"I seemed at one bound to have been transported into some lightless region of subtle horrors."

The Rational Man

by R. A. Albano

I am an accountant. I take great delight in balancing numbers. There's a magic, a purity, that results from moving, shifting, compiling, and rearranging figures within the neat and tidy confines of ruled paper carefully prepared with suitable horizontal and vertical lines of varying thickness for the express purpose of maintaining one's financial record. Such a record, after all, is a record of one's own life.

I can assure you, I am the most meticulous, the most exacting of accountants. I keep my books in the most scrupulous order. In fact, if one figure out of a thousand is a single digit off, if one decimal point is not even darkened sufficiently, I personally consider such carelessness to be the greatest of outrages, an offense to all that is reasonable and good.

I do not make mistakes in my books. I do not allow any smudges, even one that is smaller than an eighth of an inch wide, to mar the beauty of my record keeping. I would say that "apple pie order" is my motto, only even the most heavenly of apple pies cannot compare to the glory of my addition or to the sublimity of my subtraction. Perfection is the only term that I can use to designate my lifestyle, the very core of my existence. Neatness, order, regularity. Anything less, anything with even the taint of error or sloppiness festers within my soul like a sin against one of the commandments. After all, orderliness is next to perfection; and perfection is nothing less than another word for God.

My clients, even those whom I despise because of their sloppy shoe-box methods of filing receipts, recognize and appreciate my abilities. One might say they even worship me. I take the sins of their carelessness and redeem them for the salvation of their financial well-being. Indeed, my reputation has grown considerably. In three short years my private practice has grown from the penury of a small back office in a dingy flat located in the unkempt suburb of Van Nuys to the luxuriousness of the entire tenth floor in a clean and modern high-rise in the Wilshire district. At the age of twenty-five I am already referred to as the "Accountant to the Stars," and I say with a great deal of pride that I now regularly have to turn away the rich and famous from my doors. My life is perfect. I have nothing more to aspire to. I need now only to maintain the order that governs my life.

Quite naturally, the orderliness that I apply to my accounting blends in with all of the other aspects of my life. My house, a splendid little mansion in the suburban hills of Encino, I purchased not because of its beauty and charm, although all those who profess to know about such qualities agree that the house has them to excess, but because of the logic that such a purchase makes. Not only is the house a necessary commodity because of the yearly tax deduction; but, moreover, I selected the house based on a carefully researched study of appreciation in the area. Already the value of the house has increased nearly twenty percent in the one year that I have owned it. Few people seem to realize that by spending money carefully, they can actually increase their net worth. Next year I plan to put in an Olympic size swimming pool in the backyard. I do not have time to swim. I do not even like swimming. But a $20,000 investment in a pool will increase the value of my house by another $50,000. I cannot afford not to install the pool. Besides, I rarely spend time in my backyard anyway.

The furnishings within my domicile are also carefully chosen with the same care and attention to value. I purchase only original art by named artists. No aspiring artists, no lithographs or etchings, will be found in my castle. Of course, I own one of those blurry landscapes by Renoir. Now there is an artist who has real market value. Even though I found this particular oil in an out-of-the-way corner in Lucerne, I still had to expend a significant sum for it. However, in the two years that I have owned it, the value has gone up fifty percent. That, my friend, is certainly a fair return on one's investment. More recently, I obtained a couple of pencil sketches by Rembrandt. A local art gallery was going out of business, and I know I did rather well on the price. Now Rembrandt is an artist I can trust. Every line has a purpose. He is precise, like a good accountant. Yes, I definitely feel comfortable about my investment in Rembrandt.

Likewise, I will only purchase antiques of a superior quality to fill the rooms. Each room in my manse is set up for one particular style of antiques. Obviously, I own a fair number of Chippendale pieces: the drop-leaf dining table, the highboy, several pierced-splat chairs. Such pieces can always be easily sold for quick profits. My most recent decorating project is my den, which I am furnishing in the Federal style. I recently obtained the obligatory Duncan Phyfe sofa. I do not particularly care for it, but the name of Duncan Phyfe stands for something. "For what?" you may ask. Why, for profit, of course. Everything in my house will be worth double what I paid for it in less than five years. Of course, all of my purchases are planned. I know the exact selling prices of all articles before I obtain them, and I often purchase them from unknowledgeable merchants in out of the way areas at bargain prices. Buy low, sell high. This is the only way to do business.

These were my thoughts, this was my philosophy, this was my raison d'etre until one windy day in April of this year. A neighbor of mine, one who, unfortunately, did not avail himself of my services, had fallen into bankruptcy. The house was to be sold, the furnishings within to be auctioned off. I had obtained a list of the items that would be on the block. Although my foolish neighbor had paid top dollar for the items at the ridiculous prices charged by the posh shops of Beverly Hills, I now had the opportunity to obtain a wonderful Rococo Revival etagere that would be the centerpiece for my Victorian room. This particular piece did not appear in the popular American catalogs, and I had hoped that most of the bidders would vie for the more usual items of the Chippendale, Hepplewhite, or Duncan Phyfe variety. I would get a valuable antique at a bargain, and sell it to a knowledgeable buyer some years later. I had engaged in this same practice two times previously, and both times I made a handsome profit.

