THE ACCOUNTANT by Howard Feigenbaum

Henry heard the sound of drops falling on leather. He looked at his left foot. Yellow splashes ran down the sides of his new Florsheims.

“What the hell are you doing? You pissed on my shoe.” He stepped back from the urinal while addressing the man to his right.

“Sorry ’bout that, buddy. I’m havin’ a rough day. My girl left me. I guess I had one too many beers. My aim was off.”

“Well, how about cleaning your piss off my shoe?”

“I didn’t mean to, just an honest mistake.” He stared at his neighbor’s shoe before raising his gaze. “It’s your shoe, right?”

“Are you saying that I’m responsible for wiping your piss off my shoe?”

“I guess I am.”

The heavy-set man, dressed in a plaid work shirt and khakis, towered over Henry. He glanced at Henry and smirked before pivoting and heading toward one of two sinks.

Henry’s lips tightened. He hiked up his zipper and took six steps to the other sink. His peripheral vision caught the man’s visage in the mirror’s reflection. “What if we share the job? I’ll give you a paper towel, and you can reclaim your errant piss. Then I’ll do a quick once-over with a damp towel. We can both leave happy.”

“You gotta be effing kidding.”

“No. I’m serious.” Henry kept his eyes on the man’s reflection. “I can tell you’re not happy with my suggestion. Do you have a better idea?”

“I don’t need a better idea. The problem’s yours, asshole.” His smirk reappeared.

Henry’s brow furrowed. “There’s no need for name-calling. Now, you’ve made me feel bad.”

The man waited for a paper towel to appear from the slot in the automatic towel dispenser.

“Listen,” Henry said, “all you have to do is run a paper towel over the front of my shoe.”

“What if I don’t? What are ya gonna do about it? Complain to the manager?”

“I’ll call my lawyer.”

“For accidently peeing on your shoe?”

“For refusing to wipe it off.”

“I don’t think so.”

Henry’s spine stiffened. “You trespassed on my personal property and harmed the leather’s finish. The shoe’s not in the same condition it was before you pissed on it. I’ll sue you for property damage. These Florsheim wingtip Oxfords cost $200. They’re brand new. You’ve decreased their value. Do you know what urine can do to leather if left unattended?”

“You mean you’re not going to clean it up yourself?”

Henry shook his head. He reached for his cell phone and photographed his wet shoe and the man, with the urinal in the background. “Okay, I have all the evidence I need. I guess we’ll have to take care of this the hard way.”

“What the hell are you doing? Give me that phone!” The shoe-pisser lunged forward, grabbing for the phone.

Henry shoved his free hand into the man’s face, pressing the side of his rigid index finger against the area between the nostrils and the upper lip while he slipped his phone into a shirt pocket.

The man halted in his tracks. Pressure against the front of his skull kept him from advancing. “Cut it out!”

“Retreat!” Henry said and pulled his finger away. “Pretty neat move, eh? My Uncle Charlie, a guard at Riker’s Island Prison, taught me that.”

“Look, man, what do you want?” He rubbed the sore spot under his nose. “I don’t want any trouble.”

Henry beckoned the man closer. “A sincere apology would be a good place to start. After that, we settle this dispute like two civilized human beings. Okay?”

The man nodded. “I’m sorry. I should’ve taken responsibility for what I did. And, I shouldnt’ve called you a name.” He paused. “If I wipe the piss off your shoe, are things settled between us?”

“Yes,” Henry said. “No hard feelings?”

The shoe-pisser nodded. He reached for two paper towels.

     “What’s your name?” Henry asked.

     “I’m Walter.” He bent over and wiped the urine from Henry’s shoe. “I’ll throw in a rinse and dry.”

     “Thank you, Walter. When you’re done, please wash your hands so we can shake. You’re a bigger man than I thought you were. What do you do for a living?”

     “I’m a contractor.”

     “My name’s Henry. I’m an accountant.”

     “You’re tougher than you look, Henry.”

     “You know what they say about book covers.”

     Walter grinned. “I’m beginning to like you, Henry. Whatta you say we have a few beers. It’s on me.”

     “I appreciate your gesture, Walter. I think we should have coffee instead—at least until your aim improves. It’s on me.”