Bank

by David Bledin

  Apparently the back-office groove is a series of rapid convulsing movements somewhat resembling a choreographed fit of epilepsy. Their leader, a determined heavy-set woman with a hula skirt bulging around her girth, is trying to demonstrate the correct hand movements. Just when it seems like her troops have gotten the hang of it, the man in the Bermuda shorts lurches forward and retches into one of the plastic palm trees. As the rest of the dancers scurry to his aid, scandalized reactions break around the room: very senior management furrow their brows in displeasure; less senior management try their hardest not to spew up their drinks; the Stepford wives either sneer vapidly or giggle vapidly, depending on their spousal connection. The Defeated One clutches at his abdomen, tears welling in the corners of his eyes.

  “Score one for the good guys! And so early in the game too.”

  He’s regained his composure by the time we hear a familiar shrill chortle capped off with a sneeze: Lulu Heifenschliefen glides by, clutching a cosmopolitan. She’s encased in a ruffled yellow dress, a hodgepodge of loopy ribbons and multicolored polka dots, and hair that is gelled down heavily to her scalp. The flattened look is a bit strange on her; it accentuates the smallness of her head relative to the rest of her body.

  “Good evening, boy-chicks,” she cries upon noticing us, whipping leis around our necks. Fanning her heaving, pasty bosom, she says, “Mein Gott, aren’t you all looking hubba-hubba tonight.”

  Postal Boy, his cheeks flushed from too much alcohol, overextends himself by feigning a Southern twang: “You’re lookin’ real perty there yourself, Lulu. Like the new ’do.”

  Lulu giggles and sneezes, patting at the sides of her head. She brings an empty martini glass to the bar and almost immediately has another. A trick of perception, maybe; I could have sworn the first one was almost full when she arrived just moments ago.

  “So,” the Defeated One asks, “did you catch the premier back-office blow-out of the evening? Hopefully the first of many.”

  Lulu smiles impishly, batting her fake eyelashes.

  “But indeed. That was Alfred Mulligans, senior risk analyst supporting the bond desk. Thirteen years at the Bank, wouldn’t you believe it? Alfie’s a sturdy goat; I wouldn’t worry too much about him.”

  Clapping her hands and turning to me, she coos with excitement. “But piglet, you must tell me all about your better half. She’s the geisha in the naughty dress, yes?”

  “Christ, Lulu.”

  “What?” She fingers the lei around her neck. “Everybody this side of Honolulu’s already gotten a good peeking at her panties.”

  We all turn to watch Steph working the other side of the room. As if she has a sixth sense for when she’s the topic of conversation, Steph eases away from her current circle and points her stilettos toward us. Upon arriving at our cluster, she does an annoying half-curtsy thing and throws an arm around my waist. She’s clearly a bit sloshed as well.

  “Why did you just desschert me like that?”

  An attempted guilt trip doesn’t work too well when you giggle hysterically at the end of it.

  “I’m schorry,” she apologizes.

  “I guess you just seemed like you were having a great time, and I didn’t want to get in your way or anything—”

  “Don’t be succch a silly gooshe! You sshouldn’t have left me to meet all those big, powerful, successchful”—each adjective is uttered in a breathless exhalation—“men all by mysschelf. And most of them said they didn’t even know you when I mentioned I was your date.” Steph hiccups.

  I chuckle wearily. It’s evident from her half smile that she thinks she’s helping me, furthering my career by hobnobbing with these gasbags. No doubt they’re encouraging such a mentality by flattering her to no end, dropping not-so-subtle innuendos when the wives are turned the other way. I’m drunk and disproportionately irritated for some reason, and there is a sadistic side to me that wants to throw Steph off her game, to see how she’d handle a curveball.

  “Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want to meet any of those big, powerful, successful”—I adopt the same whimsical breathlessness as her initial delivery—“fuckers to begin with. Maybe I think they’re all a bunch of arrogant pricks.”

