Benjamin Pennyworth considered himself a closet James Bond.

He felt certain he was a 007 agent yet to be discovered. Of course, he had no training, was small, mostly bald and didn't own a tuxedo. But in his mind he was another James Bond, just one headline away from fame.

It all came together one spring morning while walking to work at his bookkeeping job. A striking blonde appeared to be following him. He could sense her wanting to approach him. Perhaps plea for his help.

What would James Bond do? Of course, stop in front of a store window and pretend to be totally engrossed in whatever was on display. This would give her an opportunity to approach him while at the same time he could watch her every movement. If she had any evil intent in mind, he could twirl around and surprise her with a lighting attack.

He held his breathe as he watched her reflection hesitate. Then, as if finally making up her mind, she veered toward him and walked close to his back.

In a low throaty sexy whisper, she said, "Honey, you've got toilet paper stuck to the bottom of your shoe. And, trust me, you wouldn't like any of those things in the window."

Benjamin didn't know what to say. For several seconds he remained staring into the window without realizing it was filled with womens girdles.

He kept trying to see some hidden code in her message. But when he twisted around, he discovered a long length of toilet paper trailing behind him. The message had been just that. A message.

With a sigh he cleaned off his shoe and continued on to work. He had been so certain this was the day his inner James Bond would come out of the closet. But then, the day was just getting started. Maybe there was still an adventure ahead.

He entered the office building where he worked and approached the deli counter run by two matronly ladies. "Good morning, Benjamin," one of them greeted him. "Your usual this morning? One hot chocolate, stirred not shaken?" He had made some silly joke about his hot chocolate on a careless morning last month and they never failed to repeat it.

Just then, a tall heavy set man in a leather jacket shoved Benjamin aside. "I want a pastrami on rye, hold the mustard and give me all the cash in your drawer. I've got a knife and I won't hesitate to use it."

Benjamin knew this was his moment. Quickly, he shoved his hand inside his coat pocket and stuck out his forefinger. "Not so fast, buster," he said in a squeakier voice than he intended. "I've got a gun here and it's pointed right at you."

The man turned, looked at Benjamin and then Benjamin's coat pocket. Suddenly he smiled. Then he chuckled. Finally, he convulsed in laughter.

Benjamin looked down. He had forgotten to keep his hand in his pocket.

The man was now weak from laughter. "You win, pal. Forget the pastrami, ladies." And with that, he staggered out the door.

Now, the ladies were laughing. One of them pushed a hot chocolate across the counter and said, "Here you are, Mr. Bond. Stirred, not shaken. It's on the house."

By noon, everyone in the building knew that James Bond had been on duty that morning. Whenever he passed someone in the hall, they'd point their index finger at him and go, "Bang. Gotcha."

That afternoon, Mr. Simmons on the top floor sent for Benjamin to come to his office. Benjamin nervously took a seat in the executive vice president's office, expecting a severe reprimand for his silly actions that morning.

Mr. Simmons stared at him for at least a minute , then smiled and said, "So you're the one who pulled a gun on the would-be robber of the deli counter."

Benjamin started to protest. "I know. It was only a finger. But it still took nerve. I like that. I have a job for someone with your courage. There are thousands of dollars disappearing in this company every month. I don't know if it's from error or embezzlement. Your assignment, Mr. Pennyworth, if you'll take it, is to find out where this money is going. You'll report directly to me and I'll make certain you get all the information you need."

That evening, on his way home, Benjamin never once looked behind him to see if he was being followed. He was far too engrossed in his new identity as a 'master accountant'.

He saw himself working over piles of figures while following distinct but obscure trails of error and crime. He was now a master accountant saving the company millions of dollars.

He knew he was the man for the job…and he didn't need a tuxedo.

Success Lesson: Never fail to act on your dreams. And never fail to change them when it's right to do so.

© Doug Grant, 2010