Fiduciary Fun And Games

My accountant, Robert Cratchit CPA, crunches his numbers in two dark rooms above a Panda Express, surrounded by beige filing cabinets that are older than Stonehenge, and a dusty display of museum-quality calculators and ink-jet printers that beep and belch with irritating regularity. The only window is permanently jammed shut in favor of an ancient A/C unit, recycling lukewarm air tinged with a vague hint of industrial-strength soy sauce.

The ambience in Bob’s office might inspire Edward Hopper to set up his easel and open his paintbox. A portrait of two shadowy figures furtively burning the midnight oil. Nighthawks At The Paper Shredding Machine, perhaps. I often think it’s the sort of place where Bernie Madoff did his internship.

Last July, after placing a to-go order two egg rolls and a thing of fried rice, I made my bi-annual ascent of the Bob’s back stairs to deliver some important news. ‘For the next fiscal quarter, I’ll be switching up my Monopoly game,’ I told him. 'From the standard edition to one of those fancy theme editions based on popular movie franchises and other types of entertainment.'

His face darkened momentarily, as if this meant not just cooking my books but stewing them for several hours in a combination of congealed fraud sauce and dry-rubbed embezzlement. Fortunately, his mood lightened considerably as I explained my intention of playing the Harry Potter World of Wizardry version of Monopoly from now on.

'But you've always done okay as the Scottish Terrier; house on Connecticut Avenue; passing Go every year and collecting your two-hundred bucks; a little Community Chest now and then; not much Chance, zero Luxury Tax. It's a conservative strategy that's served you well. Why risk everything now with this trendy Gryffindor nonsense? I mean, you haven't even seen the films, never mind read the actual novels.'

'I know. It's just that I'm just sick of opening the same old Monopoly box each morning. Commuting around the same pale blue-green board every day, one or two spaces at a time, landing on the same boring Utilities. I really think I need some magic in my life.'

The day was drawing to a close. What natural light remained in Bob's office sank into shag-piles of dust and antediluvian coffee stains. We would have been arguing in the dark if it wasn't for the harsh yellow glow from an aggressively twisted Anglepoise lamp screwed into his desk. He took a deep, wheezy breath and sighed, then shrugged his heavily dandruff laden shoulders.  

'Everybody want some magic in their lives,' he said eventually. 'Of course they do. I've been there myself. But are you sure you want to go straight from Pennsylvania Railroad to the Hogwarts Express? Clamping a broomstick between your legs, waving a wand around, chanting gibberish all day long. Seems like a very big jump to me. Too big for you. You'd misplace your Philosophers Stone before your turn to throw the dice. And you're way too conflict averse to play with evil characters like Lord Voldemort. He'd walk right over you. Imagine landing on one of his hotel properties. You'd be bankrupt in the first five minutes.'

'So you're telling me not to diversify my Hasbro portfolio; to forget the Harry Potter dividends and stick with regular everyday Monopoly?'

'Yeah. Stick with regular everyday Monopoly. Honestly, it's a fine old game with a proven track record. Absolutely you can swap out your Scotty Dog counter for the Top Hat. if you want.  You deserve an upgrade after all these years of playing. Then simply wait your turn, throw the dice, collect your two hundred bucks, but let the big guys win. It's a safe bet that way, as safe as houses, provided your competition doesn't own the title deed for the property where the houses are.'

Bob's advice wasn't what I wanted to hear. But perhaps he was right. I was nearly sixty years old; slowly being swallowed by the whale of retirement like a decrepit, gray-haired Jonah; far too old for a Hogwarts freshman. After all, I'm merely an egg roll and fried rice guy, not some chiseled hero who fearlessly inhales enchanted elixirs from Goblets of Fire. At least, not during the week anyway. And nobody invites me to join the local Kiwanis club, never mind an Order of the Phoenix or other secret society. Who was I kidding to think I could survive and prosper in a Wizarding World of occult finance?

So I left Bob's office and shuffled downstairs to Panda Express, feeling somewhat disappointed yet content and relieved to be maintaining the fiscal status quo rather than learning a brand new game. I paid for my take-out with Visa, adding a decent tip as usual, even though the service was perfunctory at best. Credit cards, eh? Who needs magic when we already live in Never Never Land.

How I Became A Pacifist

Many years ago, when I was but a callow youth, our well-traveled neighbor returned from a sightseeing trip to Australia wth a gift for me. It was a boomerang, obviously, and my inner snob, which was maturing much faster than the rest of me, was somewhat bored by its predictability. At least it's not a stuffed Koala bear, I concluded, or a Sydney Opera House snow-globe. What I really wanted, of course, was a huge Crocodile Dundee style 'bush' knife. Something that I could use to threaten the local kids. They would only laugh at the boomerang, knowing that if I tried to throw the damn thing it would neither find its target nor return to me when concluding its round-trip journey through the air.

And, indeed, that's exactly what happened. Although I never discovered if in fact the boomerang would have come spinning back to me, as it crashed through the window of our well-traveled neighbor's garden shed mid-flight. Fortunately, he was away at the time, visiting Istanbul for business reasons, so I was able to clandestinely retrieve the boomerang while denying any culpability for the incident. It might have been the local kids playing baseball, I volunteered, when asked if I knew anything about the damage. 

After being so completely unhelpful, I recall standing there for several minutes, a brazenly innocent yet greedily expectant expression on my face, glancing at the well-traveled neighbor's luggage, wondering if he'd brought me back a souvenir from Istanbul. I had no idea what kind of weapons were wielded in the shadows of the Topkapi Palace, but was pretty sure they would be far more frightening and effective than a dumb boomerang. I was thinking possibly a curved blade, similar to a scimitar, or maybe even a double-headed axe. Both could usefully spark terror in the hearts of local kids in playgrounds everywhere.

Alas, my well-traveled neighbor merely produced a bag of tourist quality Turkish Delight from his suitcase. He seemed to believe I'd be excited by these unappetizing lumps of powdery confection, but the only people who needed to live in fear of them were my dentist and his hygienist. Let's be frank, Turkish Delight wouldn't even hurt if you threw it pointblank at your enemy's eye. Between this innocuous bag of candy and the unreliable boomerang, my well-traveled neighbor's gifts had left me defenseless, at the mercy of vindictive local kids, whose cap guns their neighbors had given them after day trips to the Alamo or Tombstone. Is Turkish Delight pellet proof? What if I glued together a suit of armor for myself from all those tiny cubes of starch and sugar? To be honest, I'd be better protected by a marzipan nose guard and a licorice jockstrap. I was screwed.

The white flag of surrender was not an option, but since my uncle had just returned from a guided tour of the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, the pipe of peace was. Although he hadn't actually presented me with such a pragmatic souvenir, my uncle did smoke Virginia leaf, so I was able to borrow one of his more elaborately designed regular tobacco pipes, claiming it was hand carved by a Lakota medicine man. I even drew a few buffalo around the bowl with an erasable marker pen just to reinforce the effect. The local kids would never fathom the depths of my deception. They were far too ignorant and easily impressed by Wild West nonsense, which was partly why I'd been at war with them in the first place. But sometimes discretion is the better part of valor, especially when inconsiderate adults won't help you assemble a lethal arsenal of your own.