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.