  Steph blanches at this. Hands on her hips, her slurring now upping itself to a full-fledged whine, she replies, “How can you say ssshomething like that if you’ve never even met them?”

  I shrug nonchalantly. “Just call it a hunch.”

  An awkward silence follows until Lulu intervenes, grabbing hold of Steph’s hand.

  “Come, kitten, it’s time for another drink.”

  “Be easy on her,” I say. “She looks like she’s already well on her way.”

  Steph sticks out her tongue as Lulu drags her off to the bar. After they’re gone, the Defeated One pats me on the back.

  “Way to pounce on your date, Mumbles, for having the balls to chat up a few of these people.”

  “Shouldn’t have left the leash at home,” Clyde snickers.

  Yeah, I’m a big jackass. Scratch that; a fairly drunk jackass.

  “Steph’s a big girl,” I mumble.

  Indeed, she’s already staked herself beside the bar, cosmopolitan in hand, and is entranced by Lulu folding a napkin into an origami ship. I’m distracted by Lulu pressuring the bartender to wear the ship as a hat, when the Defeated One exalts giddily, “Holy crap, that’s him!”

  I follow his gaze to some palm trees clustered in the corner of the ballroom. Huddled between the plastic trunks, radiant in a flowing red dress, is Unadulterated Sex.

  “God,” I rasp, my breath getting lodged in my throat.

  Clyde whistles. “Hot damn.”

  The Defeated One is temporarily lost in a similar daze before he shakes his head vigorously, wiping the drool from his chin.

  “No, no. Ignore the dress. Beside her, gentlemen, is the fabled Russian fiancé.”

  Dazzled by the blinding perfection of Unadulterated Sex, we find it difficult to shift our attention to the tall, tanned man in the well-tailored suit by her side. He’s sporting one of those old-school mustaches with the waxed tips, the facial hair you’d expect from Colonel Mustard, but otherwise his physical presence is nothing so extraordinary.

  The Defeated One checks the time on his BlackBerry.

  “All right, have to stay focused. Only fifteen minutes until showtime. I’m going to check with that kid”—he motions to an analyst setting up the projector—“and make sure everything is working on the technical front. Postal, you go schmooze Unadulterated Sex and the Russian fiancé. Don’t let them leave the room until the video is finished.”

  Postal Boy gapes at him in disbelief.

  “You expect me to just go up and make an introduction? I’m just a little turd to her probably.”

  The Defeated One shakes his head and rests his hands on Postal Boy’s shoulders.

  “Postal, it’s time for you to become a man. Search deep inside yourself and make it happen.”

  Postal Boy peers at him slack-jawed.

  “Huh?”

  “Just go.” The Defeated One pushes Postal Boy in their direction.

  “What about us?” Clyde asks.

  The Defeated One ponders this for a moment.

  “You guys just stay put for now and deal with any fuckups as they come our way. Cool?”

  “Fine,” I mumble.

  After he sets off to check on the projector, it’s just me and Clyde. Partners in crime. Best of chums.

  Talk about awkward.

  Fortunately it’s not too long before a goose bump–inducing voice wafts over the microphone. The Coldest Fish In The Pond is standing at the front of the room.

  “I’d like to thank you all for joining us tonight . . .”

  I order another bourbon & ginger and tune out for the next few minutes, snapping from my reverie when the lights begin to dim.

  “And now,” the Coldest Fish In The Pond states gruffly, “as per the Bank’s annual tradition, the analysts have
prepared a video for our viewing pleasure.”

  The Coldest Fish In The Pond steps away from the microphone to a smattering of applause. A hush floods the room, and all eyes turn to the screen at the front.

