Burn My Shadow

by Tyler Knight

  I say, “Hello.”

  When Pissed Bogart speaks, his voice surprises me so much I think it has to be a joke. It’s the voice of a whining six-year-old.

  He says, “What exactly do you do here?”

  I say, “What do you mean?”

  Dane says, “Erik’s a new account executive. He’s got skills. He made the daily top ten a couple times.”

  People at the table congratulate me. Pissed Bogart stares.

  Pissed Bogart says, “What’s with the twelve-hour work days and the suits? You trying to impress somebody?”

  “I’m compensating for my small penis.”

  Laughter around the table.

  Dane says, “That was funny. You come up with that just now?”

  “It’s old material. This is just the first time you’re hearing it.”

  Pissed Bogart says, “I used to wear suits every day and come in early. But now that I’m a senior account executive I don’t have to. I come and go as I please and I still made over $200,000 last year. What did you do last year?”

  “Porn.”

  More laughter.

  Pissed Bogart says, “You think you’re clever?”

  “No. Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  I walk away.

  I’m waiting at the bus stop when a van drives by. On the side it says, “Better to be a somebody for a day than a nobody for a lifetime.”

  The bus arrives. I board it, feed some coins in the slot, and take a seat.

  Redline

  “Look around you… Those of you who are here are men and women of character. You will be rewarded when things turn around. Gideon and everyone else who abandoned you are not your friends! Once you leave us for another firm, you can never come back,” says the executive with soap-opera patriarch looks clutching the microphone as he prowls the near-empty trading floor during the morning meeting.

  This speech is well-designed to simultaneously manipulate both fear and greed emotions of its audience. It’s an effort to stem the mass exodus of ranks as a diaspora of AEs fans out into the wilderness of smaller competing firms, and control those who stay.

  “…when the guy or gal who used to sit next to you left for another firm, they abandoned you. If he calls you, it’s not because he cares about how you’re doing. He is not your friend. If he cared, he would have stayed by your side as we fight through this. He’s only fishing for information. About what specials we’re running. What exclusive products we’re offering. Our marketing… You all signed NDAs. Make no mistake, anyone who consorts with an AE who left for another firm is considered fifth column. Don’t do it! We monitor your social media. We have friends everywhere. We will know!”

  During my first few months at the firm I witnessed gold rocket to an all-time high of $1,923 an ounce, where clients loaded up on it at the top. Now, with gold prices in free fall, some of my clients call a half-dozen times a day, crying, threatening suicide and, more than once, outright murder. After the firm settled a lawsuit for unfair sales practices, fines, and a Federal injunction against the firm took effect. A squad of court-appointed monitors marched into the firm one morning and took over the firm’s internal compliance department. Then the city sued the firm in an attempt to force it to move its headquarters outside of the city limits. We were issued pre-approved responses by management to read to clients whenever they called to ask about the firm’s legal issues and its solvency, which was often. All employees are outright banned from speaking with the media. I’ve heard rumors of reporters ambushing employees in the building’s lobby.

  “…and just remember that the grass is not greener at another firm. Gold is down for everyone, not just us. And yes, we lost our celebrity spokespeople, but that’s okay. Only true believers are welcome here! Stay true to the message, people… Gold cannot be printed. Gold cannot be debased. It cannot lie to you. It’s not subject to counter-party risk, and it is the single greatest store of wealth known to man!” The executive stops in an aisle and rotates 360 degrees, scanning the faces. He double-fists the microphone and bellows, “God! Guns! Gold!”

  “God! Guns! Gold!” shrieks an AE from the trading floor, and with that, the trading floor stands and burst into cat calls, cheers and applause.

  The members of Tiberius’s pod, which consist of me, Tiberius, his son-in-law, a middle-aged beach babe, and the contrarian USC MBA who sits next to me are the only people not joining in the cheers. We exchange nervous glances as the extant members of the trading floor—highly educated people—sip champagne flutes of Kool Aid, pinky up, while marveling at the emperor’s finest livery.

