THE LAST FEW YEARS, Del had come to dread his meetings with Grant Pevely, his accountant. Yes, Del hired the guy to keep his books intact, but Pevely interpreted it as getting paid to worry. Del appreciated his efforts, but his accountant approached life from the opposite end of the positive-negative spectrum. He could picture Pevely as a teenager in the backseat of his car, a girl melting beneath a romantic, full moon, waiting for his hands to cup her breasts. Pevely, ever the pessimist, would sit there and list a host of reasons why the moon didn’t look as bright as it would if it hung lower in the sky. Meanwhile, the girl was pulling her top back down. His point was accurate but he’d squandered life’s latest opportunity.
Every day, without exception, Pevely wore a suit and tie to the office. He wore his tie in the same double-thick knot he’d worn years ago—the same plaid ties, too, if Del wasn’t mistaken—and a black pin-striped suit. Balding in the back, the accountant maintained an otherwise-full head of gray hair and, to this day, spent countless hours at his desk. His eyes appeared dark and heavy, droopy like a bulldog’s, and his jowls had grown more prominent. The man always looked one week away from a heart attack. He was a gem, though. They had done business together since Del’s heyday and had, over the course of time, developed a semblance of friendship. Or trust.
The accountant spoke in an even tone that dripped with rationality. “Del, I’ve been going through your books, preparing for tax season…”
Here we go again. The annual spiel. At the other side of Pevely’s desk, Del sank back in the visitor’s chair, the cushions of which felt like foam infused with newspaper scraps. Del shielded his eyes with one hand and began to massage his temples with the thumb and middle finger of his other hand.
“Do we have tax issues?” Del interrupted.
“No, you’re in good shape in terms of taxes, the legality side. Being selective with the roles you choose has limited your employment income. One benefit that brings is to reduce your adjusted gross income, but—”
“It’s not a bad thing to owe less in taxes, Pevely.”
“—but, that benefit is a technicality.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you can’t consider it a permanent fixture in your life, Del.”
“I’ve survived this way for thirty years. The money’s there.”
“Unfortunately, it’s not there to the same extent it was thirty years ago—”
“The bills are getting paid.”
“Yes, but the question is, how long can you afford to pay them?”
“We have this conversation every year, Pevely.”
“I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t make you aware of this.”
“And your expertise is duly noted,” Del volleyed in return. “Hollywood is a cutthroat business, but I’m a survivor.”
“I understand that, and I certainly respect where you’re coming from.” Pevely pinched the bridge of his nose before putting on his reading glasses, the half-height type that allowed him to peer over the top of their black frames as he spoke. He removed some paperwork from a manila folder and gave a few pages another perusal. Then he laced together his fingers atop his desk and looked up at his client. His forehead creased.
Del saw hesitation in the man’s eyes. That wasn’t typical.
“Del, do you know what other people your age are doing right now?”
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
“Give me a place, Pevely.”
The accountant sighed. “Rapid City,” he offered with a halfhearted wave of one hand.
“South Dakota?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“So these are normal people.”
“Yes. Average, everyday people. Do you know what they’re doing right now?”
“Playing shuffleboard at a retirement home?”
“I’d imagine some are doing that, if it makes them happy. But many others are taking advantage of each year, living life to the fullest. They’re cruising around the Caribbean, traveling to Europe, venturing state to state to explore wineries. These are happy people, Del. And they don’t have financial concerns. At least, not beyond the norm. These people worked regular jobs in an office or business their entire careers, yet they live their lives in a way they never could while they were working. They maintain the same standard of living to which they’d grown accustomed before they retired. And do you know how they can afford to do that?”
“Beats the hell out of me. Investments? Good advice from an accountant, I suppose.”
“Yes, and that accountant advised them to plan ahead—not simply the next few years, but for the decades to come. On a gradual basis, they conserved funds, made wise investments, spent less so their nest egg would last the rest of their lives.”
“Look, I understand what—”
Pevely lifted a hand. “Just hear me out. Please, Del. As you know, I’ve recommended a similar strategy for you since you were sixty-five years old. Steps you could take that would allow you to maintain a standard of living to which you’ve grown accustomed. But Del, you’re no longer sixty-five. You’re seventy-eight years of age. And you’re in terrific health, which means we can expect you to look forward to many happy years ahead—but you need finances intact to do so.”
“The royalty checks haven’t stopped coming in.”
“True, but those films are older now, and less in demand. The royalty checks have continued, but the dollar amounts have decreased. Inflation, meanwhile, continues to rise, which increases your cost of living. If this trend continues, royalties alone won’t be sufficient down the road.”
“That’s why we made all those investments—real estate, for example.”
“Yes, but as you might recall, we had a couple of recessions the last twenty years. And the recession of 2008 continued for many years. Some would argue we still hadn’t recovered eight years later, despite the White House’s spin. When the housing bubble burst, it didn’t just affect home values and families. People spent less. Businesses contracted, they stopped hiring, stopped expanding. They weren’t renting or buying as much property. Remember, you chose to sell many of those real estate investments at a loss—against my recommendation—in order to obtain an inflow of cash to last you for the foreseeable future, rather than accept those project offers from Hallmark.”
Perspiration broke out along Del’s upper lip.
Pevely paged through more paperwork. “You also liquidated a large percentage of your savings, which was built primarily upon your royalties, which is the reason you don’t have as much to fall back on today.”
“So what are you telling me, Pevely?”
“You need to cut back,” his accountant replied, emphasizing each word. “Significantly.”
Del felt heartburn settle in. His neck felt feverish. “Look, Pevely, you and I both know the entertainment business is unpredictable. People have comebacks.”
“And I don’t disagree, but you can’t count—”
“These roles come unexpectedly, and circumstances turn around for the better with the right film. It happens in a heartbeat—”
“Del.” Pevely’s voice remained steady, but Del noticed something unusual in its force: resolve. Severity, perhaps?
Del stopped talking and watched his accountant like a hawk.
Pevely removed his reading glasses and folded them. He glanced down at the paperwork once again, tapped it with the edge of his frames, then focused his attention on Del. Pevely looked exhausted.
“Del, how long have you and I have known each other?”
“Forty-something years. Why?”
“And in all that time, I’ve met you halfway. Even when you opted against my advice, we found a way to make it work. But I’ve always been honest with you.”
“Of course you have.”
Pevely leaned forward and pursed his lips. “I’m telling you this as a friend, Del.” He placed his palms flat on the desk, which was Pevely’s typical gesture whenever he was adamant about something. It was Del’s signal to listen up. The accountant kept his voice reserved yet firm. “You need to cut back. Drastically. Not next year. Not tomorrow. Now.”