Gloria the secretary flopped down into the chair beside Mr. Nims’ desk. “So. Who’d you get in the drawing this morning?”

The little accountant looked up from his figures and consulted a small slip of paper. “Jim Prosky in sales. What about you, Gloria? Whose name did you draw?”

“Darlene.”

“Darlene?”

“Darlene. The receptionist? She’s been here for eight years, Mr. Nims. I can’t believe you still don’t remember her name.”

He shrugged. “Why waste the brain cells on her name? We never say anything but ‘Good morning. Nasty weather, isn’t it?’ Not very efficient.”

“Don’t be such a blockhead, Nims. Oh! And you’ll never guess who picked your name. Go on, guess.”

“Er… Arlene?”

Gloria made a face. “Who’s Arlene?”

“The receptionist?”

“Darlene. And no, try again.”

“Gloria, I’m not good at guessing games.”

“One more guess. Come on.”

“Oh, all right… Was it you?”

Gloria rolled her eyes. “No, I picked Darlene, remember? It was Miss Inez.”

“Miss Inez what?” Slowly, it dawned on the little accountant. “Oh, dear. She drew my name last year, too. Gave me a pair of sunglasses with feathers on them.”

“She’s still upset you never wore them.”

“I avoid wearing feathers on my person whenever possible.”

“Miss Inez thought they looked very striking, and she was quite hurt when you didn’t like them.”

“Pish-tosh! I never said I didn’t like the sunglasses,” Mr. Nims reasoned.

“Well, Miss Inez is a very nice lady, and we don’t want her upset again—”

“No, no, of course not.”

“And that’s why I’m here. Tell me what it is that you want as a gift, and I’ll tell Miss Inez, and she’ll wrap it up and give it to you, and you’ll unwrap it and look surprised. You’ll open the box, look up at Miss Inez with shining eyes, and say, ‘Why, Miss Inez! How did you know?’ right in front of everybody, so they all see how much you like the gift she gave you. And Miss Inez will feel wonderful about herself, even though she has gout and she’s never been married and has thirteen cats and thinks shaded spectacles with feathers glued to them are really sophisticated.”

“Thirteen cats? Hmm. That seems rather excessive. How many cats do you own, Gloria?”

“Shut up, Nims. Now, what is it that you want?”

“Well. Let us see. A new tape for my adding machine would be nice.”

“That’s office supplies, not personal.”

“For my adding machine at home,” Mr. Nims corrected.

“Boring. Next!”

“Well, one thing I’ve been meaning to try is this foot powder—”

“Too personal.”

“A gyroscope.”

“No.”

“A sling-shot?”

Gloria scowled.

The little accountant’s face brightened. “I know! Bullets!”

“What?”

“Well, not for me, actually, you see, my sister recently purchased a hunting rifle—”

“Oh, forget it.” Gloria pushed herself up from the chair. “You’re getting aftershave, and you’re going to like it.”

“But—” Mr. Nims stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re right, Gloria. Aftershave it is.”

A week later, Mr. Nims unwrapped a bejeweled half-gallon bottle of Ali Baba’s Elk Musk… For Him and smiled up feebly at Miss Inez. “Why Miss Inez! How did you know?”

“I’m so glad you liked it!” Miss Inez leaned forward and kissed him, leaving a crimson smudge on his cheek.

Jim Prosky from sales unwrapped a can of foot powder and smiled feebly up at the little accountant. “Why, Mr. Nims! How did you know?”

Copyright 2007 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Mr. Nims was looking over the latest inventory when Gus from the mail room came into his office. The little accountant looked up from his figures. “Yes?”

“I’ll be running the mimeograph today. Miss Inez is out again.”

Nims sighed. “Her gout again, I expect. Well, it can’t be helped.”

“No, not gout. In fact, I guess her gout is doing much better. I heard she’s taking dance lessons.”

“She took leave for dance lessons? Gus, are you certain you have this right?”

“Straight from Gloria’s mouth. Miss Inez is out for her flum—flamemba—”

“Oh! Flamenco, my dear boy, the flamenco. A Spanish dance. You’re familiar with it, of course.”

Gus blinked. “I thought that was a bird.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I thought flamenco was a bird.”

“A what?”

“A bird. You know, with wings?” Gus flapped his arms at the elbows. “Tweet tweet, polly want a cracker?” He put his arms down again. “My neighbor has one on his lawn. It’s very classy.”

“Flamingo.”

“Flamenco.”

The little accountant shook his head sternly. “No, no, no, Gus. You’re thinking of flamingoes. Big pink birds that stand on one leg. Correct?”

“It makes sense, though, Mr. Nims. Isn’t the dance made up to look like the bird?” He stood one on leg, folding the other up underneath him, and hopped. “See? Like this, right?”

“I don’t think that’s a proper dance, Gus.”

“Oh. Maybe if I use my arms?” Elbows flapped again. “Is this the flamingo?”

“It’s not the flamingo, it’s the flamenco. Guitars and flared pants.”

Gus was still hopping and flapping. “But this is the dance you’re talking about, right?”

