“"He’s a fictional character.”"
“"I was a very stupid young man.”"
“"You were naïve.”"
“"I was dumb.”"
“"San Francisco is nice,”" Ivy said, “"but I’m from San Diego.”"
“"Ah, ah. Have I been there? Yes, Alonzo has. Oops, there goes that rotten third person again. I believe I stayed at the Hotel del Coronado once or twice. A splendid, wonderful and opulent place.”"
“"I’ve never been.”"
“"So you moved East.”"
“"Yes.”"
“"Seeking the literary life.”"
Ivy couldn’t look at him. “"Yes.”"
“"It’s a noble cause,”" Crews said.
“"I think so,”" she said.
“"You came alone?”"
“"I packed up the boyfriend too.”"
“"There’s always a boyfriend.”"
“"A girl can’t be alone.”"
“"No, no, alone is never good. People need people, like the song says.”"
“"His name is Edmond.”"
“"A solid, sturdy name.”"
“"We live in a very small, very crappy place on 4th Avenue.”"
“"I know many people in the Lower East.”"
“"You know many people everywhere, I take it.”"
“"Yes, I do.”"
“"We don’t have a lot of money,”" Ivy said. “"We stayed in a crappy motel when we first got here, we stayed there for almost three weeks and I hated it. Our apartment isn’t much better, but at least it’s our apartment. It’s what we call home.”"
“"He’s an aspiring novelist, perhaps?”"
That made Ivy laugh.
“"Hardly. He isn’t an aspiring anything. I don’t know what Edmond wants to do with his life. He’s still…—finding himself. I guess. He likes to take pictures. He likes his camera. It’s nothing he’s very serious about. What does he do? He flips the dough.”"
“"What?”"
“"He makes pizzas.”"
“"I dread pizza.”"
“"I used to love it. Now he brings pizza home all the time.”"
“"Maybe he’ll open his own pizza store.”"
“"I hope not. I’ll leave him,”" she laughed.
“"This is serious?”"
“"I love him.”"
“"He flips the dough good?”"
“"He flips very good,”" she said.
“"Your writing,”" Crews said, leaning back. “"You’re serious about it, I know, but not serious enough.”"
“"What do you mean?”"
“"Your heart of hearts lies somewhere else.”"
“"You’re wise, Alonzo,”" and she told him about her proofreading job, how she had tried to get into publishing ever since arriving to Manhattan.
He nodded. He said, “"An editor.”"
She said, “"Yes.”"
He said, “"Tell me more about Edmond. How did you meet? When did you realize you were in love?”"
“"No, tell me about Alonzo,”" Ivy said. “"I’ve said enough. You’re the talker, so talk.”"
Crews sipped his coffee.
“"Where to begin? There’s always a beginning, but not where you might think. Roswell, the alien spaceship, Bozeman. Montana is a beautiful place, you should go there sometime; believe me, believe you me, you will not be disappointed. I don’t mean you should move there and live there. You are not a woman who would be happy living in Bozeman, but you would be enlightened by a visit. I could have been a cowboy; somewhere in my heart of hearts, there is a cowboy. I never let that cowboy out. Like you, I came to New York to live a glamorous literary life. The vision: I would dine at Elaine’s and hobnob with Capote and Plimpton. I was still naïve, as you say, as you can imagine. But Alonzo had dreams, yes he did, and although, like yourself, he met many closed doors when trying to find a job in publishing, he was determined as all holy hell. So what did he do? What did I do? He began a literary magazine. The Apple. Called The Apple. ‘Why The Apple?’ Ivy Gaylord asks. Because the magazine was the apple of my eye. Every story and poem Alonzo published was the apple of his fine eye. And it was a good magazine, publishing good work, enticing submissions from good names of good literature. And so, New York publishing took notice of Alonzo Crews. ‘Oh, here’s the man who publishes that good magazine.’ Indeed, Alonzo found a job editing books at a good company and he stopped publishing The Apple. After thirteen fine issues, The Apple was no more. Books became Alonzo’s passion, and for a dozen years he edited many, many fine books. Some of them are taught in schools all over the world. ‘Why?’ Because they are instant classics, they are books that will endure the test of time and whatnot. Somewhere along the line, Alonzo married a very good woman, Diana. Diana used to write short fiction, such as yourself, but the passion for words has, alas, become estranged to...her.”"
