Auditing the Past

Dinner that Monday evening was thick with unspoken tensions. Kaizer picked at his pot roast, acutely aware of his father, Thomas, sitting at the head of the table, radiating a familiar aura of weary disapproval. Tom hadn't specifically mentioned pool tonight, but his earlier comments about wasted time and Kaizer's preoccupation hung in the air like stale cigar smoke. Sarah, Kaizer's mother, tried to bridge the silence with questions about their respective days, but the conversation felt forced, punctuated by long pauses and Tom's monosyllabic replies as he mentally wrestled with whatever accounting demons plagued him.

Kaizer knew this was it. The window of opportunity, such as it was, would be after dinner, when his father inevitably retreated back to the dining room table, now commandeered as his satellite office, buried under intimidating stacks of files, ledgers, and overflowing shoeboxes filled with client receipts. The image was deeply familiar, stretching back through Kaizer's original childhood memories – his father, silhouetted against the lamplight, hunched over numbers, a bulwark against financial chaos, perpetually stressed, perpetually critical of any perceived frivolity, like, say, spending hours honing the physics-defying art of pocket billiards.

As soon as the plates were cleared (Kaizer helped his mother with uncharacteristic diligence, earning a surprised but pleased glance), Tom let out a heavy sigh and scraped his chair back. "Right," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Back to the salt mines. Henderson Realty's audit is going to kill me." He headed towards the dining room, already loosening his tie.

Sarah started gathering dishes. "Tom, you work too hard. You need a break."

"Break comes after tax season, Sarah," Tom called back, his voice muffled as he disappeared into the paper jungle. "Maybe."

This was Kaizer's cue. His heart hammered against his ribs, a nervous rhythm completely different from the adrenaline buzz of Benny's garage. Facing down Vince felt almost simpler than voluntarily walking into his father's domain, offering help in an area where Tom considered himself the sole, unimpeachable authority, and Kaizer… well, Kaizer was just the disappointing son obsessed with a disreputable game.

"Mom," Kaizer said, drying a plate with meticulous care. "Is Dad… really swamped?"

Sarah sighed, pausing her scrubbing. "More than usual. That Henderson account is a mess, apparently. The previous bookkeeper left things in shambles. Your father's been pulling late nights all week trying to make sense of it before the auditors arrive." She looked at Kaizer, a familiar worry line creasing her forehead. "Why do you ask?"

"Just… wondering," Kaizer said, stalling. "He seems stressed." He took a deep breath. "Maybe… maybe I could help him?"

Sarah stopped scrubbing altogether, turning to look at him fully, surprise evident on her face. "You? Help your father with accounting?" The idea seemed genuinely novel to her. "Kaizer, honey, that's… thoughtful of you, but it's complicated stuff. Tax codes, balance sheets… I don't think…"

"I know it's complicated," Kaizer interrupted gently, trying to project confidence. "But maybe just… organizing things? Sorting receipts? Filing? Basic stuff he probably hates doing but takes up his time?" He drew on vague memories of his father complaining about exactly those tasks. "I'm good at organizing," he added, a half-truth – his old life demanded meticulous tracking of wins, losses, expenses, stakes.

Sarah hesitated, considering. "Well… I suppose sorting receipts couldn't hurt. But your father… he can be particular. And he might just see it as you trying to avoid homework."

"I finished my homework," Kaizer lied smoothly. (He hadn't even opened his backpack, but the material was so rudimentary he felt confident he could wing it if asked). "Seriously, Mom. I just want to help him out if I can. He looks exhausted." He played the dutiful son card, hoping it resonated.

She studied him for another moment, then a small, hopeful smile touched her lips. "Alright. You can offer. Just… tread carefully, okay? Don't distract him if he's deep in concentration."

"Okay. Thanks, Mom." Armed with this tentative maternal endorsement, Kaizer took another deep breath and walked towards the dining room archway.

The scene within was exactly as predicted. Tom sat hunched under the overhead light, surrounded by literal mountains of paper. Files overflowed onto chairs, shoeboxes crammed with faded receipts formed precarious towers on the floor, and the large dining table was barely visible beneath layers of ledgers, printouts, and sticky notes. The air smelled of old paper, ink, and stressed middle-aged man. Tom had his reading glasses perched on his nose, brow furrowed as he compared a long column of numbers in a ledger to a crumpled bank statement, occasionally muttering curses under his breath.

Kaizer paused in the archway, momentarily intimidated by the sheer scale of the chaos and the intensity of his father's focus. This felt like interrupting brain surgery.

"Dad?" he ventured quietly.

Tom didn't look up immediately. "What is it, Kaizer? I'm busy." His voice was curt, preoccupied.

