by David Bledin
“Oh fuck, yeah.”
A deep male voice, then a forceful sucking sound.
The closet has louvered doors with slits down the front, allowing for moderate visibility if you press your face up close. Peering through the cracks, I have a decent enough view of two shadowy figures moving around on the other side of the room.
“I want to look at you, babe.”
The lights flare on. Apparently there is going to be very little foreplay involved: Unadulterated Sex is leaning back on the table, the Prodigal Son standing between her splayed legs. He hikes up her skirt and she groans, a rumbling emanating from deep within her chest.
Oh god.
Oh fucking god.
The envy rears up like a colossal wave and pierces the fuzzy bubble of my exhaustion. I mean, they don’t even sound like real people anymore. It’s an avant-garde cacophony of biting and moaning and animalistic grunting, the acoustics of cannibals tearing at the succulent flesh of unsuspecting pilgrims. I’m not going to open my eyes. I’m not going to subject myself to this. Think Zen thoughts: stalks of bamboo swaying in the breeze, delicate rice paper calligraphy, lotus petals fluttering across the surface of a pond filled with fat goldfish.
But suddenly my eyes fly open of their own accord, drinking in the full spectacle before them: the Prodigal Son standing at the edge of the boardroom table, his unbuttoned shirt revealing rippling abdominal muscles contrasting sharply with my own recently developed squishiness, thrusting into a glistening expanse of perfect humanity stretched languorously before him. My throat parches instantly, my breath coming out in wheezing gasps. And yes, I’ve got a throbbing hard-on. I hate myself for it.
It’s just not right, that’s all. You’re struggling to hold on to a youthful idealism, an earnest belief that everybody exists on a fairly level playing field, that a woman like Unadulterated Sex is truly unattainable, that she lies in bed clutching a teddy bear and pining for some regular schmo who sat in front of her in remedial algebra, and then something like this happens and suddenly you’ve got cracks splintering all over your belief system.
“Your fiancé screws you this hard, huh? Takes you right on the boardroom table?” the Prodigal Son pants.
Unadulterated Sex is whimpering incoherently.
“That little Russian with his small little dick making you feel this good, huh?”
“Nooooo,” she moans.
The Prodigal Son chuckles, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“Yeah, that’s right, babe. There just ain’t no competition.”
There’s not much I can do but keep gawking at this spectacle. I’m waiting for an event that will precipitate my catharsis: the Prodigal Son getting off too soon, Unadulterated Sex suddenly shameful of her infidelity and kicking him off her. I’d even take something slapstick, like the Prodigal Son banging his head on the videoconferencing control panel, or Unadulterated Sex accidentally rolling off the table. Anything to disrupt the unconscionable pleasure they seem to be deriving from each other.
“Oh yeah, this feels awesome.”
The Prodigal Son leaps onto the table, repositioning Unadulterated Sex so her upper body is now dangling off the edge. It’s a beautiful position from my vantage point, her breasts hanging there in plain view, until I realize her head is a mere ten inches away from the camcorder. She opens her eyes and there is no way she’s going to miss it.
Oh shit.
Unadulterated Sex rasps, “I’m getting close.”
The Prodigal Son is silent, focusing all his energy on bringing her over the edge. Literally. Half her body now dangles acrobatically off the table, her head no more than six inches away from the camcorder. My god, she could just reach out and touch it.
Their breathing becomes more erratic now, like an asthmatics,’ and I can’t say I’m entirely immune to their imminent climax. Beneath this web of rational thought—my genuine fear of getting caught, the suffocating envy, the bitter loss of my naive worldview—is the undeniable physical aspect of a steel girder in my pants. I know they’re teetering on the verge of orgasm when they’ve entered the realm of monosyllabic communication:
“Ohhh.”
“Yeah.”
“Christ.”
“Fuck!”
“Ahhhh!!!”
“Yeahh!!!”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!”
“Fuuuuuccccccckkkkkkkkk!!!”
“Ahhh.”
“Ohhh.”
“Yeah.”