“No, it’s more of a clapping, stomping sort of—oh, dash it, you’ve got it all wrong. Watch my feet.” Nims sprang up onto the desk, scattering pencils and papers, and performed a surprisingly accurate flamenco. “Now try it with me, Gus.”

Gus hesitated. “Should I be up on the desk, too?”

“If you like. I believe it can bear our weight.”

Gus clambered up onto the desk surface and tried to imitate Mr. Nims. “Oh, I see. Pretty simple, isn’t it?”

“By gum, I think you’ve got it! Now clap to the right and then the left. You see?”

Gus started to sing to the rhythm. “Honky-tonky cha-cha, honky-tonky cha-cha… Sing it with me!”

“I can certainly see why Miss Inez would take a day to try this. Honky-tonky cha-cha, honky-tonky cha-cha…”

“What on earth are you doing?”

Mr. Nims whirled at the sound of Gloria the secretary’s voice.

She was standing in the doorway, looking none too pleased. “Do you realize I can hear you all the way over at my desk?”

“Oh, beg pardon. Gloria, do you flamenco?”

Gus flapped his arms. “Mr. Nims is teaching me the flamingo for when Miss Inez comes back from her dance lessons.”

“Dance lessons?”

Nims attempted to clear matters up. “Flamenco.”

“Lumbago.”

Gus rolled the word around in his mouth. “Lumbago? Is that a dance?”

Mr. Nims sighed heavily. “No, it is not a dance. It is a back ache.”

“Oh.”

Gloria smirked. “I don’t think Miss Inez will be doing the flamenco anytime soon.”

“Flamingo,” Gus corrected.

Copyright 2007 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

For Martha

Gloria the secretary was in the midst of typing when Mr. Nims arrived at her desk, short of breath. She looked up, irritated. “What’s the matter?”

The little accountant blinked. “Er…”

She rapped her fingernails in impatience. “Yes?”

He straightened up and cocked his head to one side. “Well! Isn’t that the funniest thing.”

Gloria eyed the stack of papers in her IN basket. “Isn’t what the funniest thing?”

Nims smiled brightly. “Why, do you know, I just sprang up from my chair at my desk, ran up one hall and down the other to tell you something, and now I’ve completely forgotten what it was!”

“Fascinating.” The secretary took a deep breath and looked the little accountant straight in the eye. “Do you see this pile of papers? Fifty pages of your notes, which I have to decipher, transcribe and put into readable form for the board meeting tomorrow.”

Mr. Nims nodded sagely. “I believe that was what I came about.”

“The notes?”

Nims scratched his head, nearly dislodging his green visor. “I think so. You know, it’s quite interesting—I’ve been reading a book, you see, which my sister recommended to me. Of course, I don’t make a habit of reading about psychology, you understand, but she is quite taken with the field since she and Everett—that’s her gentleman friend, do you recall him? The psychologist?”

Gloria sighed. “Did you have a point, Mr. Nims?”

“My point, Gloria,” the little accountant replied patiently, “is that this particular volume has to do with the phenomenon of short-term memory. Why, did you know that there are different types of memory?”

“Right now, I wish you were a memory,” the secretary grumbled.

Mr. Nims didn’t hear her, because he was already counting on his fingers. “Recognition—which is of course when you recognize something—recall, something you recall without provocation, naturally—”

“Nims!”

“Sensory memory, which affects your ability to—”

“Will you put a sock in it already? I’ve got to get this done!”

The little accountant faltered. “But I haven’t finished telling you about the different classes of—”

“Tell me later.”

“Oh.” Mr. Nims folded his hands. “You’re busy?”

“Yes. Talk to me at the end of the day, when I’m finished.”

“Ah. Smart girl. I’ll come by later to finish explaining.”

“You do that.”

“And if I recall what it was I came to tell you?”

“Let me know later. Any changes, I can always make at the end.”

“Excellent!” This was a wholly satisfactory turn of events. The little accountant scurried back to his office and sank into his chair—only to leap up again.

He remembered what he had wanted to tell Gloria. Nims reached for the intercom.

And leaned back. No, no. She had very specifically instructed him to return at the end of the day, and she was very irritable, for some reason. Best to let it wait till later.

He only needed two pages transcribed, not the whole fifty.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

I just wrote this little exchange, and I’m pretty pleased with it. Those of you who are Nims fans will be pleased to know that the new, longer project I’m working on is a second Nims novella, featuring Mrs. Galloway and expanding on their working relationship.

“Oh, poo,” cooed Mrs. Galloway, “aren’t you adorable when you’re in a pet?”

The widow smiled. “I think the gentleman doth protest too much…”

Copyright Amy Frushour Kelly 2006, all rights reserved, etc.

Mr. Bloom smiled brightly when he entered Accounting. “Nims, I’ve hired you an assistant. This is Mrs. Galloway,” he added, stepping aside to admit a rather voluptuous woman with hair of an improbable shade and tortoiseshell spectacles. “I know you’ve been very busy lately. Mrs. Galloway will be a great help to you. She can sit at your spare desk. I’ll have Gus bring a typewriter around this afternoon.”

Mr. Nims looked up from his ledger. “Beg pardon?”

