Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 23753 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23753 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Subject: Help Make this Company Better. (Help Me Be a Better CEO…& a Better Man)
“I see…” My blood simmers. “I refuse to read the message. Summarize it for me.”
“Apparently, you’ve been a very mean man who is obsessed with work, and you want to change things ahead of the IPO. You want to be a lot more transparent and make Pearson Industries the greatest and most fun place to work in the world.”
“Should I install a theme park in the basement?” I ask. “Would that make it more fun?”
“No.” He smiles. “I don’t think that’s what you meant from this message.”
“My father, you mean.”
“Yeah, him…”
“Reply to that message by saying it was fraudulent before anyone sees it.”
“Too late.” He avoids my gaze. “All your board members love it, and they’re looking forward to seeing your approval rating at the all-hands meeting.”
“I need you to hack the survey and make sure it’s ninety-eight percent.”
“Ten steps ahead of you, sir.”
Later that night, in between researching “Happiest Places to Work in Manhattan,” and “How to Punish Employees for Talking Shit About the Boss,” I run into the same issue on my financial forecast reports.
There’s a chunk of them missing, which makes no sense because I’ve requested these plenty of times.
What the hell is going on?
I open my email—searching for the words “quarterly report.” Within seconds, an entire page of emails from me to Comptroller@PearsonInc.com appear.
Twenty-six. All sent. All unanswered.
Confused, I immediately call Brian.
“Yes, Mr. Pearson?” he answers on the first ring as always.
“Who’s the director of the auditing department?”
“Sean Garrett,” he says. “Oh, wait actually…You fired him for incompetence three months ago over not turning in some reports.”
Well, that checks out. “I still don’t have the reports, though.” I lean back in my chair. “Did I ever hire a new auditor?”
“No, sir. You, uh, told Human Resources to promote the next person in line.” He pauses, and I hear his keyboard clacking. “The current head of auditing is Miss Kendall Clarke.”
“Don’t tell me I’ve been emailing a dead account all this time.”
“Doubt it, since we no longer give out name emails,” he says. “Just position-based ones. Her address should be Comptroller@PearsonInc.com.”
I check my sent box again, double-checking my spelling.
It’s correct.
“How sure are you about her having access to this email account?”
“One thousand percent, sir,” he says. “She emailed me a few questions about a budget yesterday.”
“I see.” I tap my chin. “So, this woman is ignoring me…”
“The entire financial department is really overwhelmed and overworked, sir.” He always tries to take up for these people. “I’m pretty sure it’s not personal.”
“Okay then, Brian.”
“Would you like me to look into this for you tomorrow?”
“No.” I type a new email. “I’ll be nice and give Miss Clarke one last chance…”
THE ACCOUNTANT
KENDALL
The following morning
“Why can’t you tell your boss that he’s an insufferable butthole?” My niece Myra stares at me through my bedroom mirror. “It’s not fair that you can’t get off early on Fridays…”
“Trust me, I know.” I adjust my shirt, amazed at her level of wisdom at just eleven years old. “But I told you before why I can’t do that, remember?”
She taps her lip. “Because he’s a reincarnated demon?”
“Exactly.” I smooth my hair one last time before spinning around.
Setting out money for delivery drivers and the activity list, I make sure she has everything she’ll need while I’m away for the day.
“I really don’t need a babysitter, Aunt Kendall,” she whines. “I’m almost a teenager.”
“Um-hmmm.” I kiss her forehead and head to the door. “Don’t keep her waiting outside today. It’s raining.”
I wait a few seconds before opening the door, anticipating a usual morning meltdown or a faux emergency, but Myra simply shoots me a sad smile and waves.
“I’ll be back this evening,” I say.
“You mean midnight…” she mutters.
I don’t have a rebuttal for that, so I lock the door and lift up my umbrella.
Walking down the steps, I slip in my headphones and head for the subway station. Between this walk and the ride to Pearson International, this is the only time I get to myself—the moment when I try not to think about how I went from being a business school graduate with no worries to working a terrible job under Satan just to care for my sister’s daughter.
Block it out, Kendall. Block it out.
I turn on my favorite playlist and make it onto the F train right before its doors slide shut.
For thirty-nine minutes and eight seconds, my favorite bands carry me back to my college years, back to parties that never ended, and to a world where the word “responsibilities” was a mere notion.
“Now approaching 34th Street–Herald Station.” The screen ahead flashes my stop, summoning me into reality.
I rush off the train and up the steps, emerging into Manhattan.
Speed walking toward the monstrous sleek black building ahead, I take several deep breaths.