by Carol Lewis-Powell
Oz sat at his desk, the moth-eaten velvet curtains behind him tightly closed against any interruptions. He had switched off the amplifier to save power. His sparse, grey and wiry hair, barely covered his scalp. Pausing, he used the stub of his pencil to dislodge some earwax and scratched his belly where the buttons of his waistcoat were missing.
Strung between the fake lever on The Machine and the opposite wall was a washing line where he had pegged receipts, which had been the casualty of the cup of tea he had knocked over. In front of him were various piles of yellowing paper, needing his attention.
The thought at the forefront of his mind was that he should never have left Scarecrow in charge. The stuffed idiot had sacked the accountant to reduce costs. And now Oz had been dragged back from Kansas to sort out the tangled nightmare of numbers before he could complete the tax return for the Emerald City Revenue Department.
The wages bill was crippling after the Witch from the East had been squished and the Munchkins had ended up on his payroll. There was a receipt for 200 tins of yellow paint, drying on the washing line. Did the road really need to be repainted this year? And did the witch’s broom need to have its bristles replaced? It wasn’t as though anyone was using it these days. Scarecrow was an idiot.
He dragged his cardigan from the back of the chair, ignoring the unravelling sleeves. Oz had turned the thermostat down low, even though he felt the cold these days. He had two pairs of socks on, which made his carpet slippers a little uncomfortable, so he wriggled his toes before pulling the nearest ledger towards him. Adjusting his glasses, he dislodged a dewdrop from the end of his nose with his sleeve. Using his finger to underline each entry, he started typing the numbers into the Comptometer. A sigh accompanied each action.
Did the heart-shaped watch and the medal count as an expense? He’d found them in an old cardboard box behind The Machine, so it was doubtful if he still had a receipt. The roll of paper chugged out the figures as it added them up. Eventually Oz tore off the paper. He had to squint at the bottom figure as the 40-watt overhead bulb produced only a dim light. The figures looked bad. Very bad. Something had to give.
Oz pushed the chair back and shuffled over to a table in the room’s corner and flicked the switch on the kettle. Tapping the pencil stub against his dentures, he didn’t notice the taste of earwax; he screwed up his eyes, trying to figure out what to do. He had brought the red shoes back with him and wondered if they might be worth something.
The rates still needed to be factored in and, gee, the council had certainly hiked them up this year. Then there were the electricity and gas bills, the cost of maintaining the giant head on the other side of the curtain, and his hot-air balloon! Toto had peed on the controls and it wasn’t firing properly. How much was that going to cost?
He needed to start his tax return soon and couldn’t do that until he’d sorted out all the receipts, outgoings, and expenses. Scarecrow had disappeared, so he was no help.
There was clearly only one thing he could do. The Munchkins had to go; it wasn’t just the wage bill and the national insurance payments; it was the food bills. For little people, they sure could eat. Oz thought most of them must be well over 65 by now so they could claim their state pension, and he wouldn’t have the additional worry of trying to find money for redundancy payments. Although he wasn’t entirely sure about the wisdom of letting loose unoccupied Munchkins in the Emerald City.
He removed the tea bag from the scale laced water it had been steeping in and flung it in the vague direction of the wastepaper basket. Shambling back to his desk, he placed the cup on the ledger, leaving a perfect tea-ring stain. Moving the chair to the end of the desk where his trusty Working Imperial typewriter sat, he added a fresh sheet of paper. Slowly, and with only two fingers, he composed a letter to the head of the Munchkins regarding their impending retirement.
With the letter completed, Oz felt better. He replaced the cover on the typewriter, patting it as he did so, and moved his chair back into position in front of the ledger, knocking his cup, which obligingly sloshed more tea. Folding the letter, he found an envelope, not noticing he had already addressed the front to his dentist. He tossed it into the chaos on his desk where it would slowly get buried as he moved paperwork around.
He located a phone directory and searched for a number. He was unsurprised to find that it was not toll free. The old black Bakelite sat to his right. Brushing off some receipts, he used the pencil stub to operate the rotary dial. Once the ringing tone started, he waited to be connected. A chirpy, high-pitched voice answered, ‘Witch of the West Accountancy Services. How may we be of help?’
Bio:
Carol comes from a Welsh background. She consumes copious amounts of tea, the odd glass of Merlot and often finds herself in rooms wondering why she went there. She has appeared in MetaStellar, Flame Tree Press and Flash Fiction Magazine.