The Job

[Treadwell]

Thus, as Genny makes her way for the exit, a smiling Aloisius Horatio Treadwell slips off to sleep where he sits. This certainly isn't ideal for his back or any other part on him, but she'll be hearing the rumbles of his snores resuming almost as soon as she makes her way outside.

Ahhhh, sleep!

[Tolleson]

There seemed to be a stone in her stomach making it impossible to enjoy the cool sweetness of an early summer's day. It was nearly the solstice now and somehow she'd managed to completely forget about the flowers and festivals of childhood, reminded only by the heat that it was at hand at all. Genny slipped into the kitchen with barely a stir. There was a slight rustle of the basket on the counter as she gently unloaded her goods; every motion taken with care, hoping not to wake anyone in the Treadwell household with her arrival.

It was a veritable sea of pies, eight of them and all of reasonable size nearly falling off the counters for all the space they took laid side by side. Each was a different sort, all of them sweet pies; blueberry, blackberry, raspberry, strawberry, apple, peach, all-berry, and even a lemon meringue. After all it wasn't the season for pecan, pumpkin, or late-apple spice pies.

Once they were laid out with pride she set to straightening a few items, counting the herbs, and checking the supply of the stomach quelling tonic which at this rate would last until the first snow. However, none of the tasks could occupy her attentions and so she paced, waiting for Treadwell to stir so she might bring up the promotion Mr. Burnie had so eloquently suggested she would be stupid not to seek.

[Treadwell]

A warbling, wobbling yawn accompanies the lumbering plodding of a heavy body and heavy feet. Those heavy feet are assisted by the thunk of a wooden cane, and around the corner from the kitchen comes a tired, bleary-eyed, blinking Aloisius Treadwell, still wearing his bright yellow, one-piece jumper pajamas that fit more snugly than most would care to see on his round body. A lit pipe puff-puffs in his mouth, leaving a trail of smoke behind his head as he toddles into the kitchen, sniff-snuffling for the pies just brought into the house.

In the open arch leading from the kitchen to the hall that leads ultimately to his bedroom and his library, a wide-eyed Tready coughing-wheezing plods to a stop. Out comes that usually squeaky, elderly yip of a surprised voice.

"Mmph mmph! Hullo, dearie! I, err," he pauses, staring down at his gut with its fleshy rings bulging visibly through his pajamas, "I offer you an apology, hmm hmm! I reckon I should find me some proper clothing, yes yes! I'll, umm, be back in a moment!"

With that, a blushing Aloisius turns to waddle-shuffle hurriedly back toward his bedroom, the smoke from his pipe coming in fits and pursy spurts.

[Tolleson]

A rush of red flooded her cheeks and with feigned modesty she would look away, "Goo... Good morning Sir." Like her limbs, too long and tripping over one another, bruised and bumbling her words were unsure. "I... I didn't mean to.... I," she was trying to explain but her words had trailed off and by the time she'd returned her eyes to where Treadwell had been standing the man was gone.

Licking her lips, biting them as she wrung her hands she went over the words in her head. Rehursing the lines again and again as she had wrote them the night before. 'Mr. Treadwell, I should very much luck to be promoted to mind your taxes. I enjoy my work here but feel my services in accounting may better suit you and my talents alike.' Looking down at her hands she attempted to repeat the lines but noticed her fingers tembling. It was more than that, her hands, her arms, even her lips.

Her brother would have never been so nervous, her hands balled into fists angrily at the thought.

[Treadwell]

After a short wait (which would have been longer had Aloisius not awoken his beloved Alice with a flurried flapping of nervously fluttering hands against his belly on returning to their bedroom), Councilor Treadwell comes toddling back, his walking cane in his left hand and his bright yellow, Tubbian robe covering his body. "Allie," his wife had declared in her own elderly squeak, "you don't have time to squeeze your big behind into a suit, what with her waiting on you in the kitchen, and you want something that matches your pajamas. . . . Ooooh! Just put on your robe you wear to church every week, but don't start trying to preach to her!"

Thus, with that settled (and a bit of squirming and wriggling), Aloisius Treadwell was dressed, huff-puffing still at his pipe, and plodding back into his kitchen. On his arrival, a handkerchief gets flaflapped out of a pocket of his robe to dab at the sweat that's popped up on his face and started filming up rather freely there.

"So, mmph mmph! Errrm. . . Terribly sorry about that, yes yes! What, err, what can I do for you, dearie?" There he stands, in his own fast-forming cloud of smoke, with his beady little eyes flitting obviously but rapidly toward the multitude of pies. Even if the furtive glances weren't noticed, the absent-minded suckling in of drool and the rolling rumbling of his stomach were certainly much more visible and audible.

[Tolleson]

"Oh... well... I'm," frustrated with herself she took a deep breath and smiled nervously. "I really am sorry to have troubled you so early," there was a moment of thought while she tried to recall just how early it was, but also because she'd instantly forgotten everything she'd meant to say.

"I uh... well Mr. Burnie thinks," she shook her head to herself, looking back up to notice that her boss was eying the pies. That had helped and she had known it would in one way or another. That his eyes were not on hers made it easy to remember why she was here. Remembering why getting promoted, working her way higher was so important she looked up at him whether or not his eyes found hers amongst all the delicious pies or not.

With an iota of confidence she began fresh, "I should like to mind your figures... er... taxes ...and the sort. I'm certain I would be good at it... and of course I could still help Alice." Though they had hardly needed her with the warm summer weather chasing away the runny noses and winter cold. Still stiff as a board, yet trembling like a feather on a breeze; Genny was a statue about to crumble.

"I am not dull... I've gone to school," doubtful he would take that to mean a university but all the same it was not a lie. "...And I am sure Mr. Burnie would be of assistance," that however, was a lie not even she believed as she spoke the words.

Baking pies may have been a strange way to show she was entirely capable as an accountant but in this particular instance, with this most tubby councilor, it certainly seemed like the best way to gain his favor.

[Treadwell]

"Splendid! I'm quite sure I can have you looked over, hmm hmm, err, excuse me, look over my account books to see if you can make sense of my taxkeeping notations! I could certainly use a little help in keeping Myrken's taxes and such all straight!" He lowers his squeaky, whistly voice and chuckles. "I wear a lot of hats, love. You might think with as much work as I do that I'd be a frail little stick like loony old Tom Breckenridge, but, well, it seems I'm blessed toward other ends!" A glance at his behind sets him quite merrily giggling. "Well, at least one end in particular!"

Thus, Treadwell squeakily closes in on the offered pies. "But all that can certainly wait a bit! I'm hungry, mmph mmph, and I reckon you could say the same! Alice is in our bedroom, asleep with the baby and our two fat little toddlers all in our bed, so we don't, hmm hmm, have to save her any of this, now, do we?" A grin, wide and mischievous, sets those fleshy, oily jowls, so nearly hidden away under the cloud of gray smoke and white facial fluff, to jiggling madly.