Marjorie, the accountant, adjusted her glasses—again—while glancing nervously at the crowd. She was definitely not supposed to be at a high-speed car chase, and yet, here she was, crouching behind a dumpster, counting tax deductions in her head to stay calm. The screech of tires shattered the morning calm. A ninja, or possibly just a guy in black lycra, vaulted past her, knocking over a can of paint that splattered her blouse in spectacularly unflattering shades of neon orange.
“Perfect,” she thought, “Just what ‘thing number seven’ in my ‘how to ruin a Monday’ list looks like.” As if summoned by destiny’s perverse sense of humor, she tripped over a loose manhole cover, arms flailing in a desperate ballet of flops and flails. Her elbow met a nearby passerby’s eco-friendly tote bag, which exploded in a shower of apples like some kind of fruity piñata.
Internally, Marjorie was losing her mind one silent scream at a time. Who pours paint next to a chase scene? Who leaves manhole covers halfway off? But aloud, she only muttered, “I swear I’m just a humble number cruncher.” The ninja—now clearly a very confused albeit athletic man—paused, perhaps debating if she was a threat or just a walking disaster zone.
The next moment, a suited man extended his hand. “You’re exactly the asset we need.” Marjorie blinked. “I’m an accountant, not a secret agent,” she insisted, dodging another flying apple with the subtlety of a drunk giraffe. Her glasses slid down her nose, and she pushed them up with a sticky, paint-streaked finger.
“Well,” the suited man replied, “accountants are great with numbers. And you’re already in the middle of the action.” Marjorie sighed, staring at the chaotic scene where people screamed, tires screeched, and apples rained. Suddenly, a bucket above her tipped, dumping a sludge of bubble gum onto her head.
As she slipped on the gooey mess, falling face-first into the bumper of a getaway vehicle, Marjorie thought, At least this will make for a great expense report.
A quiet beat passed before she looked up to see a small dog wearing tiny sunglasses trotting towards her, barked once, and then handed her a business card with her own name on it.
Turns out, she was at a convention—for a slapstick comedy troupe recruiting accountants for their next act. The ninja was just their star performer, and the entire car chase was a rehearsal. Marjorie was inevitably their unexpected new “star.”
She sighed deeply, contemplating the irony: From spreadsheets to slapstick, I’ve officially gone off the figures. And with a bubblegum-oozing face, she thought, Well, at least now my career truly sticks.
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