Discombobulated
Truth be told, the general store was a scene of havoc, unleashed.
Obviously, the front windows were OK, and the results of visible havoc were confined to the back of the store where open boxes and piles of papers covered the floor boards to a depth of at least a foot. The general mood reflected that famous line by Rita Hayworth in Fire Down Below, “…you don’t want me, armies have marched over me!”
Today, upon entering the store, Cityfella stopped in his tracks and before you could say “Discombobulate!” asked in a loud voice (as though he was alone in the room), “What’s happening?”
Whereupon a voice drifted in from the open back door, “We’re sorting though some trash — we’ll be in a moment.”
At that moment, Mr. and Mrs. Storekeep, accompanied by their cousin Wilma from Hot Springs and her dog Sasikia (a Russian wolfhound that weighed-in at 185 pounds), came through the back door with their arms loaded with piles of papers, not to mention seemingly hundreds of bills and about the same number of check stubs and receipts, many in the clutches of loose rubber bands, etc., all shortly dropped upon the store floor.
“Frankly,” said Mrs. Storekeep, “this is a major mess and I wonder if we can ever straighten it out.”
“Don’t fret,” said Wilma, “we still have three days to go before the state writ goes into effect and the tax people from Raleigh descend from the heavens above.”
“Ruuff,” said Sasikia.
“Obviously something’s up with the tax department, but exactly what went wrong?” asked Cityfella.
Sometime ago,” said Mr. Storekeep, “we asked the Curmudgeon for help replacing our old tax accountant who decided to retire after the last election convinced him that North Carolina would immediately be plunged into political darkness not to be exceeded by the light limits found in a typical Duke tar pit.”
“And,” added Mrs. Storekeep, “yesterday Curmudgeon told us that his suggestion for a replacement, his second cousin Wilfred, had been representing our area at a sales conference in Las Vegas, and upon meeting a particularly attractive widow named Florence—originally from Black Mountain—and thinking about the TV slogan ‘What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,’ decided to abandon his business and elope with Florence to Reno, leaving our tax records behind in a rental car parked outside of the convention center. The car bears South Carolina license plates because in order to cloud anything his wife might do upon learning of his elopement, he switched the plates, replacing them with plates from his new sweetheart’s car. She presently lives in Goose Creek city where 35,938 residents could be wondering what happened to her after she drove north one day last week.”
“Ruuff,” said Sasikia, who was a very pleasant dog, although she was probably large enough to haul an empty Morris Minor up a slight hill.
“So now what happens?” asked Cityfella.
Mr. Storekeep shifted a pile of receipts in the crook of his arm and said, “We are waiting for Curmudgeon to return with the latest news on the whereabouts of Wilfred and Florence, and I frankly wonder exactly what we will do.”
“Well, said Cityfella, “my wife’s cousin lives in Las Vegas and he’s a minor sheriff in the police department there. I suggest calling him to find the car, then perhaps look for a way to jimmy the trunk and ship the records back here for a new accountant to pick up the story where the old accountant left off.”
“Could somebody call Curmudgeon?” asked Mrs. Storekeep.
So four people searched for their cell-phones and upon finding his in his back pocket, Cityfella asked about Curmudgeon’s number.
And nobody knew except Sasikia, who one day overheard Wilma call Curmudgeon but she would never tell.
With that, who should wander in but Curmudgeon, carrying a shopping bag of receipts in one hand and his cell phone in the other.
“Everybody, I finally got through to Wilfred who was standing next to Florence, who packed up the receipts and is sending them Union-Express to the store. They should arrive tomorrow so that gives us a day to find a new accountant—”
“So where are the Yellow Pages?” asked Cityfella, and because the phonebooks had been tossed into the basement trash, the search was on and hopefully a report would be on its way to Raleigh before Sasikia could bark the Russian alphabet.
Peter Loewer has written and illustrated more than twenty-five books on natural history over the past thirty years.