The General Manager indicated Mrs. Galloway. “This is your new assistant, Helen Galloway.”

Nims frowned. “Assistant? For what?”

“To help you, you silly goose,” Mrs. Galloway tittered, revealing enormous teeth. “Oh, isn’t he just adorable? You go on, Mr. Bloom, I think we’ll get along just famously.” She adjusted Mr. Nims’ green visor, which sat backwards on his head.

“Don’t touch my visor, please.” Mr. Bloom had already left the office. Nims apprised Mrs. Galloway warily. “If you’ll just sit at the spare desk quietly, I must return to my work.”

Mrs. Galloway seated her plump derriere on the wooden chair and adjusted her green dress over her ample décolletage. “Adorable, that’s what you are. Why, you remind me of my dear departed Herbie. That’s my husband. He’s deceased. Is your name Herbie, by any chance? It’d be just perfect if it was.”

“…point eight zero six. Beg pardon?”

“Is your name Herbie?”

Mr. Nims squinted. “No. Good heavens, no. What a silly name. Please hush, madam. I am completing a rather complicated—”

“Zip the lip? Don’t you fret, I won’t say another word.” Mrs. Galloway mimed a zipper across her scarlet lips. “You do what you need to do, and I’ll just tidy up our cozy little office.”

“Hmmph,” Nims replied skeptically.

Mrs. Galloway fluttered around the room, straightening piles of papers and clucking in distaste at the dust on the file cabinets. She shoved a folder under the little accountant’s nose. “Where does this go?”

Nims sneezed. “I don’t know. Just leave it on the cabinet. I’ll get to it later.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Galloway opened the window. “This place could use a little fresh air. Have you ever been married, Mr. Nims?”

“What? No, of course not. Look, I’m rather busy—will you please stop that?”

Mrs. Galloway finished straightening the little accountant’s bowtie and pinched his cheek for good measure. “What a handsome man you are. So strong and authoritative.”

“If we are to share an office, Mrs. Galloway, please cease using quite such an abundance of perfume,” Nims choked. “It is rather overpowering.”

Mrs. Galloway smiled. “You noticed! Do you like it? It’s very expensive.” She giggled girlishly, then caught sight of the box on the windowsill. “Ooh, what’s in there?”

“My pet, Sir Galahad. Must you insist on interrupting my—”

A frightening sound came from Mrs. Galloway’s lips, and suddenly she was cowering atop the spare desk. “Ooh! A cockroach! A cockroach!”

“Oh, do shut up,” said Mr. Nims, and went back to his work.

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Mr. Nims licked his pencil. Receipts had been deducted in error—it was up to him to figure out where. He scanned the spreadsheet, pencil poised, ever ready to ferret out the errant digits.

He sighed testily at the sound of someone entering of the Accounting office. “Yes, yes, what is it? I’m busy!” he cried.

“Nnnngh,” moaned the lone figure standing on the threshold, carrying a briefcase.

Nims shook his head. “From the agency, are you? Well, have a seat at the spare desk,” he said, gesturing toward the empty chair. “But I shall have you know that the last temporary the agency sent got an entire column of deductions wrong and sent everything awry. So you must understand, I have no choice but to insist that you use an adding machine. There’s one on the desk there—aren’t you going to sit down?”

“Nnnngh,” replied the temporary.

“Oh! You prefer the drafting table? Well, I suppose you might as well.” Nims stood up and courteously offered his stool. “I was going to spread out my papers here on the desk, anyway. I’m Mr. Nims, the Chief Accountant, incidentally. And you are…?”

“Braaaains,” moaned the temporary.

“Ah. Pleased to met you, Mr. Brains—”

“Braaaains!”

“Oh! Beg pardon, Mr. Braaaains. What an interesting name. Is it Dutch? Now, your assignment today will be to call out entries from this record of disbursements.”

The temporary rocked back and forth on his stool. “Burse…ments…”

“Correct, disbursements,” agreed the little accountant. “What we’re looking for is any disbursement that doesn’t match these receipts. Just circle any record that doesn’t match, and check off the ones that do.”

The temporary smacked his hand on the drafting table with a wet sound. “Burse…ments…”

Mr. Nims beamed. “By gum, I believe you’ve done this before. Isn’t that right, Mr. Braaaains?”

“Nnnngh,” the temporary replied.

“Well!” Mr. Nims stood with his hands on his hips. “A temporary with accounting experience! What a nice surprise.”

“Nims, look out!”

The little accountant whirled to find Gloria the secretary standing in the doorway, holding her typewriter over her head. She charged forth and smashed the typewriter into the temporary’s head.

Mr. Nims clucked disapprovingly. “Really, Gloria! That’s no way to treat a co-worker!”

Disbelieving, Gloria kicked the temporary. “Nims, you fathead, that was a zombie!”

“He’s not a Zombie, he’s a Dutchman!”

Gloria pressed her fingers to her temples. “I’m sorry, Nims, but do you know what a zombie is?”

The little accountant sighed testily. “I don’t care! He could be from Boola Boola, for all I care! Honestly, Gloria, do you know how hard it is to find a good temporary these days?”

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.