The Katha Upanishad
Opening Chapter

Once, long ago, Vajasravasa gave away his possessions to gain religious merit.

            Mr. Arthur Thelonious Sherry was doing tax battle again. That is to say, not he personally of course, but by way of Waynemore Bland, his accountant of many years, a forty-three year old man who still lived at home with his mother, and who had lost none of his hair and made a point of wearing it long to prove it. Mr. Sherry, who was losing his, no doubt about that, and wore it cropped to hide it, now sat in Bland’s deepish visitor’s armchair and chewed his bottom lip which made him look a bit like smiling, which he was not.

            Not at all. He was not happy. Not happy to be sitting in Bland’s office, for one. Bland should have had the foresight to arrange to come to him—even if the filing deadline was tomorrow, and his schedule was full, instead it he got a ‘sorry Art, can’t get away. You know how it is.’ And not at all happy that he still showed a profit. Too damn much of it. He looked across a yellow sea of lined paper at his accountant looking back at him. Way too much, in fact. And lastly, not happy that he had to bring Gerald. So all around unhappy, period.

            He stopped chewing his lip long enough to say, “So, it’s either the IRS or the charity of my choice. Is that what you’re saying.?”

            “In a nutshell, yes.”

            “And you didn’t see this coming?”

            “I saw it coming. You saw it coming. We discussed it.”

            Mr. Sherry chose to ignore that.

            “What is the damage, precisely?”

            Bland ruffled through a sheaf of his lined yellow sheets, all covered with penciled calculations, rows and rows of them. He found what he was looking for. “Not less than half a million. Five fourteen, give or take the odd dollar.”

            Mr. Sherry, on the pudgy side—liked food, hated exercise—shifted in the chair, which protested a little in return. Then he sighed, more for effect perhaps than from despair, leaned back and looked the accountant square in the face. “Half a million,” he repeated, not so much a question as an accusation. “Five hundred fourteen thousand dollars?”

            “Yes,” said Bland.

            “Give or take the odd dollar?”

            “Yes.”

            “To charity?”

            “Yes.”

            “Or the IRS gets it?”

            “Yes.”

            “Well, I’ll be damned.”

            “Yes.”

            “The penalty for success,” he said, and shot a glance along with an unhappy smile his son’s way. “Take heed son, a valuable lesson: no success shall go unpunished.”

            Gerald looked at his father, but said nothing.

            “Looks that way,” said Bland, and Mr. Sherry swung his head back in his direction.

            Any recommendations?”

            “Well,” said Bland. “All things considered, including the Public Relations angle, the world being what it is, I would suggest the Red Cross.”

            “Or Green Peace,” said Sherry.

            “Green Peace?” Bland looked slightly horrified.

            “Joke, Waynemore. That was a joke.”

            “Ah.” Looked at his desk. Found a couple of pencils out of position. Moved them around to some other out of position.

            “Remind me,” said Sherry. “How did we get around this problem last year?”

            “We channeled the excess profits into a research trust.” Bland plucked the name from memory with ease, “The Sherry Geological Exploration Society.”

            “Oh, yes. The Geological Exploration Society. The Sherry Geological Exploration Society.” He shot his son another glance, and another thin smile, inviting admiration. Hoping, at least on some level, that Gerald was impressed. Then what the hell, he was only a kid, for crying out loud. Looked beyond Gerald and out the window at a gray sky. Low handing clouds, would rain soon. Shifted again in his chair, could not get quite comfortable in his a little too tight suit and a size to small shirt. Chair creaked another muffled  protest.

            His attention returned to the accountant. “So, let’s do the same this year.”

            “Well,” Bland flipped back through his pages and pages. Chose another pile, flipped through them. Found it. “We’ve already done that.” And began reading from his notes, “Six hundred fifty thousand to the Sherry Geological, four hundred thousand to Inland Historical, and two hundred eighty six thousand five hundred twelve, to be exact, to Southern Biological Survey.”

            “And?”

            “And we have exhausted existing tax law.”

            “And we still?”

            “And yes, we still.” Bland smiled, then sighed. Also for show, perhaps. “It is as you said, no success shall go unpunished.” A well manicured accountant’s hand patted the many piles of paper on his desk, “And this proves it.” His patting disturbed one of his rogue No. 2 pencils which took to rolling then dived off the desk and onto the floor to his left. Did not make a sound as it hit the thick carpet.

            Bland stopped patting and neatly bent over to pick it up. Put it back among his mates. Then ran this right hand through his long hair to coax it back into well-gelled place.

            “Ah, what the hell,” said Sherry. “You’re right. Let’s go with the Red Cross. A good deed. And, as you said, PR mileage as well. And who knows,” he added, not quite as an afterthought, “if indeed there is a Heaven, it should be plenty enough to cover the admission.”

            He said this last in jest. Well, it was certainly meant to appear so, but his words brought a little more meaning along than he had intended. Once they were out and on their way he realized they were in fact quite true, he meant them. And meant them not only as insurance, but as, as—he could not find, could not admit, perhaps, the feeling: as hope.

            If the accountant noticed this, he did not let on. Instead he smiled at the quip. A quick polite smile while he again swept his hair back with his hand, a comforting if somewhat greasy reminder that he did not look like, wouldn’t ever, no signs of any, all still in place, none in his comb in the mornings—or he would have to wear his hair cropped as well.

            Then he picked up one of his No. 2s, checked the tip for sharpness, made a note, looked up at Mr. Sherry and said, “Shall I make out a check, then? To the Red Cross?”

            “Yes,” said Sherry, and shifted again, getting ready to rise, “you do that.”

            He heaved himself onto his feet. The chair sighed a muffled relief.

Copyright © 2005 by Wolfstuff

Home   Stories   Novels   Craft   Songs   Poems   Links   Search   Happiness