style="font-size:15px;"> Also, it is my profession to provide accurate accounting based on quantifiable facts. It is a profession I was raised into and have been making a reasonable living at for nearly twenty years. I have spent my entire life correcting the accounting mistakes of those very people I just mentioned. So, ask yourself: Whom among us would you trust?
It did not start with the Vo-Ag teacher, though I had heard there would be a new one, and, in the interest of accuracy, I must say that I was looking forward to meeting him. I was, in fact, curious about him. I had even asked those who had encountered him before me what their impressions of him were. I am a local taxpayer. It is perfectly natural for a taxpayer to be curious about the new public school teacher.
Plus, new people do not often come into this town with the stated intention of sticking around, as the Vo-Ag teacher had flagrantly declared to Silvia Vontrauer. “I will live out the rest of my days here!” he had told her. Such declarations were of great interest to all of us, though I don’t expect people like you to understand that.
It started when I purchased that big black sleeping bag of a coat, right before the high school musical and the Thanksgiving holiday, specifically to wear to the quarterly meeting of the Order of the Pessimists, which liked to meet before all the holidays that ask you to drum up renewed happiness for life.
As I was both secretary and treasurer of this organization, I was obligated to go. It was my job to report on the status of the checking account, as well as to write the check at the end of the meeting to cover our expenses. It was also my job to take detailed notes, for posterity, which the members of the Order noted loudly and often—“For posterity!”—before being overcome with laughter, followed by that kind of choking that comes from laughing too hard.
There was no way out of this responsibility that I could see, except death, I suppose. So in the interest of personal enjoyment, and, of course, function, this being the upper American Midwest, I had ordered a new coat off eBay, from a woman called organicsuzee. I paid seventeen dollars for it plus six dollars in shipping, which I thought was a fair price for a hardly worn full-length Lands’ End coat filled with goose down.
I fully disclosed this to Doc, the doctor in this town and my father’s closest business associate, and Huff, the lawyer in this town and my father’s other closest business associate, as they pulled up to me on Main Street in front of the Powerhaus. My father had been dead for a long time, but here were Doc and Huff, every day, still up my ass.
“You paid for shipping!” was the first thing Huff shouted, his lips and face going red while he tried to park his golf cart—the only thing the cops in this town let him drive—while also waving a can of beer.
“I am a free and autonomous human being,” I said.
“You’re a goddamn idiot, Tandy Caide,” Doc said, lighting a cigarette. “You could have driven to Walmart for six cents’ worth of gas and gotten a coat just as cheap.”
“And it’s black?!” Huff shouted. “It shows so much dirt!”
“How appropriate,” I said. “It matches the unclean minds of my company,” to which they responded with “Ho! Ho!” and “Oh, really, little girl?!”—something they have called me since I was an actual little girl, though today I am in my midthirties and over six feet tall.
It was an unseasonably warm and windless day for November, though a big chill was expected. The sign at First National said 60 degrees and the faint smell of cat pee curled around the air, which meant the farmers were using the still weather to knife anhydrous ammonia into their fields for fall fertilizing. Main Street was unusually thick with cars—six in two blocks. Someone was even forced to parallel park.
Three cars drove past us. The drivers acknowledged our presence with the lifting of the index finger from the steering wheel, as is our town’s custom. I recognized each one of them as a client of mine, so I waved back. This is good business. A rusty pickup truck drove by us slowly. The driver had a pocked face. I did not recognize him. A bunch of high school kids were in the bed of the truck, waving cans of beer. One of them I recognized: Hope, the daughter of my best friend, Barb, who is Huff’s daughter. I had not spoken to Barb since high school, not counting Barb’s yearly income tax appointments or the occasional ask for a coffee refill at the diner across the street from my office. I had not seen Huff speak to her either, except briefly at Christmas when they exchanged pie and bottles of whiskey. I had not spoken to Hope since before she went through puberty. These people, plus Doc—this was my closest family. This is how we do “family” here.
The truck peeled off and the daughter, Hope, threw her beer onto the street.
It was far too warm to be wearing a full-length goose down coat. But what could I do? I can’t control the weather.
Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the Powerhaus, I could see that Huff was especially jolly. He had been to Winthrop earlier in the day, where he had taken some mutual clients from the Winthrop co-op late-season golfing, with free drinks all around, with the most free drinks going to himself because, as Huff liked to say, “Just because I have a gift with people doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be paid for it.”
Gary Mussman, the laid-off machinist Doc and Huff had put on retainer when the Chicago Great Western railroad operation pulled out of town, was folding a napkin over and over in the back booth because Sylvia Vontrauer, chairwoman of the Theater Boosters, was at the window booth in front with Mr. Henderson, the high school choir teacher. Silvia waved at me with one of the ends of that scarf that looks like piano keys.
She considers me to be a great lover of the theater, though this is not the truth. My father always gave $100 to the Theater Boosters. And so the first week of every September, Silvia Vontrauer—wife of Burt Vontrauer, one of my biggest clients—comes gliding into my office wearing that piano scarf, looking for her $100. “No one loves the theater like you and I do, Tandy,” she always says right before she takes my check.
I waved back. That’s what a good businesswoman does, even to theater people.
“They’re sitting at our table,” Doc said as he slid into the back booth next to Gary.
Huff waddled into the booth too, a new drink in each hand. “Of course they are,” he said. “People like that always sit in the window. They need to be seen.”
Gary said, with his trademark stupidity: “Yeah! That’s where we always sit!”
“They’re doing it to fuck with us,” Huff said. And so the meeting started.
“Who’s here? Just us four? Figures,” Doc said.
“We’re the only ones in this organization,” I said.
“At least we have a quorum,” Gary said.
Doc asked me to stand and deliver the charter. It wasn’t my turn, and I reminded everyone of this. “But you’re the worst of the bunch,” Doc said. “It’s your duty. For posterity!”
So I stood next to the table and recited the oath, which goes like this:
This is the meeting of the Order of the Pessimists, founded in 1992 in response to the unjustified optimism that runs rampant in this town. We believe in schadenfreude, we uphold Murphy’s Law, and we embrace the slow, sad, inevitable decay of all things. The only things we can be sure of are death and taxes.
“That was terrible,” Doc said.
