# I stumbled as the trolley pulled away from the curb, staggering the rest of the way to the back. At first glance, I thought there was some mistake. Perhaps I had the wrong bus. A bum was clearly occupying the rear three seats, his duffel bag, a bed roll, and bulging plastic grocery sack spread out around him. He was dozing, a paper bag-wrapped bottle in one hand and an oversized calculator in the other. I decided it was worth a chance. “Excuse me,” I said, “Harold?” He snorted awake. “Yeah?” “Um, Mr. Blane, I--you were recommended to me as an accountant.” He slowly straightened. “What’ve you got?” “Well…” I stalled. “Give it ’ere.” He slurred, grabbing my briefcase and popping it open on his lap. “Ah.” “Um, excuse me, could you hand back--” Harold made a dismissive wave with his free hand, his other sifting through stacks of forms and certificates. “Okay, I’ll take it.” “Well.” I said, “I mean, I hadn’t quite decided, uh, that is, do you… even have any credentials?” A part of me regretted using the word “even,” but I think I was justified, if you’ll consider the circumstances. Dimly, I looked on the trolley walls for framed diplomas. Harold snorted and began rummaging around in the duffel bag at his side. Eventually he pulled out a dirty, dog-eared piece of paper covered in stains, with one corner missing. I took it when offered and looked at it. There were several rings where it appeared Harold had used his authorization to practice accounting as a coaster. In the lower right corner, where the signature should have been, a massive blot obscured whatever name might have once been there. “I think I’d better go else--” Harold interrupted: “Here’s your suitcase.” The suitcase, emptied of its pertinent documents, was thrust at me.
I’ll never know why, but I took it in silence and meekly turned to leave. “Come back next Tuesday,” Harold muttered after me. It seemed almost a snarl. #