"We're fucked," I said.
We really were. Math never lies.
"Jesus Christ," said the old cougar I worked for, leaning over my shoulder in her office, "I'd fucking say so."
All the lines of the budgetary spreadsheet that should have been green were red. Most of the important numbers ran in the negatives. The proof was right there, in rows and rows of uncaring data. There would be no recovering from this. The pivot tables said so, clear as day.
It was past midnight by then, and I was exhausted. I'd been trying to force things to make sense, to command some order over this disaster for hours. There was nothing for it; come Monday morning, our Q3 financial report would go public, and the real shit show would begin. I pushed my glasses to my forehead and buried my face in my hands, afraid to let Michelle see me cry. I heard her step around me, to her own side of the desk. A drawer opened. Glass hit the table.
"How did this happen?" I wondered aloud into my palms, too tired to consider the possibilities again.
"Well frankly," she began as I heard a bottle uncork with a cracking POP, "as my little bean counter extraordinaire, I had hoped you might tell me." Something smoky and distilled filled one glass, and then another. "Come on kid, drink up."
I uncovered my face, peering down at the heavy rocks glass full of dark brown liquor she'd shoved in front of me. Hers was almost empty already, and she drained it in one long gulp while staring forlornly out the window.
"You're drinking? Now?!" I asked incredulously, "at a time like this? Hang on, you can't smoke in here!"
My protest went unheeded as she sparked the cigarette anyway, blowing a long stream of thin blue smoke into the air.
"Listen," she said in her dry rasp, "you said it yourself, we're fucked. What are they gonna do, fire us?" She barked a harsh laugh and pulled another long drag. She had a point; getting fired was the least of our worries. As a publicly traded company, we'd be lucky to avoid prison for more than a dozen of the sums on this balance sheet alone.
"Shit," I muttered, snatching up the offered glass and choking down the tepid whiskey. Michelle watched me pull a face with bemused seriousness, filling her glass anew and sliding the bottle over to me.
"I'll pour your first but you'll have to be a big boy past that," she said, tearing the lanyard with her ID over her head and shaking her mane of greying brown hair out. She'd let it grow out after overhearing the receptionists affectionately calling her Ms. Clairol last year. I couldn't believe the old girl hadn't just fired them right then and there. She'd canned a dozen of my peers for less. Her alternate nickname, The Maneater, was well-earned, if painfully unoriginal. She'd never taken a bite out of me though, much to my relief; I think she had a soft spot for me.
"Am I going to jail for this?" I asked timidly.
"What?" She said, snapping back from some dejected reverie, "Oh fuck, no, probably not. You'll be fine."
"Really?" I asked, "because this is really bad."
"Oh it's worse than that," she offered as she leaned back in the heavy leather executive chair, doing little for my confidence, "but little guys like you always make out alright in these things." She kicked off her heels and swung her feet up on the desktop.
"How do you know?"
"Well," she said, staring at the lit smoke burning down between her forefingers, "I was a clerk at Enron once upon a time, and things turned out alright for me, eh?"
I neglected to point out that things were not turning out alright. I hammered another finger of the harsh whiskey down my throat, managing a poorer show of keeping a straight face as I did so.
"Jesus kid," she said, again reminding me of the twenty or more years between us, "you're terrible at this." She reached over for the bottle, skipping the glass this time to take a hearty swig.
"Drinking and balance sheets, two things to avoid in the future," I offered miserably, wiping my chin with the back of my hand. She barked a blunt, hacking cough of laughter.
"Was that a joke? That's pretty good," she chuckled, ashing her spent cigarette in a well of paperclips on the desktop.
"Yeah well, I'm glad there's hope for me yet, even if I'm destined for the circus with all my hilarious jokes after this." She chuckled again. It wasn't unflattering to hear her laugh.
