Chosen

by Luc Reid

The mail cart wouldn’t fit through the doorway to the benighted section of accounting where Brett had to go, so he left it behind. He felt naked and suspect among the cubicles, his eyes involuntarily drawn to people’s private, personal effects: a hula dancer bobblehead, a collection of Diet Coke cans that filled an entire cubicle wall, a collage of Eric Estrada photographs.

Here was the cubicle: Wilma Dawson. Brett silently said a prayer of thanks to the Miraculous TV, a junked 19″ console model that had inexplicably started working the day his friend Ed had accidentally hit the flatscreen with a baseball bat (long story) right in the middle of the Moonlighting marathon. He and Ed had started the prayers as a joke, but they always made Brett feel better, so he hadn’t stopped.

Wilma was a fifty-something woman with a dangerously cheerful expression and a  starchy magenta dress. “Here you go,” Brett said, handing her the package. He added in a whisper, “It’s a pony.” It was his standard joke.

“The Chosen One!” she whispered. Immediately, whispering spread to the adjacent cubicles, then on through Accounting and possibly as far as Compliance.

“‘He will come speaking of horses,'” she said. The whispering intensified.

“I’m chosen?” he said. The idea was crazy–but flattering. And who was he to balk at craziness? He worshipped a console TV. He was in no position to throw stones. “Chosen for what?”

Wilma spreading her arms ecstatically. “He will come speaking of horses, and he will reconcile the third quarter numbers!” she cried. Throughout Accounting, there were cheers and applause. Brett was pretty certain he heard weeping.

Wilma lifted an old-style paper ledger emblazoned with “Q3” in permanent marker and held it out to him. “Take this,” she said worshipfully, “and finally, finally bring the third quarter numbers into harmony!”

So “chosen” was potentially good–but Brett wasn’t at all sure about the accounting part. He prayed to the Miraculous TV for guidance, and where in the past he had never had gotten more a vague feeling in response to his prayers, now it was as though trumpets rang out (in mono) through his brain, and a voice like a fifties newscaster said: “My child, fulfill the prophecy and take the mantle of Great Accountant. Or if you’re not interested, you’d better run.”

Brett thought about it half a second … and ran.