  The video is actually quite accomplished, believe it or not. The theme is “Bank: After Dark,” a tongue-in-cheek showcase of the stupid shit we supposedly get up to after the senior guys call it a night: pushing each other around in the mail cart, chugging beers in the boardroom, tinkering with the height adjustments of the Fish’s swivel chair. Halfway through, the frame cuts to a close-up of Clyde smoking a joint on the Equity Capital Markets floor. It’s the real goods; plumes of smoke escape from his nostrils. It elicits the loudest applause from the clip so far, even raucous hollering from the IT guys, and I glance over to spot Clyde taking a bow.

  From across the room, the Defeated One flashes me the peace sign. I point to my wrist and he holds up three fingers. Three minutes. Oh god. Despite having reached full-blown inebriation, I’m getting really nervous about this, my stomach doing these strange rolling movements. Not far from the Defeated One, Unadulterated Sex leans against the wall, laughing along with the rest of the crowd. A little ways off, the Prodigal Son is feeding a California roll to his blond date, that marvelous creature clutching at his waist and opening her mouth like a baby pigeon.

  Too late now. What’s done is done.

  The picture on the screen jumps, a flash of white, and there it is: my very own camera work in all its big-screen brazen glory. It sobers me up instantly. The shot depicts Unadulterated Sex’s bare midsection writhing on the table, nothing overtly pornographic yet. Then the camera trails up her tanned abdomen, those perfect breasts swinging from side to side. An eerie silence settles over the crowd.

  This doesn’t last long; a moment later and there is a loud crunching sound from the direction of the projector. A flash of sparks, the projector fizzling out of control, and the screen at front goes blank. The analyst who’s on technical duty scurries over in a panic.

  Suddenly another crashing sound: Across the room, the Defeated One has dropped his drink. He’s still staring straight ahead, entirely oblivious to the vodka dripping down his pant leg. Like a team of NASCAR pit mechanics, a fleet of waiters swoops down on the scene, armed with their brooms and dusters.

  Then somebody starts clapping, and then another, and very soon the whole room has erupted in unabashed applause. It takes a minute to register what just happened: the Bank’s minions thought the brief porn clip was a farce, just another vignette of the original “Bank: After Dark” video. And there weren’t any faces displayed just yet, so the porn clip could have been sourced from anywhere.

  The lights come back on and the Coldest Fish In The Pond stands flintily before the microphone.

  “Thank you, analysts,” the Fish deadpans, “for that interesting film. No long-winded speeches from me; my wife promised she’d kill me if I even attempted it”—there’s polite chuckling here and there—“so I’ll end this by advising you all to eat, drink, be merry. To the analysts scattered around the room, this might be your last social outing for a very long time”—more polite chuckling—“so make the most of it. From all of us at the Bank, happy holidays.”

  More applause. The Defeated One walks briskly from one corner of the room, Postal Boy from the other. When the four of us are assembled by the bar, we stand there staring at one another, none of us knowing exactly what to say.

  Finally the Defeated One croaks, “Fuck.”

  He’s on the verge of tears, his lips trembling and eyes blinking rapidly.

  “A blown fuse?” Postal Boy shrugs meekly.

  I shake my head. “God only knows.”

  I hear a fit of giggling directly behind me. It’s a very drunk Steph, propped up by Lulu’s shoulder.

  “Heellloo gentleschmen,” she says and hiccups.

  “Lulu,” I scold, “she’s wasted. Why didn’t you stop her before she got to this?”

  “What?” Lulu shrugs. “I was drinking two cosmos for her every one. It’s not my fault these American kittens can’t stomach their alcohol.”

  I sigh, turning to the rest of the Gang of Four.

  “All right, I think I better take her home. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  They nod solemnly. I reach out to take Steph’s hand, but she recoils at my touch.

  “Nooooooo!”

  “What?” I hiss.

  “We’re going to the afffshterr-party.”

  “What after-party?”

  “Hiiish afffshhterr-party.”

  She points out into the crowd. I follow her dangling finger to a man in a black suit surrounded by an entourage of women. He’s facing away, but I recognize him immediately: the Philanderer.