  It feels like I’m trapped in a fucking cult.

  • • •

  I’m working through lunch today like I have every day for the past month or so. I forgo food and sleep, working every second of every day allowable, getting off the phone only to pee. Most AEs make about a hundred calls a day. Yesterday, during a twelve-hour shift, I made 315 calls. I’m confident that’s an all-time record.

  On occasion I take a walk around the open-air man-made lake in the center of the building to ctrl + alt + delete my mind. I’ve timed it do that a lap tales me about eight minutes from the moment I leave the pod to return. My phone shows a stack of messages, one from Vlad.

  Vlad says, “Hey, man, so I’m making this Men in Black parody. I want you for the Will Smith part.”

  My own words make me nauseous leaving my mouth. “I can’t. I’ve got an office gig working seventy hour weeks, and HR won’t give me time off.”

  “Are you sure? It’s the lead in Decadent’s big movie of the year.”

  “Who’s playing the Tommy Lee Jones part?”

  “Ryan Lancer, of course.”

  Well, damn. So much for his dream of entrepreneurship out of state.

  “Of course…”

  Vlad told me that I could always return to porn if going straight doesn’t work out… Is this working out? I think of the defibrillators…the armed guards…the waiting telephone and the prospect of leaving another two hundred thirty-second voice mails with the occasional, “FUCK YOU, TAKE ME OFF YOUR LIST!” Barked into my ear to snap me out of my ennui.

  Doesn’t matter, I promised Amanda.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Thank you.”

  This is one of many parts I’ve turned down since going straight, but if you keep saying no to people, eventually they’ll stop asking.

  I’ve got a callback scheduled. A true believer from the deep south who, in yesterday’s conversation, spewed red-hot vitriol over the current administration and swore that in a year’s time the world would go “Mad Max”. He’s one of the few people not to hang up on me as soon as I identified which firm I worked for, so I waited his tirade out.

  I dial his number. He answers and I reintroduce myself. After some small talk, I pivot to the trade. You never present the product until the client agrees that status quo—keeping assets 100 percent exposed to the dollar—is not an option. Until they agree on that, you’ve got nothing. The trick is to phrase it as a series of open-ended questions so that the client comes to the conclusion on his own accord. The Socratic Method.

  I say, “Mr. Briggs, yesterday we touched on the fate of the PIIG nations and how that could impact the dollar. Please share your thoughts about that with me.”

  “Why don’t you share your thoughts with me about your firm’s complaints?”

  “Even Disneyland has complaints, and they’re the happiest place on earth.”

  “Cute. Look, kid, I’m already sold. Let’s get down to it, shall we?”

  “How much were you considering?”

  “One million dollars.”

  Holy shit! Even if he buys all bullion the commission will be nice… But if I can get him to go Swiss Francs, the bid-ask spread is greater and the commission is $50,000. I take out my Gideon Sachs–inspired article book. “M
ay I share an article with you from The New York Times? It’s about how people just like you discussing their futures at their kitchen tables consider certain types of gold to purchase as portfolio insurance.”

  “Do you sell nigger insurance?”

  “Uh…excuse me?”

  “Nigger insurance. That monkey swinging from the Whitehouse chandeliers and all his kike cronies are ruining our economy!”

  Fuck this! My finger swoops down over the End Call button, but it hovers to a stop before it clicks the connection. Relax… One-million-dollar trade. That’s up to $50,000 to you, Erik.

  I say, “Would you like to discover which types of assets people who share your concerns are considering when converting their dollars into metals?”

  “Cut the bullshit sales talk! Where do I wire my fucking money?”

  I read the wiring instructions to him over the phone. I can always close him on which types of metals to buy after the funds hit the account.

  “Okay. Call me tomorrow at the same time, and we can talk about which ‘assets’ your nigger-loving Jews are hoarding.”

  Click!

