The Secret Lives of Bookkeepers
We meet secretly, our own society, and we do it in an underground bunker at the edge of the city, far from the prying eyes of our clients. We go down the narrow steep stairs, concrete and cold, and enter a room that is soundproof and also deflects negative vibes that our clients may be sending our way.
We are at one with the universe.
It is not true that anyone at all can own a business. We know this, deep inside our bunker, and we can even say so out loud to each other, but never to our clients, some of whom should not be in business for themselves but who should, instead, be faithful and regular employees of some huge conglomerate that will treat them badly no matter their efforts.
This is because they do not pay attention to us. They spend without end, they refuse to take ownership of their business, they refuse to understand simple concepts behind “do not spend more than you make,” “your attention is needed,” “your business may grow slowly,” and, most importantly, “it’s YOUR business, it’s YOUR responsibility.”
We sigh heavily. We are tired, weary of being blamed for clients who spend too much, clients who know that by dint of their knowledge in one very specific field (such as how to create custom widgets) they are assured of making a fortune in a short period of time and who do not hesitate to spend into the future. Our favorites are those who do not listen, and then blame us because they have no money. That trip to Europe? It cost a bit more than they anticipated, and the fact that their vendors have not been paid in months is an irrelevancy.
Trisha has a client, and she asks for our advice. “The husband won’t challenge the wife, and the wife is out buying six hundred dollar shoes,” she tells us woefully, her long brown hair swinging as she shakes her head side to side. “I don’t know what to do anymore. They won’t listen, then blame me because sales are down.”
Debbie asks who is in charge of the company? “Whose company is it?”
“The wife’s. It’s the wife’s. The husband works for her, and he doesn’t want to rock the boat.”
We nod in sympathy.
“I haven’t been paid in two months. My children need shoes. What should I do?”
“Drop them,” Anna says, “dump them now, get rid of them, move on, don’t waste your time.”
“But replacing them? How do I do that? I need more clients,” Trisha says, defeat present in her voice.
“But if they’re not paying you anyway, what good are they,” someone else says,
and we cheer as one, in unison. A light goes on over Trisha’s head, not the traditional light bulb, but more of an elongated chandelier bulb.
“Spend your energy getting good clients,” Debbie says, and we nod in agreement.
“Are there any good clients,” whimpers Natasha, a newcomer to our secret society who has yet to land a client at all, and who has responsibilities that threaten to overwhelm her on an almost daily basis. An elderly mother who is blind, an elderly cat with one leg missing, and a second cousin with behavioral issues.
We assure her that good clients do exist, that they will make themselves known in due time, or later. We don’t know that for sure, we assume it is so because it has happened to all of us, sooner or later, sometimes later, sometimes sooner. Natasha does not seem soothed; perhaps she senses the doubt in our voices, or our furrowed brows.
Mike speaks up, not because we want him to, but because it’s what Mike does. He is certain of himself in a way that only the most obtuse can be, and so skillful in his self-deception that those around him almost buy into the fantasy themselves. Those of us who have known him for longer than two months see right through him, as if he were no more than Saran Wrap stretched tight over a bowl of leftovers. “Just do what I did twenty years ago, and you too shall achieve the same level of success that I have achieved.” Mike’s voice is sonorous and strong, authoritative and quite boring, the pitch and intonation never changing.
He continues, much to our chagrin. “Follow the instructions in my guide, “You Can Be A Bookkeeper!” and you will succeed beyond your wildest imaginings. You will rake in the dough faster than a one-armed paperhanger. Only $45.99 through my website, cash, checks, and credit cards accepted. Don’t hesitate, don’t delay, do it now. You can’t afford not to, you can’t afford to wait, the sooner you start the sooner you finish, do it now!” Having heard this before, we knew it would go on for at least fifteen minutes, possibly longer.
Once he finishes there’s silence, and it takes several minutes before we rouse ourselves from the deep sleep Mike has caused. We move slowly, stretching as we gather our pitiful belongings. We must return to the world, back to the clients that plague us even as we sleep but who pay for our necessities.
