Cook the Books

social-work student, I did my best not to call attention to myself, lest the dean expel me for failure to show even the slightest hint of enthusiasm for my impending profession.
    I blamed my lack of militant devotion on my dead uncle Alan, who had inserted an infuriating clause into his will that made my inheritance contingent on the completion of a graduate program. Any graduate program. I could hear his desperation from the grave. I found it mildly insulting that my uncle had thought so little of my professional drive that he’d had to manipulate me into pursuing higher education. Having chosen social work on a whim, I’d regretted the choice almost every day since. My few bursts of interest had been short lived. I’d made few friends at school, undoubtedly because my fellow students smelled my loathing for social work. Also, I consistently failed to show up at the state house for various protests, and I avoided letter-writing “parties” where I was expected to devote hours to composing thoughtful or irate letters to senators and representatives. I refused to study in the library, which I entered only when necessary and which I fled as soon as possible. I could practically hear my classmates groan when I was assigned to one of their study groups, since I was unable to speak passionately about topics such as narrative therapy and ethics in medical settings.
    My dissatisfaction increased when an Internet search revealed that instead of enduring the classes that I hated, I could have enrolled at what were probably nonexistent universities that offered interestingly titled online courses that would have required no interaction with anyone: “You Can’t Make Me! Highly Effective Treatments for Resistant Clients” and “Can We Meet at Starbucks? Clients and Ethical Issues.” I loved the idea of courses with dialogue in the titles, but my school offered no such inspiring classes. As I hated to admit, there were, however, elements of school that I enjoyed. Granted, most of my courses this semester had generic, meaningless names like “Working Across Boundaries” and “Using Theories in Social Work.” Consisting as it did of vague concepts, the content of the courses made it easy to write essays. But I did enjoy some of my studies. My class on attachment had been quite interesting, and the class on working with individuals was coming in handy at my internship at the mental health center, so there were moments when I didn’t cuss out my program. Not many moments! But a few. Still, my strategy was to keep my head down and barrel ahead as I awaited the arrival of my May graduation. As much as I disliked school, I also couldn’t accept doing poorly, so I busted my hump to get good grades.
    As for my job, I stayed up late every night that week working on Kyle’s box of chicken-scratch writing. Touched by his desperate desire to present the evidence of capable work to his famous father, I dutifully transcribed all of his notes and recipes, and I spent an excessive amount of time converting scrawled bits of chef interviews into coherent paragraphs. The file on my computer was growing, but it was nowhere near close to being book length. At the end of every day, I e-mailed Kyle the number of hours I had worked. On Friday afternoon, when I received an overnighted envelope with a check made out to me from Hank Boucher’s office, I blinked and read the amount again. I hadn’t added up my hours in my head, but the number was much bigger than I’d expected.
    At seven o’clock on that same Friday night, I took the T and went to meet Kyle at the Italian restaurant he’d chosen, Contadino’s. It was so cold out that I was glad I’d worn my puffy down parka, but why I’d bought a white parka was beyond me. I should’ve known that it would have a one-in-six-million chance of staying white for long. But the cute fake-fur collar had suckered me in. Standing outside the restaurant, I crossed my arms to stay warm and stared in the window at a neon sign that beckoned me to come in and try the Al YOU CAN EAT P ST . SO the sign was missing a few letters. That was okay. And the dirty windows could be cleaned. Despite the frumpy exterior, the place deserved a shot; it was exactly the kind of hole-in-the-wall that might serve up fantastic fare. The door squeaked loudly as I entered what honesty forces me to call the ratty restaurant. I cringed at the worn carpet and red pleather booths. Plastic leather would’ve been bad