“"Children?”"
“"We tried.”"
“"I’m sorry.”"
“"I am not. Alonzo, unfortunately, would not make a good father. Diana wanted children, but there are problems, as they say, with the plumbing.”"
“"Oh.”"
“"And Ivy? Does Ivy want children?”"
“"Not yet. Someday, maybe.”"
“"With Edmond?”"
“"Maybe.”"
“"With other men?”"
“"I don’t know.”"
“"So,”" Crews said, “"it’s time for Alonzo to make the suggestion that we go somewhere and have illicit sordid sex.”"
“"I was wondering when you’d get to that.”"
“"So was I.”"
“"Where would we go?”"
“"There are hotels with rooms.”"
“"What would your wife say? Think?”"
“"Diana and Alonzo have a certain understanding about these things.”"
“"Ivy was wondering when Alonzo would suggest such a ‘thing’,”" she said, trying to be funny, “"and while it sounds interesting in that taboo-breaking sort of way, Ivy is going to have to say no.”"
This didn’t phase Crews. “"I understand. Never hurts to ask.”"
“"Thanks for asking. I’m flattered.”"
“"I could fall in love with you.”"
“"I should probably head on home.”"
“"To Edmond.”"
“"Yes.”"
“"Make love to him tonight, for me.”"
Ivy said, “"I will.”"
Outside, Crews said, “"There’s someone I know, a former student actually; she’s an editor now and she’s looking for an assistant. I’ll give her a call; then you call her. Forget proofreading.”"
“"Thank you, Alonzo.”"
He kissed her on the forehead and wandered off to the subway station, back to Brooklyn.
Ivy took a different subway.
Three days later, she interviewed with Sharon Taylor, a thirty-five-year-old editor at Walcott & Sheridan, Inc. The editor didn’t need to find out much to know what Ivy wanted, where Ivy was going.
“"Alonzo Crews gives you a glowing recommendation.”"
“"He’s kind.”"
“"I’m going to ask a personal question, probably unprofessional, but here it goes. Are you sleeping with the old man?”"
“"No,”" Ivy said.
Sharon Taylor nodded. “"Good. Don’t get me wrong, I love the old man. I learned a lot from him. But sleeping with him - —I was your age and somewhat the wide-eyed thing. Now I’m not such a fool. At least I hope not. Who knows? You know what? I’m going to offer you the job.”"
“"Thank you.”"
“"I’m a hard-ass. There will be long hours and the pay - the pay is what you expect in this business.”"
“"Better than what I’m getting now.”"
“"Are you ready?”"
“"I’m ready,”" Ivy said.
The Best Game in Town
After making pizzas, Edmond found a bartending job and while he was making more money with the tips, he wasn’t all that happ
y. He felt - —had been feeling - —he should be doing something ...else. Something different. Something better. He was starting to wonder if he made a mistake following Ivy to New York. Was his mother right? She’d never let him forget this.
“"You see,”" she’d say, “"I told you so!”"
Then he met Mark Gerrick. Mark was a stockbroker and often went to the bar where Edmond worked, along with other young brokers out to relax, have a few drinks, unwind after a long day on the phones; the bar was one of those small basement joints in lower Manhattan - dark and musty and individual. Edmond usually went in around four, worked until midnight or one., Tthree days a week. Mark Gerrick and his co-workers were in their early to mid-twenties; they were bright, energetic, cocky, and on the road to riches. Or so they said. Edmond didn’t have any reason to doubt them, they seemed to be well-off, wearing $1,000 suits and tipping better than any other customer.
One night, as Edmond finished his shift, Gerrick and two of his cohorts were still there and drunk.
“"Hey, man, hey, Eddy, join us.”"
“"Well,”" Edmond said.
“"Oh come on, join us, we like you.”"