“Uhmmm.”
“Ahhh.”
“Christ.”
It’s a painfully erotic sixty seconds, and thank god when it’s finally over. Unadulterated Sex remains lying half off the table, eyes closed, until the Prodigal Son yanks her up into a sitting position. I’m too emotionally numb to appreciate the end of her close call with the camcorder. As with their lack of foreplay, there’s not much in the way of postcoital activity: They slide off the table and dress in silence; a minute or two later and they’re out the door. Brute animalistic rutting, that’s all it was. Goddamn lucky bastard. After cleaning myself up with a Bank-monogrammed fleece, I grab the camcorder and scurry back downstairs.
The Defeated One quickly shuts the door behind me, snatching the camcorder out of my hands and trying to watch the replay in the eyepiece. He’s already assembled Clyde and Postal Boy, who are both more giddy than I’ve ever seen them. Clyde cuffs me on the shoulder.
“Great job, man.”
Postal Boy’s left eye is twitching like crazy, but he’s grinning away like a kid who’s just found his older brother’s porn stash.
“Yeah, way to go, buddy.”
I can’t really deal with them right now, but I manage a weak nod. The Defeated One looks up from trying to get the camcorder to work, and, perhaps noticing the gravity of my expression, says, “Holy shit. You witnessed the whole thing.”
“I couldn’t get out in time,” I say, then shrug sheepishly.
“Sheeeet. It’s painful, I know. I’m really sorry, Mumbles.”
“Whatever.”
“Anyway, a small sacrifice made for the betterment of your corporate existence. And ours.”
The Defeated One figures out the replay. There is a stretch of uncomfortable silence before the Defeated One puts down the camcorder, grimacing.
“Fuck, it’s horrible. I mean, it’s perfect, you got them both right on camera, Unadulterated Sex is, like, right up there in your face, but still it’s just awful, you know?”
I shrug again. The Defeated One eyes me sternly before extending his hand. It’s a stiff shake:
“You’ve done well for your country tonight, comrade.”
There’s a palpable feeling of victory over the next few days. The Defeated One is in particularly high spirits: whistling in the bathroom, chuckling over the latest economic indicators in the Wall Street Journal, even going so far as treating me to a cappuccino one morning, which is saying a lot, because he’s a cheap bastard. We might have to rename him the Eternal Optimist, though it doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.
There have been more of those Starbucks excursions as well, as many as twice a day now. Mostly it’s to discuss progress on our little film project, or, rather, the weirdness of the Star editing it for us. A real mind-fuck, I assure you. While we were sitting around discussing the editing job one morning, realizing none of us knew our ass from our elbow when it came to digital software, the Star made the unfortunate mistake of mentioning an undergraduate film class he’d taken for half a semester. Needless to say, after the Defeated One threatened to tamper with the Star’s meticulous library of Visual Basic macros if he refused to help out, he finally caved on the condition we’d never disclose his involvement. A pinkie swear later and he was in.
I enter the office a week later to find the Defeated One and Postal Boy huddled before the Star’s computer.
“Quick”—the Defeated One waves over his shoulder— “close the door and get over here.”
On the monitor
, a miniature Prodigal Son is biting the neck of a miniature Unadulterated Sex. They’re positioned a little off-center, but the clarity is good enough for them to be easily recognizable. A seventies porno beat wafts softly from the speakers. Then the screen shifts to a close-up of the penetration. The Defeated One throws his hand before his eyes and turns away.
“Jesus, easy on the hard-core.”
The Star swivels around in his chair, as skittish as a Japanese schoolgirl in a Tarantino movie.
“It’s a new function on these digital camcorders. You can zoom in anywhere on the image and it doesn’t really affect the pixel quality. Awesome, huh? Look at that penetration . . . woof!”
The Star rubs his hands together in glee. Even Postal Boy throws me a stern glance. It’s like we’ve created a monster: one part gadgetry geekiness, two parts sexual frustration.
