| Zombies of the North Pole and Other Unfortunate Tales | Copyright © 1997 by David Bryant |
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CAREER DAY
byDavid Bryant  "... and that's pretty much what I do all day," said Mr. Ogilvy. He grinned and pushed his fireman's helmet back on his head. The words "Career Day" were scrawled in chalk across the blackboard behind him.
"Oh, children," Miss Arbogast gushed. "Wasn't that wonderful? Mr. Ogilvy is so brave!" She applauded prettily.
Mr. Ogilvy beamed.
Oh, brother, thought Mr. Smith, wedged uncomfortably into a tiny desk in the back of the classroom. Why don't those two get a room?
Miss Arbogast turned to the children. "Does anyone have a question for Mr. Ogilvy?"
A half-dozen eight-year-old hands went up.
Miss Arbogast pointed. "Timmy? What is your question?"
Timmy ducked his head shyly and lowered his hand. "Um, have you ever save anybody's life?"
Mr. Ogilvy laughed manfully. "Well, sure I have, Timmy. It's part of the job."
"Wow!"
"A genuine hero!" said Miss Arbogast.
I'm going to be physically ill, thought Mr. Smith. He looked at his watch. How much longer do I have to put up with this puerile crap?
Miss Arbogast was asking for other questions. "Yes, Melissa?"
"Did you ever rescue a kitty from a tree, Mr. Ogilvy?"
"As a matter of fact," said Mr. Ogilvy, "I helped retrieve a kitten from a big sycamore tree on the way over here this morning." He pulled up his left sleeve. "She wasn't very grateful, though. As you can see, she scratched me up pretty good."
The classroom was filled with young oohs and ahhs. Miss Arbogast quieted them. "Thank you so much, Mr. Ogilvy."
The fireman took her hand and kissed it gallantly. "My pleasure," he said.
Every girl in the room squealed, Miss Arbogast included. She nervously composed herself as Mr. Ogilvy strode to the back of the class and sat down.
"Our second speaker is Mr. Smith, who's also going to tell us about his work." She gestured toward him.
Mr. Smith grabbed his briefcase, stood up, and walked slowly to the front of the classroom. On the way, he noted that Miss Arbogast's face was still slightly flushed. Idiotic slut, he thought. Aroused by that simian buffoon. They deserve each other. He turned to face the class and smiled broadly.
"Good morning, children," he said. "My name is Mr. Smith, and I'm a CPA. That stands for Certified Public Accountant." The young faces looked at him blankly. "Does anyone know what an accountant is?"
Timmy shot his hand up. "Is it a kind of policeman?"
"Well, in a way... an accountant is a kind of number policeman. What I do is make sure that the profits and losses of businesses add up properly."
Mr. Ogilvy smirked from the back of the classroom. Miss Arbogast tried to look interested. The children were baffled. Even the photograph of President Eisenhower on the back wall seemed puzzled.
Mr. Smith began again. "Let me try to explain it this way," he said. He took a fountain pen from his shirt pocket. "Let's say I want to buy this pen from the stationery store. The store paid, oh, twelve dollars for it. They sell it to me for fifteen dollars. That's a profit of three dollars. They write down those numbers and at the end of the month I check all of those numbers and make sure they add up right."
A little girl said, "That doesn't sound like it's very hard."
Mr. Ogilvy barely suppressed a laugh.
Mr. Smith frowned. "Well, it's a lot more complex than that. There's taxes, of course, and payroll, and rent, and all sorts of things."
"It sounds really boring," said Timmy.
"Timmy!" said Miss Arbogast. "Be polite." She smiled at Mr. Smith apologetically. "I'm so sorry. Please go on."
Mr. Smith sighed. "No, he's right," he said. "It is boring." He turned the pen over in his hands. Screw it, he thought.
Looking up suddenly, he asked, "Do any of you know what a cover story is? No? A cover story is what a CIA agent is given to help him blend into a community without being detected. Say an agent has a special job to do, like quietly killing a foreign spy that's been selling atomic secrets to the communists. In order to make sure that no one knew the agent was an assassin, the CIA would give him all the papers he needed to pass as something really boring, like a milkman or an accountant. Something that wouldn't attract attention."
"Just like you!" said a blond boy.
"Yes, exactly like me." Mr. Smith held up the pen. "You know," he said, "this fountain pen actually cost a lot more than fifteen dollars." He unscrewed the cap and pointed the pen at Mr. Ogilvy.
The fireman got to his feet. "Hey, what kind of--"
The pen made a faint thwip sound. Mr. Ogilvy clutched his neck.
"Urk," he said, his eyes bulging out of their sockets horribly. Pink saliva dribbled out of his mouth. As the children watched in horror, Mr. Ogilvy pitched over backwards, splintering his chair. He twitched for a few seconds, then was still. A stink of feces and urine filled the air.
Miss Arbogast stared wildly at Mr. Ogilvy's corpse, and then at Mr. Smith. "Oh, my God," she said.
"The toxin is extracted from the skin of a South American tree frog," said Mr. Smith. "It's very expensive." He looked her in the eye. "You know, some people risk their lives for their country every day, but because they do it in secret, pretty schoolteachers never call them 'hero'."
Her eyes widened. "Oh, no," she said.
"I'm afraid so," he said.
The pen went thwip.
The children huddled together, crying.
"Let's see what's in my briefcase, shall we?" asked Mr. Smith brightly. He flipped the latch and opened the case. "This", he said, pulling out a rubber-and-glass contraption, "Is a gasmask designed especially for biological warfare." He slipped it over his head, then picked up an anonymous-looking spraycan from the briefcase.
The children wailed at his gargoyle-like appearance. "What are you going to do?" cried Melissa.
"My cover is now what is called 'blown'", he said, "so I'm going to spray the problem away with this little can of fast-acting bacteria. Your parents will be told you all died from food poisoning. Bad fish sticks in the cafeteria. Don't worry, it won't hurt much." He began spraying the room with the deadly microorganisms.
"B-but I don't want to die!" gasped little Timmy. Flecks of foam gathered at the corners of his mouth.
"Sorry, kid," said Mr. Smith, voice muffled by the gasmask. "That's the price of democracy."
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