The auction was to begin promptly at seven in the evening. Since the house of the bankrupt was located down my own block, within an easy ten-minute walk, I had time to peruse the Sunday Los Angeles Times after eating a light dinner. Eventually I came to the travel section. I had been to Europe several times in the past three years, particularly in the major cities: London, Paris, Rome, Barcelona. As natural for someone with my financial sense, I always made my vacations profitable as well. I would look for and purchase items (paintings, jewels, cars, it did not matter what) that I knew were fashionable or popular in California, ship such items home, and sell them at substantial profits. Often I made enough to finance my next three or four trips to Europe. Despite the profit that I would make, I still kept my eye out for the best airfares to Europe. After all, there is certainly no reason to throw my profits away for the benefit of the airline companies. By careful selection of travel dates, travel times, and departure sites, one can easily get a ticket, which at full-fare would cost $1500, for significantly less than $500. Further savings can be made by staying in pensions rather than hotels. With a minimum amount of insight and planning, a traveler can visit Europe every weekend and come out with a tidy sum at the end of the year.

Perhaps I digress too much. Anyway, as I skimmed over the airfares listed in the paper, my eye was attracted to an article with the following headline: SWISS WINDS CAUSE CHAOS AND INSANITY. My habit was to ignore the fluff pieces that usually fill up the travel section, but the word insanity drew me in like a magnet. The writer of this article discussed this natural phenomenon in Switzerland called the foehn winds. As he explained it, sane, rational individuals who normally behave logically and rationally in all of their dealings would become unbalanced as a result of the exceptionally strong winds that would blow there. Such winds might cause individuals to smash windows, to assault strangers, or even to go screaming and running up the street. The quaint Swiss justice system would consider the influence of this wind in numerous instances. The reporter cited the instance of a banker who, on one fine windy day, stormed into a jewelry store, smashed open the display case with his fist, scooped out the equivalent of $50,000 in diamond jewelry, filled his pockets, and left the store laughing hysterically. At the trial the judge asked, "Were the foehn winds blowing that day?" He was told that it was so. He instantaneously delivered his verdict: "Return the jewelry. Case dismissed."

I was immediately struck by the foolhardiness and illogic of their judicial system. They were obviously setting themselves up to be hoodwinked and conned by every penny-ante larcenist in town. I wondered what they would do if the crook pleaded that he could not remember what he had done with the stolen merchandise. Was murder also excused when the wind was blowing? The article, unfortunately, did not explore such logical questions.

What bothered me most about the article was the attitude of the Swiss, who must obviously be a primitive and superstitious lot despite their more enlightened perspective in regards to banking. But, in this day and age of computers and space travel, to blame one's actions on the wind is as ridiculous as blaming any other natural occurrence. Oh, excuse me, judge, I did not mean to murder my parents, but there was a light rain that day. Oh, no, judge, I would not have robbed that liquor store, only I had stopped and smelled a rose some minutes earlier.

I suppose I was bothered by the article because the attitudes expressed were symptomatic of the disease affecting the entire country and, I then realized, apparently all of Western civilization. People will just not take responsibility for their own actions. Everyone is always ready to make an excuse. I have seen this with the majority of my own clients, day in and day out, for the past few years. Even people who appear to be bright and successful do not even have enough sense to save a receipt on a major purchase or to balance a checkbook so that they will not become overdrawn at the bank.

All of us, I maintained then, are responsible for any and all actions that we commit. If a man makes a mistake, then he should only blame himself, not his upbringing, his parents, society, or the environment. America, I said to myself, try thinking first before you engage in any action. Use your head. If you err, take responsibility for your mistake.

I did not proceed with my complaint, however. I still had the financial section to read. I always saved the best for last.

Exactly at ten minutes to seven I stood up, threw on my jacket, and headed for the door.

The Santa Ana winds were blowing quite steadily that day. I chuckled momentarily as I thought back on the article about the Swiss winds. However, I had an etagere to buy. I stepped forward and began marching in the direction of the bankrupt's house. The winds suddenly picked up. I braced myself. Move forward, I told myself. It is only a few blocks. Besides, I needed the exercise. I was putting on a few extra pounds, of late. Poor health meant possible sickness. Sickness meant loss of time at work, and loss of time at work meant loss of money. Come on, burn those calories, I urged my body, which was now sadly struggling to make headway against a violent blast of wind that actually forced me to move backwards.

Nevertheless, I persevered. I would not let some mere wind prevent me from walking a few blocks down the street.

