One day, Arnie and I are engaged in a highly competitive game of tug-of-war with his rope toy when Chris gets home. I don’t always wait for him to get back from work before I leave, but sometimes I do when I think he could use the company. He’s looking a little haggard today and has that corporate hunch about him, like someone has laid a thousand invisible bricks on his shoulders.
“Ruff day?” I ask as Arnie leaps on him in joy. “Pun intended.”
His lips quiver into a smile, but it’s devoid of its usual arch. “It was a grind,” he says, setting his briefcase onto the counter with a resigned sort of thud. “We’re in the fourth quarter of the fiscal year, and all the division leaders are coming to me wanting me tomake exceptions so their year-end financials can look better. But it’s against the accounting rules, so I have to tell them no.”
“I never pegged you as the bad guy,” I say, enjoying picturing Chris as the villain. “If you ever need any reinforcements, I’d be happy to lend a hand. I’m a CPA, you know.”
“Are you really?” Chris asks. It means something that he doesn’t immediately tell me I’m lying. That he thinks there’s actually a chance I’ve passed the million exams required to be a certified public accountant.
“Of course I am,” I say. “It stands for Chief People Aggravator, right?”
That gets a laugh from him, one of those deep ones that comes up from his belly and makes me feel proud of myself for excavating his personality from the depths of the ocean.
His phone rings. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Another work call, have to take this.”
He heads into his bedroom to take the call. Through the door, I eavesdrop on the tedious-sounding conversation, packed with acronyms and phrases like “accrue for” and “taxation compliance.”
“That sounded riveting,” I deadpan when Chris emerges back into the living room. “Should have recorded it and played it back before bed for the nights when insomnia strikes.”
“Always appreciate how you build me up,” Chris says, and I’m glad that he’s giving some sass back to me. It’s a mark of how we’ve gotten closer over the year and a half we’ve known each other.
“Why do you let them bother you when you’re out of the office?” I ask. “Do you get extra money for working overtime?”
“If only,” he says. “We don’t get overtime, but if I’m not available at all hours, I might get fired.”
“They’re not going to fire you,” I say, finding the idea outlandish.
He grimaces, like he thinks there’s a good chance of it. “My biggest fear is failing,” he says, eyes catching on mine when he says it. “Letting people down.”
“Well, what if you’re so determined not to let other people down that you let yourself down in the process?” I pose.
I get the sense no one’s ever asked him that before, or if they have, he hasn’t valued their opinion enough to pause and really think about it. He’s thinking about it now.
“I guess when other people are disappointed in me, I’m disappointed in myself,” he says. “So the two are intertwined.”
“Sounds like codependency to me,” I diagnose. “You need to set boundaries.”
I rack my brains for ways to help him free himself of his people-pleasing tendencies, reclaim his autonomy. “Maybe you should think of yourself as an actor,” I say. “And while you’re at work, you play the role of Accountant Chris. But then when you’re home, you’re Actual Chris. So when someone gets mad at you at work, only Accountant Chris is affected. Actual Chris is unfazed.”
Chris considers it. “I don’t think that would feel authentic, though,” he says. “Pretending like that.”
“It’s not really pretending,” I say. “You’d still be genuine at work; you just wouldn’t bring yourentireself. They don’t deserve access to all of you. So you’d keep some boundaries up to protect you from being dragged down by the corporate zombies at all hours of the day and night.”
“I don’t know,” he says, still looking wary. “I pride myself on being a good worker. It’s who I am.”
“No, it’s not,” I say, getting snappy. “It’s what you do. Your job isn’t your identity. Debits and credits aren’t life-or-death.”
“They’re not?” A self-effacing smile ekes out, and then he gets more serious. “Look, I know what I do isn’t thatimportant. I’m not an emergency room doctor.”
I wonder if Chris is thinking about Luke and the ER doctor who might have treated him after his accident. The one who tried to save his life but couldn’t.
“I’m not trying to diminish your work,” I say. “It’s a good thingthat you care about what you do.” It’s true, actually. I have a lot of respect for how hard he works to try to do a good job. “Just remember, most people in the world don’t even know what a balance sheet is and we manage to survive.”
“You do know what a balance sheet is, though,” Chris says. “You just mentioned it.”
“I mean, I know the high-level basics of balancing assets, liabilities, and shareholders’ equity,” I say, not being able to keep from showing off a bit. “But none of the gory details.” I took an accounting class in college and the information has apparently stayed wedged in some cranny of my brain. Forgetting has never been my strong suit.
It makes me preemptively sad as I consider Chris and the day that I’ll want to, have to, forget him.