"I know," Kaizer said, stepping fully into the room. "Mom mentioned you were swamped with the Henderson audit."

Tom grunted, still focused on his numbers. "Understatement of the year. This guy Henderson apparently thought 'filing system' meant 'throw it all in a box and hope for the best'." He scribbled something furiously on a notepad.

"Right," Kaizer said, taking another step closer. "Well… I finished my homework. And I was thinking… maybe I could help? With the basic stuff? Like, sorting all these?" He gestured towards a particularly menacing tower of shoeboxes overflowing with receipts. "Organizing them by date? Or category? Whatever would make it easier for you to input them later. Save you some time."

Tom finally looked up, peering at Kaizer over his glasses, his expression a mixture of surprise and deep skepticism. "You? Sort receipts?" He sounded incredulous. "Kaizer, this isn't cleaning your room. This is financial data. It needs to be accurate. Meticulous."

"I know, Dad," Kaizer insisted, meeting his father's skeptical gaze. He needed to project competence, overcome the ingrained image of the irresponsible kid. "I understand accuracy is important. Dates, vendor names, amounts, expense categories… I can handle it. I'm good with details when I focus." He conveniently omitted what kinds of details he usually focused on – cue ball spin, cushion angles, opponent tells.

Tom continued to stare at him, clearly unconvinced. "Since when are you interested in accounting details? Last I checked, your interests ran more towards smoky rooms and clicking balls." The familiar disapproval surfaced, sharp and pointed.

Kaizer felt the familiar sting but forced himself not to react defensively. This was the crux. He needed to bridge this gap. "Look, Dad," he said earnestly, stepping right up to the table, carefully navigating around a pile of folders. "I know you don't approve of… my other interests. And maybe I haven't been the most focused student lately." Understatement. "But I see how hard you're working, how stressed you are with this Henderson mess. I genuinely want to help. Let me just try sorting one box. If I mess it up, or if I'm too slow, I'll get out of your hair. No harm done. But if I can actually save you some time on the grunt work…" He let the sentence hang, implying the benefit to Tom.

His father fell silent, studying him intently. Kaizer could almost see the internal debate – the ingrained skepticism warring with the sheer exhaustion and the overwhelming volume of work surrounding him. Sorting receipts was tedious, time-consuming, soul-destroying work that Tom undoubtedly hated but had to do. Having someone else, even his seemingly unreliable son, tackle that mountain… it had to be tempting.

After a long, tense moment, Tom let out another heavy sigh, rubbing his temples. "Alright," he conceded, sounding weary rather than enthusiastic. "Fine. One box." He pointed towards a particularly dilapidated cardboard box overflowing with gas station receipts, crumpled invoices, and restaurant slips. "These are travel and entertainment expenses. Supposedly. From the last fiscal year. Sort them by month. Chronological order within each month. Clip each month's stack together. Put anything questionable or unreadable aside in a separate pile." He fixed Kaizer with a stern look. "And I mean meticulous, Kaizer. Every slip matters. Don't lose anything. Don't guess."

"Got it, Dad," Kaizer said, trying to keep the relief out of his voice. He'd gotten his foot in the door. "By month, chronological, questionable aside. Meticulous."

Tom grunted again, already turning back to his ledgers, dismissing Kaizer from his immediate focus but clearly intending to monitor his progress.

Kaizer pulled up an empty dining chair, careful not to disturb any paper towers, and dragged the heavy shoebox closer. He took out the chaotic mass of receipts. It truly was a disaster zone – crumpled, faded, some barely legible. This Henderson guy was an organizational nightmare.

He started sorting, his fingers surprisingly nimble. This wasn't so different from sorting through betting slips or tracking tournament expenses, just with different labels. He established piles for each month, carefully deciphering faded dates, using the context of nearby receipts when dates were unclear. He smoothed out crumpled slips, clipped them together neatly. He worked quickly, efficiently, his mind automatically categorizing, ordering, finding a rhythm in the seemingly chaotic task. Years of managing complex information under pressure, even if that information usually involved odds and payouts, had honed skills surprisingly applicable to accounting grunt work.

He worked in silence, acutely aware of his father occasionally glancing over, observing his progress. Kaizer didn't try to engage in small talk; he just focused entirely on the task, demonstrating through action rather than words. He filled the 'questionable' pile with receipts that were completely illegible, duplicates, or clearly personal expenses misfiled as business. His movements were economical, his piles neat, his progress steady.

After about forty-five minutes, he'd made a significant dent in the box. Several neat stacks, clipped by month, sat beside him, a stark contrast to the remaining jumble. The 'questionable' pile was also growing steadily.

