2013년 11월 30일 토요일

About 'top ten accounting schools'|... un-Islamic (on account of Islam being...On these ten days a lot of...in front of the whole school or made wall ...little chickpea head on the top and it looked...







About 'top ten accounting schools'|... un-Islamic (on account of Islam being...On these ten days a lot of...in front of the whole school or made wall ...little chickpea head on the top and it looked...








After               the               morning               staff               meeting,               I               reviewed               calculations               'til               11               a.m.

Then               I               returned               clients'               phone               calls               and               emails,               placed               calls               regarding               quarterly               taxes               coming               due,               and               made               one               last               special               call               to               confirm               my               luncheon               appointment.

Let's               call               her               Marcia               (confidentiality               and               all).

She'd               been               the               anchorwoman               for               a               South               Bay               network               affiliate               station.

Now               she               consults               for               its               news               division               and               occasionally               reads               its               editorials,               PSA's               and               community               event               announcements.

Last               year               she               appeared               in               a               documentary               on               bullying               in               schools               that               made               me               (and               three               other               insomniac               fans               of               the               Four-in-the-morning               local               line-up)               cry.
               Marcia               had               made               good               financial               moves.

Her               insurance               guy               had               contingencies               now               kicking               in               for               retirement.

She               had               put               her               kids               through               East               Coast               colleges               on               investments               we'd               nursed               and               monitored               for               twenty               years.

Her               husband               seemed               so               much               older               now.

He'd               struck               a               dashing               figure               with               her               in               the               day,               but               he               was               deteriorating               fast.
               She               was               distraught               about               his               situation.

Using               proceeds               of               a               Long-Term               Care               policy               and               Medicare,               she'd               brought               in               'round               the               clock               nurses               as               he               wandered               the               one-way               street               of               Alzheimer's               disease.

With               progressive               dementia,               her               once-rational               executive               and               family               man               was               uncontrollable,               alternating               childlike               tantrums,               violent               episodes               with               the               caregivers,               pajama-clad               escapes               to               relive               his               jogger               days,               and               plaintive               wailing               for               his               mother               or               boyhood               friends.
               Marcia               had               resisted               placing               the               poor               man               in               a               nursing               facility,               but               now               she               faced               the               reality               that               his               care               would               wipe               her               out               and               leave               her               homeless               if               she               did               commit               him               and               he               languished               there               in               ignorance               of               himself               for               even               five               years.
               To               avoid               attracting               the               attention               of               her               waning               celebrity               status,               she'd               called               in               a               favor               from               the               network.

A               news               chopper               waited               on               the               painted               concrete               pad               atop               the               Embarcadero               high               rises.

I               boarded               in               the               subdued               dark               blue               suit               I               keep               in               my               office               closet               and               carried               only               a               half-size               folio               notepad.

This               was               hand-holding,               not               green               eye-shade               work.
               Soaring               down               the               peninsula               under               low               clouds,               I               marveled               how               differently               the               crow               (or               'copter)               flies               compared               to               how               the               car               crawls               down               101               from               The               City.

A               cabbie               picked               me               up               gateside               at               SJC,               and               ten               more               minutes               found               me               at               Olympia               Bistro               on               a               busy,               renovated               corner               of               Downtown               San               Jose.
               I'd               reserved               and               would               pay               for               the               bistro's               private               back-room.

We               would               sit               in               a               darkened               corner               booth               while               she               repeated               her               dark,               anxious               fears.

Then               she               might               relive               some               tearful               good               ol'               days.

She               enjoyed               a               good               dance,               so               I'd               asked               the               owners               to               play               the               Tennessee               Waltz               over               the               sound               system               after               dessert               and               coffee.
               I               rose,               offered               my               hand               and               coaxed               her               up.

I               hoped               she               could               close               her               eyes               and               pretend               it               was               her               husband,               back               on               his               feet               in               days               gone               by.

After               some               quiet               tears               on               my               shoulder,               we               sat               down               again,               and               I               showed               her               a               list               of               items               that               would               come               due               for               the               firm's               accounting               services               in               the               coming               year.

After               each               item,               I               notated               "pb"               and               a               four-digit               code.

She'd               calmed               down               enough               to               nod,               don               the               stylish               bifocals               hanging               from               the               chain               around               her               neck               and               begin               transferring               notes               to               her               own               planner.
               "Please,               don't               do               that,"               I               smiled               gently               "'pb'               is               for               pro-bono.

I'm               charging               those               items               to               my               company               card."               Marcia               started               to               protest,               but               I               hushed               her,               "Listen               -               you're               near               retirement.

You               should               be               traveling               and               kicking               your               heels               up.

So...

your               husband               is               in               the               nursing               home.

You               don't               pay               me               a               cent.

It's               my               pleasure.

Marcia,               you               deserve               better."
               Drained               but               demure,               she               managed               a               whispered               "Thank               you",               spoken               by               thinning               lips               and               expressive               brown               eyes.

Her               cab               was               waiting               in               the               back               alley.

I               walked               her               to               the               car,               hoping               that               the               fees               I'd               forgone               would               make               a               real               difference.
               The               sky               darkened               as               I               walked               around               the               corner.

A               drizzle               began               to               wet               my               shoulders               and               lapels               again,               mixing               with               Marcia's               tears.

Another               half-block               and               my               own               cab               waited               to               whisk               me               back               to               the               airport,               and               reality,               where               I               never               speak               of               my               clients.






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