What I Think Andy Does At His Work: Part II

(This is for Andy and Shiloh who left Brooklyn yesterday.  Thanks for hanging out with us for a whole decade.  We couldn't have created better friends in a Friendmaker machine.  Which is a real thing.)

Three years ago, Valerie accused me of not knowing what Andy does as an "accountant".  I wrote a short description showing I know exactly what accountants do.  Mostly that I think accountants wear old timey accounting clothes and have adding machines and call each other "Fellow".

Here it is if you want to see how accurate I was: What I Think Andy Does At His Work

But now that he has left, I wanted to further demonstrate how I truly understand the accounting world.

What I Think Andy's Last Day as an Accountant in New York Was Like

Andy rode the subway train very mournfully.  If his beard wasn't made from hair, I'm sure it would have been a beard of tears.  As he entered the Accountant Changing Room, where he daily changes into his Accounting uniform: Green Visor, Vest, Ear Pencil and Elbow Garters, Andy felt a sudden whoosh of sadness.  Or it was a whoosh in his undergarments because Johnson swung the swinging door too quickly and Andy had not gotten on his suspendery pants yet.

When he steps out, his Fellows give him a big huzzah. They've organized a surprise party for him.  They lift him upon their shoulders and parade him through the office.  They sing "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" six times.  Once in a round.  They put him down near the kitchenette where a cake is waiting.  The cake has a number 5 on it, signifying how many years Andy has worked at the firm and also, Andy's favorite number. An accountant named Jones cries into a monogrammed handkerchief.

Suddenly, Andy's boss comes out of his office through a haze of cigar smoke.  "Donkin! Get in my office, you son of a goat!"  Andy does.  The whole accounting office says, "Oooooooh."

In his office, the Boss says, "Donkin, you're a damn fine employee.  I've never seen a man sort so many numbers into meaningful sets of other numbers.  You're like a wizard.  Also, we're going to miss your screwball antics around here.  I remember the Christmas Party where you kept acting like the secretary and answering the phone calling the company Prize Waiterhorse Copper.  I was laughing so hard into my vodka, I think I pooped myself."

Andy goes to his desk where a line of his clients await him.  They're holding boxes of numbers.  They look lost.  One man, who has a hedge fund, which is where you bury money under your hedge, asks what he should do.  Should he unearth the money?  Put it in a savings account?

"No." Andy says. "Keep the money buried.  If  I know accounting as well as I do, it'll grow an IRA and if you water it with some Escrow, it might even become a Roth IRA someday."

The Hedge Fund Guy hugs Andy tenderly and then gets escorted out of the building after he cops a feel on Andy's buttcheek.  Later, Andy realizes it was probably just the fern he was leaning against.

As Andy leaves, all the accountants stand up, except No-Legs Frank, each setting fire to a blank ledger as the Accounting Goodbye Ritual demands.  Andy salutes and throws his green visor into the air.  No-Legs Frank catches it.  Which means he's going to get married or a get a promotion.  Maybe even make enough money for legs.

And on the way out of the office, Andy punches the security guard in the mouth. Something that security guard had coming for five years.  Andy walks out a complete man.  A beard made of joy.