In Over My Head

When the nice folks at the Wild Dunes Yacht Club asked me if I would be interested in becoming their new treasurer, I was quite pleased that they would think enough of me to hold out such an honor. After all, Lily and I had not been members for very long, and surely there were other deserving candidates out there. The club, which places a heavy -- some might say disproportionate -- emphasis on good time party events, seemed like a natural fit for us, and, if I could help steer the financial fortunes of the organization to help it party on, so much the better. I came to this calling buoyed by the knowledge that I had been the unofficial “banker” for years in our group houses in Rehoboth, figuring who owes what to whom, and so it seemed like a marriage made in heaven.

The current treasurer, Doug, an eminently affable and princely fellow had promised to take me through the contours of what his job entailed, and, after a few months of dithering, I finally arranged to meet with Doug at his home here to receive my tutorial. He lives barely three blocks away. We sat around the kitchen table where Doug displayed for me a binder that was half the size of Belgium and that contained fourteen metric tons of financial history, receipts, necessary forms and tables, and balance sheets that mark the backbone of any semi-serious organization. It was at that moment that I realized I had underestimated -- woefully -- the nature of what I was being asked to do. This was no beach house account where mere scribblings on a piece of scrap paper and approximations were the order of the day. This was the real deal. General Motors could not boast a much more thoroughly articulated set of books than what lay in front of me.

As Doug patiently led me through the various sections of this fabulous -- and endless -- tome, my anxieties rose in much the same way they might if I were in a line of skydivers and my time to jump into space was rapidly approaching. With each page of double entries, and with every introduction to a new form that the IRS would need to have, my throat tightened. Was this what I signed up for? Really? This was a job for crying out loud! Serious business! But -- wait a second -- I thought I was retired.

I must have reached critical mass. At some point -- I’m not sure exactly when -- I realized I was in WAY over my head notwithstanding Doug’s calm assurances that this was merely his way of doing the books and perhaps there could be other, less ritualistic, ways of performing the same overall tasks. Too late. My head was swimming amid an avalanche of receipts and inventory listings of wine bottles, club soda, and paper plates. I knew -- I just knew -- that whatever embarrassment I might suffer from backing out on my offer to become treasurer, a hasty retreat had to be trumpeted loudly.

And so, I decided I needed to tell Doug my decades old story of my first exposure to accounting. It went like this:

In my freshman year at Washington University, I was (inadvisably and temporarily) enrolled in the Business School. A required course in accounting was on the table for first semester freshmen. I struggled with this course as I had never struggled with a class previously. The material was so dry, so devoid of fun, excitement and adventure that I quickly developed a huge mental block any time I dared to dive into the material. I simply could not do it. It irritated my DNA. Thus, it came as no surprise that I flunked the mid-term which, as a newbie freshman, was the academic version of a death sentence. I went to see my professor, a kindly sort who was headed to retirement at the end of the school year. I pleaded with him to let me drop the course, but he refused since it was against university policy to allow a student to drop a course unless he or she had a C average. I winked and said, essentially, what’s the harm? Who’s to know? Just let me get out and escape to the finer pastures of the liberal arts curriculum where I so obviously belonged. My professor refused... but he did hold out an olive branch. He said, “Golland, I’ll make you a deal. Study hard for the final, do all your homework, attend all the classes, make an honest effort. If you show me any signs of intelligence, I will give you a C for the course and you can go off to a greater future in the liberal arts world.” How could I refuse? I studied hard -- as hard as I could for material that was as stimulating to me as a bowl of tepid oatmeal. I went to class, I took notes, I did the homework, I studied as well as I could for the final exam. And, by gosh, I thought I did pretty well.

A few days later I decided to go to my professor’s office to learn my fate. I knocked; he had me open the door. When he saw it was me, he said -- and for as long as I live I will never, ever forget his exact words -- “Golland, you showed me no signs of intelligence.” I died, right there on the spot. My future evaporated in front of my eyes. My GPA was doomed to mediocrity, at best. Then, as if the Greek gods themselves intervened at that that very moment, my professor said that out of his desire (more accurately, pity) not to derail my college experience so prematurely he decided to give me a C for the course despite everything. It was a retirement gift to me from the soon to depart professor. The blood slowly came back to my ashen face. I dodged a bullet -- big time. But, lest there be any lingering doubts, business, and more particularly, accounting, would not be in my future. Ever.

Doug smiled. He knew at that moment that the gig was up. He knew he would have to find another candidate to be treasurer. For my part, I had dodged another bullet, this one almost a half century later.

I left Doug’s house and smiled, so glad I had overcome my fear of the embarrassment I would feel for having let folks at the Yacht Club believe I would take the financial reins. I walked home barely feeling my weight. I was free. I would live to fight another day.