Edmond didn’t see the harm. He didn’t drink on the job, but he was off the clock and he could use a beer.
“"Don’t you guys have to be up early?”" he asked, sitting at their small round table. “"Don’t you sleep?”"
“"Sleep?”" Gerrick laughed, and so did his friends. “"Who the fuck needs sleep? Fuck sleep. We’re Supermen, we don’t sleep.”"
“"Nothing a little nose candy can’t help, when the time for help is needed,”" one of the others said.
“"I like sleep,”" Edmond said.
“"When we’re middle-aged millionaires,”" Gerrick said, “"we will sleep. We’ll sleep in our Westchester homes, our yachts moored in Montauk. We’ll sleep as our stash is making outrageous interest points in secret offshore accounts. For now, we’re young and hungry and snooze time is the enemy.”"
“"Here here,”" said the others.
“"So you guys work on Wall Street,”" Edmond said.
“"We’re the fucking future of The Street, buddy.”"
This is what happened.: Edmond drank and talked to these guys for a few hours. They seemed to like Edmond, and Mark Gerrick suggested that Edmond ditch his slave job and go for the bucks. The two were alone on the street, standing near the subway drop. “"I’ll put in a good word for you,”" Gerrick said, “"and I have an eye, I can read people—I fucking better for what I do. You’re raw, but you could be whipped into shape. You could be doing what I do, making the money. Hell, you might even be able to make more money than me.”"
“"Oh come on,”" Edmond said. “"I don’t know anything about the stock market.”"
“"Either do I. Hardly anyone on The Street does, except for those old fuckers who went to Harvard and think they know all shit. They don’t know fucking shit. This is 1987, man; this is the brave new world! I’m a salesman, Eddy. I’m a damn good salesman. I could sell anything. I do sell anything. You sell booze. We’re all salesmen, Eddy. It’s how the fucking spinning globe works.”"
Edmond nodded. He was cold. He wanted to go home.
“"Think about it. Come by the office. We’re always looking for new guys. Listen, you don’t have to be some MBA whiz-kid and you don’t have to be from some prep school with a father in the biz. Look at me., I’m a guy from Hoboken. Now I live in Manhattan. I have a very nice apartment, Eddy. You should come see it sometime. You should come see me at the office. I’ll put in a word. We’re become millionaires together. Our children will grow up rich and we’ll look back on this moment, here on the dirty curb, and laugh our rich asses off.”"
Edmond did think about this when he went home, when he got into bed, when he snuggled against Ivy’s naked and warm body. He was still thinking about it when he woke up.
Ivy was getting ready for work.
“"You came home late,”" she said.
He told her about Mark Gerrick and the suggestion of a career change.
“"He was drunk,”" she said. “"Did you think he was serious?”"
“"I don’t know.”"
“"Can you really see yourself as a stockbroker?”"
“"I don’t know,”" he said. “"Why not?”"
She was amused. “"Yeah, I’d love to see you in a suit. I’ve never seen you in a suit. Have you ever worn a suit before?”"
“"To court.”"
“"Oh yeah,”" she said distastefully, “"court.”"
“"It sounds like something different.”"
“"It’s different all right.”"
The next time Gerrick came into the bar, Edmond asked, “"Hey, did you mean what you said the other night?”"
“"What did I say? How did I open my big mouth and make a fool of myself?”"
“"About helping me get a job at…—”"
“"Oh yeah,”" Gerrick said. “"Sure I meant it. Did you think about it? Hey, everyone, how about Eddy here joining the firm and pitching the shit with us? Fuck yeah, I meant it. Come by the office.”"
He went there two days later. Berryman & Associates was a small stock trading firm with two suites on the fifty-third floor of the World Trade Center.* A very attractive blonde in a tight black skirt and with a UV-bed tan sat at a desk in front of the double doors with the name of the firm embossed on the wood in cheesy gold.
“"I’m here to help,”" she said, “"how can I help?”"
“"I have an appointment.”"
“"Yes, I’m sure you do.”"
“"Mark Gerrick sent me.”"
“"Yes, I’m sure he did. What’s your name?”"