Tom finished reconciling a particularly troublesome page in his ledger and leaned back in his chair, stretching. His eyes fell on Kaizer's work area. He leaned forward slightly, peering at the organized stacks, then at the remaining chaos in the box. He picked up one of Kaizer's clipped stacks – August – and flipped through the receipts. He checked the chronological order, scanned the amounts. He picked up another stack – July – and did the same.

He put the stacks down slowly, then looked at Kaizer, his expression shifting from skepticism to grudging surprise. "This is… actually organized," he admitted, sounding almost reluctant. "You separated the clearly personal ones too?" He pointed towards the questionable pile where Kaizer had placed a receipt from a toy store.

"Yeah," Kaizer confirmed. "Figured that wasn't 'travel and entertainment'. Put anything iffy there like you said."

Tom nodded slowly, looking back at the box, then at Kaizer again. "Alright," he said, a different note in his voice now. Less dismissal, more consideration. "You seem to have a handle on this. Keep going. Finish that box. Then maybe…" he gestured vaguely towards another looming tower of paper, "…we can talk about tackling the invoices."

Kaizer felt a surge of triumph, quickly suppressed. He'd passed the first test. He'd demonstrated competence. He hadn't mentioned money yet, but he'd laid the groundwork. "Okay, Dad," he said calmly, turning back to the receipts, resuming his sorting with renewed vigor.

He worked for another hour, his focus unwavering. The pile of sorted receipts grew steadily. His father worked alongside him in relative silence, occasionally asking Kaizer to find a specific receipt from the sorted stacks, which Kaizer located quickly, further reinforcing his efficiency. A strange, almost comfortable rhythm established itself between them, two figures hunched over paperwork under the dining room light, a shared task temporarily bridging the usual gap of misunderstanding and disapproval.

Finally, Kaizer clipped the last receipt into the December stack. The box was empty, replaced by twelve neat, chronologically sorted bundles and a smaller, ominous pile of questionable slips. He pushed the stacks towards his father. "First box done, Dad."

Tom looked up, surveyed the completed work, and nodded again, a hint of genuine appreciation softening his usual stern features. "Good work, Kaizer," he said simply. The praise, quiet as it was, felt like a thunderclap. His father rarely offered compliments, especially not to him. "That… that actually saves me a couple of hours. At least."

This was the moment. Kaizer took another internal breath. Time to make the pitch. "Glad I could help, Dad," he said sincerely. "Look… I know you're still buried under all this." He gestured at the remaining paper mountains. "If… if you wanted me to keep helping out? Sorting the other boxes, maybe even doing some basic data entry once I get the hang of it… I'd be willing to put in the time. Evenings, weekends." He paused, then plunged ahead. "And, uh… maybe we could work something out? Like, pay me a bit for the hours I put in? Help me save up for… stuff." He deliberately avoided mentioning the cue.

Tom looked at him sharply, the accountant's calculating gaze returning. "Pay you?"

"Yeah," Kaizer said, trying to sound reasonable, businesslike. "Like a part-time job. You get reliable help sorting this mess, saves you valuable time. I get some work experience, learn a bit maybe, and earn some money for… you know." He shrugged vaguely. "Computer parts. Books. Whatever."

His father leaned back, steepling his fingers, considering the proposition. Kaizer held his breath. This was it. Rejection now would be crushing, leaving him back at square one with the cue money.

"You did good work tonight," Tom said slowly. "Faster than I expected. More accurate." He tapped his fingers together. "And Lord knows I need the help with this Henderson disaster." He looked around at the overwhelming paperwork. "Alright, Kaizer. Here's the deal. You keep helping me out like this – accurately, efficiently, no slacking off – I'll pay you. Five bucks an hour. Fair?"

Five bucks an hour. Minimum wage back then was probably less. It was a fair offer. More than fair. Forty-two dollars needed. At five bucks an hour… he'd need to put in just over eight hours of work. Totally doable before the end of the week, especially if he worked a few hours each evening.

Relief, profound and overwhelming, washed through Kaizer. "Yeah, Dad," he said, a genuine smile finally breaking through. "Five bucks an hour sounds great. Fair. Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet," Tom grumbled, though without his usual harshness. "Earn it. Now, how about you start on that box of invoices?" He pointed to the next target.

"You got it, Dad," Kaizer said, already reaching for the invoice box, feeling lighter than he had in days. He had a path. A legitimate, father-approved path to the fifty dollars. The McDermott cue felt almost within his grasp. He just had to survive eight more hours buried in Henderson Realty's financial chaos. Compared to facing Vince or bluffing his way through life, sorting invoices suddenly seemed like a walk in the park.