The action shifts so Unadulterated Sex is now lying half off the table, her face filling the entire screen. It’s the close call with the camcorder witnessed from this strange new vantage point. Her features are contorted into a look of lust, yes, no denying that, but—dare I say it —?an element of vulnerability as well. Maybe there was a brief moment when she was remembering her Russian fiancé, how he sits in his armchair beside the mother-of-pearl lamp and augustly turns the pages of a Dostoyevsky novel. Perhaps only then does she appreciate the meaninglessness of their sex, a purely physical rutting devoid of any emotion. Maybe I’m just plain fooling myself and what I interpret as vulnerability is really Unadulterated Sex wallowing in enormously gratifying pleasure. Either way, I’ve found my catharsis. I put my hands on the Star’s shoulders.
“That, comrade, is a job well done.”
The Star giggles and takes a bow in his seat.
“Hey, where’s Clyde?” I ask.
Postal Boy shrugs. “Not sure. He didn’t come in this morning. Maybe a sick day?”
Sick days at the Bank are only slightly more acceptable than vacation days, meaning they should be taken with the utmost discretion: a ruptured appendix is fine, a strange tumor growing out the side of your neck, fine, but flu symptoms or a nasty hangover are out. And if you think this job is bad enough, try doing comps after a night of gratuitous tequila shots to send a colleague off to B-school, then puking in a mailbox before passing out fully clothed on your grimy kitchenette floor. Done that once; it’s not an experience I’m hoping to repeat.
“Starbucks time,” the Defeated One declares, turning away from the monitor.
“You up for coffee?” I ask the Star.
He blinks at me in disbelief and gratitude. That’s right, I forgot—we excluded him from our Starbucks runs long ago, considering most of our coffee-break banter revolves around how much he pisses us off.
“I, um, I’m trying to cut back on my caffeine intake, but I really appreciate the offer.”
“How ’bout a muffin or something?”
“I ate breakfast already. But thanks.”
“Cool.”
We head downstairs. While waiting in the line, I happen to glance back in the direction of the lobby and glimpse the flash of a white scarf.
Fate, I’m telling you.
“Hold on a minute, guys.”
She’s nearing the elevators, and I make a wild dash for it. I reach her just as the doors slide open, my breath coming out in great wheezing gasps. Underexercised investment bankers and spontaneous sprinting: not the cleverest of combinations. I place my hand on her shoulder, spinning her around.
Shit. It’s a fifty-year-old crone with the nose of a hawk. At least I got the scarf down pat.
“Sorry,” I mumble, “thought you were somebody else.”
She eyes me suspiciously, fingering the end of her scarf until the elevator doors glide shut in front of her.
Clyde isn’t in the next day either. Or the day after that. It’s the third day when, walking in with my morning coffee, I notice the Defeated One engrossed in the newspaper. Nothing strange about that; he always checks his stock quotes for at least a solid half hour each morning before he actually gets down to doing any real work.
“Hey,” he calls over, “check this out.”
He hands me a page of the newspaper.
“Huh?” I ask. “What’s so interesting about Norwegian scientists growing tumors in laboratory mice?”
“No, jackass,” he says, grabbing the paper out of my hands, “look here.”
He’s pointing to a small article in the bottom right-hand corner:
LOCAL CONSTRUCTION MAGNATE
KILLED IN PLANE CRASH NEAR AIRPORT
Oct. 23—Charles P. Bakerfield, CEO of Bakerfield Construction Inc., was killed Monday afternoon in a plane crash five miles north of the airport. The National Transportation Safety Board confirmed that the tail number on the plane was registered with Bakerfield Construction. The plane was reported lost at 4:33 p.m. Around this time, local residents near the crash site—
“Holy shit. Isn’t Clyde’s last name Bakerfield?”
“I think so. Didn’t he say his dad was in construction?”
“Yeah, he is.”
I slump back in my chair.
“Christ, this is terrible.”
We sit in stunned silence. A plane crash is the type of tragedy that is so sudden and random that you can only shake your head and wonder at the fragility of existence—you’re planning away, meticulously diversifying your portfolio, your liquid cash funneled into an ING Direct 2.5% savings account, and then poof: a cloud of smoke and you’re gone.