  People begin to trickle back in from lunch. I feel like I just felt up my grandma… Fifty grand will save my ass, but still… The firm passes out metric sheets so you know where you stand in relation to everyone other AE in the firm. I’m in the top decile for new accounts opened. Bottom decile in earnings. Missing $4,000 this month would make it three in a row for me, which would mean I’m terminated. This is the last week of this month, and I’m goose egging. I’ve got nothing else. Screw just not getting fired, I need to eat… But “niggers” and “kikes”? Who the hell talks like that? Fuck that cocksucker! Okay, if he wires the funds and I don’t do the trade, the firm will yank the account from me and assign it to somebody else. You’re doing the right thing, Erik. I’ll tell Tiberius when he gets back from—

  “Do you have a problem following directions?”

  The accent tells me who is behind me without having to look. I spin my chair around and look up. The president of the firm. He’s a near-exact facsimile of Arnold Horshack, the class clown from the sitcom Welcome Back Kotter, right down to his Brooklyn-accented voice. Except this Horshack is as hilarious as the Battle of Somme. He loves to sneak up on people to embarrass them in front of everybody. No transgression of corporate protocol is too trivial for him. In fact, the more trivial the better. The message being, Just imagine what I’d do if you really fucked up! His is the third century BC Roman strategy of decimation, where centurions would gather up a populace, line them up, and walk down the line, executing every tenth person on the spot. “Come with me.”

  He walks up the aisle of pods. As I follow him, the trading floor, conspicuous in its silence, begins to hum with activity the way people do when pretending to ignore a spectacle.

  We enter his office. Our scene plays out behind the floor-to-ceiling glass wall. He sits behind his desk. I wait.

  “Sit down.”

  I do.

  Horshack says, “Not only did you ignore the protocol when asked about our legal issues, you misquoted an article used for a third-party source.”

  “I did?” My voice cracks as I speak and I hate myself or it.

  Horshack says, “Yes. It was a USA Today article, not The New York Times. You can read, can’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go ahead and get your third-party sources.”

  “My articles?”

  “Correct. Bring them to me. Now.”

  He knows every article ever approved for third-party credibility because he is the one who approves them, and they are all a mouse click away on his PC. What he’s really doing is tasking me. You know when Chris Hanson on the TV show, To Catch a Predator, tells the suspect to “Take a seat,” or when a telemarketer tells you to “Go ahead and grab a pen”? The action they demand is irrelevant. It’s all about establishing psychological control. By tasking me in front of everyone to “Come with me,” and then let everyone witness me leave his office a moment later to return with something he made me fetch goes beyond control. It’s Horshack’s personal brand of public flogging. He knows that I’m aware of what he’s doing. Doesn’t matter.

  I feel my fists clench in my lap, but if I don’t obey, I’m as good as fired and forfeit the commission on the trade.

  Everyone has returned from lunch by now. I feel all the eyes on me, I leave his office, walk down the aisle, fetch my article from the folded flip book, and walk back up the aisle to Horshack’s office.

  “Close the door.”

  I do.

  “Sit down. Do you have something for me?”

  I hand him my article. He glances at it, then makes a show of turning the sheet over to inspect its backside, which he knows is always blank.

  “What’s this?”

  “My article.”

  “This is one article. Maybe it’s my fault for not being clear. I want the booklet of every article you’ve ever accumulated since you stepped foot on this property. Go get them.”

  • • •

  I didn’t sleep at all last night. If that million hits the account, I can say fuck this firm and take a few months to decompress. I can buy Amanda a decent engagement ring! I can’t think about any of that until I see that Mr. Briggs wired the funds… Don’t get your hopes up, Erik… Can’t jinx this.

  Before I reach my desk I can see my phone blinking red. A message. When I reach my desk, I see a printout waiting for me. A wire confirmation! I decide to skim the wire confirmation first.

  Client: Jackson Briggs… Funds available to trade: $977,000.

