“Nothing. The one paramedic just said something like 'Holy shit, get this guy some pants!' and the other one ran across my room and found a pair of jeans and threw them at me.”

Mike laughs again, hysterically. At least I can make him laugh. That's why he likes me. I'm a funny guy: most people tell me that. Women too. They like funny guys.

“That's fucking hilarious, man. I can't even believe the shit you get into sometimes.”

“Yeah, I guess it is pretty funny. But it's all in the past now. No more liquor for me. Just in moderation. That's all.”

We arrive at Walmart. I park the car, and we get out. I have to grab my mom a new set of knitting sticks for her side business: I'm helping her start it up. Also, I need a new shirt for the next Shriners Charity Fundraiser. As the Vice President of the club, I have to look professional and act professionally. We also need onions, chicken thighs, and some pasta for the dinner I'm cooking tonight. It's stressful always having to cook for my parents, but that's what a good son does.

The next day, I wake up and do some rigorous exercising. Stretches, yoga, and medication. I'll do some calisthenics later. The mind and body have to be balanced and at peace so that one can be successful throughout the day. In the afternoon, I decide to call my friend Ryan.

“What's going on, ya ass monkey,” says Ryan when he picks up.

“Hey, it's Luke.”

“I know it's you. What's up?”

“Luke Patrick.”

“I know it's you! What do you think? I can't recognize your voice? You think I'm using a Flintstone phone and your name doesn't come up when you call?” he laughs.

“Oh.”

“What's going on, ya jackass?”

“Nothing. Just want to see how you were. I haven't heard from you in a while.”

“I'm not too great...can't find any painting work lately.”

“What are you doing today?”

“What do you think I'm doing? I'm drinking my ass off,” laughs Ryan.

Ryan is in denial that he's an alcoholic. I think he needs help, but sometimes I don't know how to tell him.

“Ryan, I think you might need to start going to meetings.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like AA. Get a sponsor and do the whole thing, the 12 steps and everything. I've done it, and my life has become immensely better.”

“Didn't you freak out on your last sponsor and tell him to go fuck himself?”

“That was in the past. Besides, he was an idiot. He told me he wanted to punch my dad in the face one time when he picked me up. But for real, I think you need some help.”

“Are you kidding me? I don't go crazy like you. I still laugh when I think about that time you drank 10 bottles of wine, back when you were making it.”

“What never happened, Ryan....I don't know why you say these types of things.”

“10 bottles of wine. 10 bottles of wine!” he laughs.

He always laughs.

“It wasn't 10; I think it was like 6 or 7. Besides, that wine wasn't very strong. It was probably only like 7 or 8 percent. It wasn't real wine.”

“Fuck, if anything, I think it was stronger. I had like 2, and I was fucked up.

“You get drunk pretty fast. It wasn't that strong.”

“I don't think you realize how crazy you were back then. Remember that crazy Trisha girl who stayed at your house for like 3 weeks? The one who was on heroin? She scared the hell out of me.”

“She was only here for a couple of nights.”

“She was there for like two weeks! I remember her walking out of your room, white as a ghost, high on some drugs or someshit.”

“Ryan, those things are in the past now; I don't do anything like that. I've been doing charity work with my mom and applying to places, trying to find an accounting job.”

“Accounting?”

“Yes, I'm an accountant.”

“Oh...kay. Cool.”

“I took a course at Columbia last year.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, from home.”

“I thought you were working at GM or something. Haven't really talked to you in a while.”

“That stuff is beneath me, to be honest. When I worked there, it got really crazy. People were yelling and threatening each other and bringing guns to work and, and..and all that crazy stuff. It was not good.”

“Bringing guns to work?”

“Yes, they were.”

“Ok Luke, whatever you say.”

“I have to go now anyway. I'm preparing pergoies and Holubtsi later today, and I want to go to the gym first.”

“Ok. Alright, um, I guess I'll talk to you later or whenever you answer your phone.”

“Alright, take care.”

I hang up the phone and wonder if it was a good idea to call him. He always calls me when he's drunk or even shows up here. I would never do that to him, but he just doesn't understand. Some people never learn manners.

On the way to the Ukrainian hall, I pass the liquor store. It's been a pretty productive day: I think it would be alright if I grabbed a few beers. I'll have just one now, and the rest later before bed. Yes, I don't think there's any harm in that. A few beers after a job well done.

Inside the store, walking through aisles, seeing the destitute, down-on-his-luck types, with baseball caps and faded t-shirts. Unshaven and unkempt men. What a sort! Grabbing bottles of liquor with hunched-over posture. The beer section, with men in steel-toed boots and bright orange high-visibility shirts. I don't much like the look of them: beer is so unrefined. Maybe I should grab a bottle of wine instead or something with a little more substance. A little more class. Perhaps vodka, with its heritage steeped in European history, that fine men drank in the past. The likes of Dostoevsky or politicians, sipping drinks at extravagant meals like a scene from a Tolstoy book. That's high-society. Where men of merit earned their place in the history books. Yes, vodka it is! But does that make me seem like a snob? What about the common man who drinks beer after a long day of work? Surely they should be celebrated in some small way? Not as the poets and the aristocrats who produced fine art, but work in all manner demands respect. A 6-pack as well! For the blue-collar men who pave the roads black! I grab my drinks and leave the store. The cashier doesn't even notice me slipping out the door. It won't matter; I won't come to this location for a while.

I wake up in a daze, across my carpet, naked; I strain my neck and look over at my coffee table. A bottle of vodka is lying on its side, empty. Beer cans litter the table. Many beer cans. I guess I must've ordered some more. My body is aching as I get up and stretch out. I wonder how many days it's been. And did I even go to the Ukrainian Hall that afternoon? Damn, I should check my phone and see if Julia called. Upstairs, I can hear my dad yelling, looking for the remote. His voice shouting: Goddamitttttt!!! ringing through the house. A plate of half-eaten dinner has been left on the counter; I suppose Mom brought it down while I was under the weather. Just a little head cold---that's what I'll tell her. I look at my phone and see some missed calls and texts. Some texts were exchanged between Ryan, Mike, and my old Kung Fu sensei. And Jeremy: seems I was trying to sell him a house. I'll deal with that later. Inside the fridge, an entire 6-pack, still unopened. I pull out a beer, crack it, take a long sip, and let out a sigh. Well, I guess I should go put on some underwear. It's time to start the day.