“Do you think we should try and get a hold of him?” I ask.
The Defeated One scratches his chin.
“I don’t know, really. Maybe he wants to lay low for a while, not have to deal with anybody from work.”
“What about a card?”
The Defeated One snorts. “All right, why don’t you just run down to Hallmark and grab the ‘Happy Fiery Plane Crash’ one. Make sure you get the cartoon fireball on the front; I hear it’s pretty darn cute.”
“Piss off. You know what I mean. A quick note, keeping it simple.”
He nods. “Okay. That could work. You want to take the reins and write it up?”
“Sure.”
The Defeated One shakes his head and takes a deep breath.
“That’s rough.”
“I know.”
He rocks back and forth in his chair.
“It’s like, you’ve got all these things you still want to do, fucking and drinking and buying a house and a nice car—”
My phone rings; it’s the Sycophant’s extension. He’s the last person in the world I want to speak to right now.
“Hold that thought for a second.”
The Sycophant is his usual snippy self, so I doubt he’s heard the news about Clyde’s dad. Scratch that; I wouldn’t put it past him to have learned about the crash and shrugged it off a moment later, his eyes narrowing into slits—at least it wasn’t me, ha!—before turning back to fidgeting with his BlackBerry.
“I’m going to need your immediate assistance with some archiving over the next few hours. It has to be done by early afternoon.”
“What do you mean, archiving?”
“A few old files and boxes. You’ll rearrange everything and take it down to the archiving department somewhere in the basement. Ask one of the assistants for the exact details.”
This has bitch work screaming all over it. There’s something about Clyde’s dad, this sudden sensitivity toward my own mortality, that has me quipping back.
“Isn’t that why we have assistants—”
“Excuse me? Is this going to be a problem?”
“I’m only saying—”
“Because if it’s going to be a problem, then we’re going to have a problem on our hands. Maybe we should sit down with HR this afternoon and discuss it with them.”
“No. If you need help, then of course—”
“Good. Come by in five minutes.”
He hangs up on me.
I lean back in the chair, rubbing at my eyelids.
“I’m going to kill him, I really am. One day we’ll be standing at the top of a cliff and he’s going to squint at me the wrong way. Fuck, he’s never going to know what hit him.”
“It could be worse,” the Defeated One reasons. “You could be charred up beside the fuselage of a plane right now.”
“Aaargh. Tell me about it. But then the Sycophant comes along and makes you want to rip the skin off your frickin’ face. I swear to god, I understand why people go crazy here.”
“Don’t stress about it.”
After a minute or two of procrastination spent checking my Hotmail account (no messages), I stand up.
“All right, off to the latest degrading task he has lined up for me.”
I knock on the Sycophant’s door. When it opens, a pile of paper scatters across the floor. Not that it matters, as the office is a complete disarray of manila folders and pitch books. The Sycophant has put no effort into keeping things orderly; he must have just shaken out his filing cabinets and let everything settle into a big messy heap. This is going to take most of the day, and I have loads of other work due for tomorrow.
“Do you think I could ask one of the assistants to help—”
“They’re all busy finalizing client invoices this week,” he says, squinting at me. “This is a job you should be able to manage by yourself. Are you certain we don’t need to have a talk with HR?”
I can’t even look at him. I’m scared I’ll do something really crazy, like strangle him with his necktie or give him a roundhouse kick to the buttocks, sending him flying over this mess of papers.
“No. That’s fine.”
I devote six hours exclusively to the archiving until I have everything organized into twenty boxes. Six hours shot to hell when I could have been sourcing the data for the LBO model the Philanderer expects by the end of the week, or scrubbing the next run-through of a telecom pitch due first thing tomorrow morning. Fuck, it’s going to be another really late night. At least the Sycophant is out of the office in a meeting for the afternoon; otherwise I would have been down on my haunches, wading through this sea of paper as he squinted at me from behind the desk. A tad humiliating to say the least.