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© 2004-2008 Keith Ecklund

April 20, 2005

We should have seen it coming.  Everything it seems, must somehow be squeezed onto a balance sheet to be understood.  No one takes a step these days without the numbers to back it all up.  The numbers, man!  We need to see the numbers!

Imaginary Keith looks half-respectable at the meeting, sitting there quietly in the corner in his blue jeans and Columbia short-sleeve shirt.  Out of the corner of my eye I can see him craning his neck, trying to read from the files lying on the attorney’s desk.

I sit at the table, across from the attorney, doing my best to follow the conversation.  Nodding is important, I’ve found, at least in America.  I don’t know how it is in the rest of the world, but around here everyone wants to believe that the other person is listening.  I might even go so far as to say we depend on it.

I nod constantly, showing the attorney that I am capable of absorbing everything he says, proving the foolishness of the American’s dependence on nodding.  I mean, if the attorney talked for three or four straight years, and I sat there nodding the whole time, would I have the goods to be an attorney myself?

“Yes, I see,” I say.  Nod, nod, nod. 

“The first thing we need is an honest look at an accurate balance sheet,” the attorney says.

I nod some more.  I will get Imaginary Keith right on it, as soon as we get home.

“Yes, I couldn’t agree more,” I say.  “We can do that.” The attorney and I are in the same boat.  He’s the captain and I shovel coal.  When the meeting is over I walk out into a blindingly bright afternoon, shielding my eyes from the sun.  It looks just like I am searching for land.

“We’ll mail you an invoice,” the woman behind the wheel says.  From the cut of her blouse, I decide she is the first mate, and wish her well.  The gangplank sways slowly under my feet as I head towards shore, and I realize I can’t remember the last time my feet have touched bare earth.  I breathe in, searching for coal dust, but smell nothing.  Can a person choke on fresh air, I wonder?  What becomes of a man, tossed back into the world after so much time at sea? 



What’s up with this?  I’m told you’re on sabbatical and so I diligently follow instructions and take a shadow-sabbatical myself.  Only to sneak back one day and find there’s a party going on without me.

My brother used to do that kind of thing to me and it made me cry.

mouse on 04/21/05 at 04:26 PM

I think I thought sabbatical meant: on the edge of insanity and/or mental breakdown.

I do need things to ease up around here, economically speaking, or I will need to take an extended break.  Oh the pressure . . .

Keith on 04/21/05 at 05:11 PM

[insert remark about filth lucre here]

on 04/22/05 at 08:18 AM

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