“"Ed Foster.”"
“"I’m Grace. You’re going to work here?”"
“"I hope so.”"
“"It has to burn, you know.”"
“"What does?”"
“"The desire for money,”" Grace said. “"It has to burn so much in your blood and your brain that it’ll drive you to do amazing things.”"
That’s exactly what Bradford Berryman said in the interview - or the orientation. Edmond sat in a conference room with half a dozen other young men in suits, filled out some paperwork and listened to Berryman. Berryman was in his late thirties, wearing suspenders and a tie; his shirtsleeves were rolled up; he was an intense, energetic man with rugged skin, bulging eyes and graying hair. He looked like Al Pacino; in another life, Berryman could have made a living as an Al Pacino impersonator. —Berryman even had a Bronx accent. It was very weird.
“"I hope none of you jackasses are going to waste my time. I don’t have time to waste. If you want to waste my time, leave. If you want to learn how to make money, then you’ve come to the right place. But you gotta want that money so bad that it hurts like a mofo. You,”" he pointed to the fellow sitting next to Edmond, “"if you work here at my firm, how much money would you like to make the first year?”"
“"I don’t know,”" the fellow said, “"about fifty thousand.”"
“"Fifty grand?”"
“"Sure.”"
“"Fifty?”"
“"It’s a nice sum.”"
“"Get the fuck outta here, you dipshit mofo,”" and Berryman pointed to the door. “"Do you hear me?! Get off your ass and leave! Fifty K ain’t shit! It’s chump change. Why do I still see your face?!? Skiddaddle and go make fifty g’s selling vacuum cleaners!!!”"
The fellow left.
Berryman turned to Edmond. “"How about you, Mister? How much do you want in your first year?”"
“"One point two million,”" Edmond said.
Berryman clapped his hands. “"That’s what I want to hear. Now, that’s a decent sum of cash. You ain’t gonna make it in your first year, but you could come close. All you need to do is know that you deserve that money and it’s out there and you can get it! You can get it here, and all you need is a bunch of telephone numbers and a goddamn fucking phone line! If everyone knew this, we’d all be fucked; but your average fuck
out there doesn’t know, your joe shmoe works his ass off making nothing. You gotta know how to play the game,”" and he stood up, raising his fists to the sky, “"and by God this is the best game in town!”"
That was it. Edmond and the others were told they’d get a phone call in two or three days if Berryman was going to offer a position. That night, at the bar, Mark told Edmond not to wait for that call. “"You ring him, first thing in the morning.”"
The Numbers Game
Ivy helped him pick out three suits; she was excited to see her boyfriend in business attire. Edmond didn’t like the tie and the starched shirt squeezing his neckline. —Hhe looked good in the mirror but felt gauche.
“"You’ll get used to it,”" Ivy said.
“"Do I have to?”"
“"Yes, if you’re serious about this career move.”"
“"I’m serious,”" he said. “"I think I am.”"
“"You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”"
“"We just bought these clothes!”"
“"Baby, we can take them back.”"
“"I want to do this,”" he said.
“"Give it your best shot. Why not? What do you have to lose?”"
“"The money on these suits.”"
“"It’s just money.”"
“"I could always go back to bartending. Waitering.”"
“"Just don’t go back to making pizzas.”"
“"We haven’t had pizza in a long time.”"
“"I may never eat another piece of pizza in my life.”"
So off to Berryman & Associates he went, as a trainee. There were rules and other things to learn; he would work the phones but make no actual sales for three months before taking the Series 7 exam to get his broker’s license. He was not expected to sell, he was on the phone to learn how to use the phone; if, by some miraculous chance, he called a person who actually wanted to buy stock, he’d transfer it to his sponsor, Dave.
Edmond had hoped Mark would be his sponsor. The sponsor was basically his boss, trainer, tormentor and coach. Dave was younger than Edmond, taller and very blonde; he paid Edmond’s meager monthly trainee’s draw from his own pocket.
“"When you begin to make commissions,”" Dave said, “"you’ll pay me back.”"
This Other Eden Page 3