We drift out of the bunker in groups of two or three, mumbling about taxes and deadlines and carburetors, and the joy of being self-employed.
We are at one with the universe.
It is not true that anyone at all can own a business. We know this, deep inside our bunker, and we can even say so out loud to each other, but never to our clients, some of whom should not be in business for themselves but who should, instead, be faithful and regular employees of some huge conglomerate that will treat them badly no matter their efforts.
This is because they do not pay attention to us. They spend without end, they refuse to take ownership of their business, they refuse to understand simple concepts behind “do not spend more than you make,” “your attention is needed,” “your business may grow slowly,” and, most importantly, “it’s YOUR business, it’s YOUR responsibility.”
We sigh heavily. We are tired, weary of being blamed for clients who spend too much, clients who know that by dint of their knowledge in one very specific field (such as how to create custom widgets) they are assured of making a fortune in a short period of time and who do not hesitate to spend into the future. Our favorites are those who do not listen, and then blame us because they have no money. That trip to Europe? It cost a bit more than they anticipated, and the fact that their vendors have not been paid in months is an irrelevancy.
Trisha has a client, and she asks for our advice. “The husband won’t challenge the wife, and the wife is out buying six hundred dollar shoes,” she tells us woefully, her long brown hair swinging as she shakes her head side to side. “I don’t know what to do anymore. They won’t listen, then blame me because sales are down.”
Debbie asks who is in charge of the company? “Whose company is it?”
“The wife’s. It’s the wife’s. The husband works for her, and he doesn’t want to rock the boat.”
We nod in sympathy.
“I haven’t been paid in two months. My children need shoes. What should I do?”
“Drop them,” Anna says, “dump them now, get rid of them, move on, don’t waste your time.”
“But replacing them? How do I do that? I need more clients,” Trisha says, defeat present in her voice.
“But if they’re not paying you anyway, what good are they,” someone else says,
and we cheer as one, in unison. A light goes on over Trisha’s head, not the traditional light bulb, but more of an elongated chandelier bulb.
“Spend your energy getting good clients,” Debbie says, and we nod in agreement.
“Are there any good clients,” whimpers Natasha, a newcomer to our secret society who has yet to land a client at all, and who has responsibilities that threaten to overwhelm her on an almost daily basis. An elderly mother who is blind, an elderly cat with one leg missing, and a second cousin with behavioral issues.
We assure her that good clients do exist, that they will make themselves known in due time, or later. We don’t know that for sure, we assume it is so because it has happened to all of us, sooner or later, sometimes later, sometimes sooner. Natasha does not seem soothed; perhaps she senses the doubt in our voices, or our furrowed brows.
Mike speaks up, not because we want him to, but because it’s what Mike does. He is certain of himself in a way that only the most obtuse can be, and so skillful in his self-deception that those around him almost buy into the fantasy themselves. Those of us who have known him for longer than two months see right through him, as if he were no more than Saran Wrap stretched tight over a bowl of leftovers. “Just do what I did twenty years ago, and you too shall achieve the same level of success that I have achieved.” Mike’s voice is sonorous and strong, authoritative and quite boring, the pitch and intonation never changing.
He continues, much to our chagrin. “Follow the instructions in my guide, “You Can Be A Bookkeeper!” and you will succeed beyond your wildest imaginings. You will rake in the dough faster than a one-armed paperhanger. Only $45.99 through my website, cash, checks, and credit cards accepted. Don’t hesitate, don’t delay, do it now. You can’t afford not to, you can’t afford to wait, the sooner you start the sooner you finish, do it now!” Having heard this before, we knew it would go on for at least fifteen minutes, possibly longer.
Once he finishes there’s silence, and it takes several minutes before we rouse ourselves from the deep sleep Mike has caused. We move slowly, stretching as we gather our pitiful belongings. We must return to the world, back to the clients that plague us even as we sleep but who pay for our necessities.
We drift out of the bunker in groups of two or three, mumbling about taxes and deadlines and carburetors, and the joy of being self-employed.
posted by Monique at 5:39 PM
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