  Hell. Motherfucking! Yeah!

  Confirmation in hand, I put my headset on and listen to my message… Ravinder Singh, my backup AE, asking me to call him back when I get in. I call.

  Ravinder says, “Your client did the trade.”

  Look at my watch…6:25 a.m. My appointment with Mr. Briggs isn’t until noon. What the fuck! I just gave away $25,000 by splitting a million-dollar trade with my backup AE! Whatever, Ravinder is a lot better than me on the phone… That’s still $25,000.

  “Mr. Briggs is really something else. He asked me about my ethnicity saying, ‘What kind of name is Ravinder?’ and I almost hung up on him until I pulled up the funds to trade in his account. Anyway, he went all bullion for storage. All of it. Look, man, I’m sorry. He was adamant.”

  “Whatever, man. We split…twelve grand? It’s my only trade for the month. Could be worse.”

  “You’re not listening, Erik. Bullion for storage.”

  “So?”

  “It’s non-deliverable gold, so you only get paid part of the storage fees. The commission isn’t one-point-twenty-five percent. It’s twelve and a half basis points… That’s one thousand two hundred and twenty one dollars and twenty-five cents.”

  “I see…”

  “Which, of course, we split since I did the trade in your absence. So that’s six hundred ten dollars and sixty-two cents net to you.”

  “Six hundred and ten?”

  “And sixty-two cents, yes.”

  “You’re telling me that after paying taxes, my check for the month will be…four hundred dollars? Net-net? On a million-fucking-dollar trade?”

  “Hey, I don’t make the rules, man. You know the firm only really pays on deliverable numis and semi-numismatic. Shit, even if he went physical bullion, that would have been better.”

  I hang up, then run the numbers on my calculator… Do you remember when I almost walked away from a $400 scene because I wouldn’t let April call me a nigger on camera? Everybody has their price. Turns out mine is $406.25. I feel sick. I bury my face in my palms, close my eyes, and try to control my breathing.

  “Is that a hoodie you’re wearing?”

  Horshack.

  Hoodies are a violation of dress code. I forgot t
o take it off when I entered the trading floor. I begin to shake like a fever has come over me. I can’t trust myself to answer his question, so I pull it off. By the time I pull it clear over my head, Horshack is entering his office with a retinue of sycophants.

  I get up from my station, exit the trading floor, walk across the atrium, and find an unoccupied Grand Comfort to sit in. A pair of AEs walk past me on their way to the trading floor doors. One of them complaining to the other about how long it’s taking to get his Vacheron Constantin Patrimony back from servicing. As dawn breaks, my unfocused gaze drifts outside the window… A family of ducks waddles into the man-made lake that probably cost more to build than the GDP of Paraguay. I’m balanced on the tipping point of losing my shit, but I’m in public so I hold it together.

  Tiberius enters the atrium. He chooses the chair next to me even though the one directly across from me is closer. He pretends to check his Tommy Bahama watch that his kids probably bought from Costco and gave to him for Father’s Day while I dry my eyes. All gestures to allow me to save face.

  He says, “Do you play chess?”

  “Uh… I mean, I know how to play, but I haven’t played in years.”

  “Same here. I’m much better at poker, but I still play once in a while. Anyway, it’s accepted that there’s only been two American’s ever who have become World Chess Champions. The first was Paul Morphy. The other, Mr. Robert James Fischer.”

  “Fischer was paranoid and walked away from the game.”

  “Correct. I find Morphy more fascinating, though. Unlike Fischer, Morphy had no formal lessons. When he was a kid he learned at the kitchen table by watching his father play his uncle. By the time he played his first game he already possessed a masterful understanding of chess. He beat everybody in town, and then in the region. When local masters, including a Civil War general, challenged Morphy to a game, his father had to place a box on top of a chair so he could see the board and reach the pieces. Morphy would crush all of them. Sometimes in as few as six moves. He would go on to become the greatest living chess master of the era.