I had not even traversed the first block when something out of the ordinary began to occur. I began to imagine how I would act if the wind really could cause me to act irrationally. This was strange because I was not a man who was prone to even the slightest acts of imagination. The faculty of fancy has no place in the world of us practical men of business. It gets in the way. It disturbs and disrupts the order of the universe. Despite my view on this matter, there I was, caught in the horrid act of using my imagination.

Maybe my mind ran rampant because of the wind blowing in my ears. A buzzing, whistling sound picked up in intensity and volume as the wind picked up in velocity and fury. Perhaps my imagination, I thought, came into play to distract my mind from being annoyed by this pesky wind. I cannot think of any other reason. But my imagination, after years of neglect, suddenly kicked into full throttle.

At first I started to wonder whether I would start smashing things. Windshields would be a good place to start. A number of vehicles were parked in driveways and along the street. They needed smashing. BMWs, Jaguars, Mercedes, Porches, they were all there, bright and shiny, in pristine condition. Yes, they certainly needed smashing, I thought. Of course, the windshields would not be the only casualties. All of the windows would have to go. Then the headlights, then the taillights, the fenders, the doors, the hood, and so forth and so on. Only a tangled mass of unrecognizable metal would satisfy the desires of my imagination.

I shook my head. Get a grip, old man. I tried to shake away the thoughts and visions that played inside my head. Perhaps I had let my health slip too much. Yes, that was it. Exhaustion! Fatigue! Time for another vacation to Europe. After all, I laughed, once I smash all of these cars, my neighbors will need to replace them. I knew of some great deals on Italian sports cars at that time. How ironic it would be if I could profit over a wanton act of destruction.

Wait a minute. This type of thinking is insane, illogical. I started to shake. My arms quivered. My fingers trembled. A chill coursed its way up my spine. I think the hairs on my head were even standing straight up. Maybe I was worse than I had at first thought.

The wind became even stronger. I found myself being forced off the sidewalks and onto my neighbors lawns. I glanced around to see if anyone else on the street was having as much difficulty as I. The street was completely deserted except for one other individual directly on the opposite side of the street. He appeared to be somehow familiar, yet I could not quite place him.

A forced smile, baring his teeth, and his wide open, unblinking eyes made him look foolish, even a bit mad. His right arm gesticulated back and forth in an arc over his head, his palm open, facing me. He was waving, but his movements appeared forced and belabored, like an animated manikin.

I could not decide whether to wave back or no. Who was this strange man, acting as if he knew me? I studied him carefully. He was dressed in clothes that were identical to mine. At that instant I noticed a baseball bat in his left hand. I wondered where he had gotten it. Did he always carry it with him? Funny, I had never seen him or his baseball bat before.

I felt, I can think of no better word for it, glee. I felt as if a weight had been lifted off my back, a weight that I had been carrying all of my life, even as a child. The man across the street smiled at me with his wide, eerie grin; and I sensed that I was smiling back. The man walked back to the rear window of the car and drew his bat back for another swing.

Suddenly, I do not know how, I was now holding the bat. I was now standing next to the creamy white BMW with the smashed windshield. And I was now swinging the bat at the rear window. Ka-boom! The explosion of breaking glass rippled through every pore of my being. I was released. I had stepped over "the threshold of the invisible." Energy poured through my every fiber, my every cell. An odd sensation of terror and exhilaration heightened my pulse as I then attacked the side windows, the headlights, the fenders, and any other shiny, undented surface that I could find.

After I had demolished that BMW to nothing recognizable, I sought out my accomplice. He was nowhere to be seen. That didn't matter. I had an etagere to smash.

The rest of that day is a blank in my mind. Not until several weeks later, at my trial, did I learn the full extent of my escapades, of the damage that I had wreaked. Apparently, I had entered the house of my neighbor with, as my last memory of the day corroborates, the intention of turning the etagere into toothpicks. However, I had entered the wrong house, terrified the inhabitants, and caused untold damage.

Well, untold is not exactly accurate. Their insurance company estimated the damage at just over $250,000. I had to pay that and the cost of the BMW. The judge gave me a commuted sentence of three years provided that I would see a shrink twice a week. Of course, I accepted.

I had gotten off easy. With court costs and psychiatrist fees my expenses were close to half a million. But, I would gladly have paid double that. You see, that was the greatest adventure in my life.

Believe it or not, some months later I took a vacation to Rio de Janeiro. And I didn't buy anything to make a profit. I didn't bring in any new business. The entire trip was chalked up as pure loss. And, most amazing of all, I didn't care.

I am still an accountant. And I still earn an incredible amount of money each year for the simple task of juggling numbers. However, I no longer take such delight in my work anymore. In fact, and you must promise not to tell this to anyone, every now and then I insert errors into the figures. My numbers are sometimes two, maybe even three, thousand dollars off. Sometimes the mistakes favor my client; sometimes they are to his detriment. I have done this dozens of times now, and I have not yet been caught once. I think I will have to find some other way to amuse myself.

Copyright 2003

R. A. Albano