  “Oh no,” I say, reaching for her hand again, “you don’t want to go to that after-party. Trust me.”

  Steph scrunches up her face.

  “Butt I wantt tooo gooo!!!”

  As I’m about to reach for her again, Lulu pulls me aside.

  “I’ll take care of her, boy-chick. We’ll drink some water, have a little munch, and then in a taxi she goes. I’ll make sure she gets home all right.”

  I’m truly grateful.

  “Lulu, thanks for doing this. Are you sure it’s not going to be—”

  “Shhh,” she intones gravely. “You don’t think your Lulu will get fired if she allows some chick-a-dee to get vomity at one of her parties?”

  She reaches into her bosom and hands me a sweaty taxi voucher.

  “Sweet dreams, boy-chick.”

  Outside, it’s cold and drizzling. The bellman informs me there is a short delay for taxis and directs me to a bench where I can wait. It’s only after I’ve sat down, careful to avoid a cigarette butt, that I become aware of a woman at the other end of the bench. Most of her face is draped in shadow, but I recognize the blond hair and the sleek black dress—the Ice Queen.

  Goddammit. I was really hoping for a smooth exit.

  I needn’t have worried. When she glances at me sideways, I realize she’s so blitzed she’s hardly aware of my presence. The drizzle turns into a heavier downpour and I pull my suit jacket over my head. As I stare out into the darkness, listening to the soothing drone of water smashing against pavement, my thoughts turn to the Woman With The Scarf. I wonder what she’s doing right now, whether she is still at work, highlighting away under the jaundiced overhead lighting. Or curled up in a plush armchair at home, thinking about me, perhaps, as she rests her head contentedly against the armrest. Maybe I should drop by unexpectedly with some hot chocolate. Nah, it’s getting late; she might have fallen asleep already.

  I’ve forgotten about the Ice Queen until there is a retching sound to my left. Turning my head, I see she’s puked all down the front of her dress. She’s not done quite yet, apparently, as another jet of liquid shoots out of her mouth.

  She glances in my direction, her eyelids droopy. Wiping at her mouth, in her cold monotone, she says, “God, I just hate when that happens.”

  Seven

  Istand at the foot of my enemy’s gate. It’s a nice gate, I’ll admit: wrought iron, ivy crawling up the trellis work. Across the well-manicured lawn, down a cobbled path, sits a red-brick two-story dwelling, the architecture simple and sturdy without coming across as too ostentatious. Not exactly what I expected from the Sycophant’s residence, truly. I had imagined something more along the lines of a solitary turret rising up from the scorched earth of a gnarled hill, gaunt dogs yapping miserably and licking at the open sores on their legs, perpetual storm clouds hovering overhead.

  This sojourn is the latest demeaning request from El Sycophant, an hour-long ride through suburbia to hand-deliver his son’s passport to the incommunicado wife because they’re about to head off to Barbados in a few hours. I tell the company driver to wait for me, and I unlatch the gate, walk down the path, and ring the doorbell. I hear the sound of slippers shuffling, and then the door opens a crack, the chain still in place,
and the inner sanctum of the house releases a faint whiff of potpourri. So the Sycophant is apparently a fan of lavender. Or was. A blond head is barely visible.

  “Yes?”

  “I, um, I work with your husband. He’s asked me to deliver your son’s passport . . .”

  The sound of the chain being removed.

  “Oh, yes.” The woman swings open the door. “He called me about it this morning. Please come in.”

  It’s astounding, really: The Sycophant’s wife is actually not that bad-looking. At least, much better than any of the preconceived notions we’d formulated back at the office, which pretty much amounted to the Sycophant with longer hair and a touch of eyeliner. The Defeated One is going to be devastated by this news. As I stand beside the shoe rack, my nasal passages struggling to adjust to the stench of her citrusy perfume, I’m taking in the early-eighties bulbous blond hair, the toothy grin, and the gawky lankiness in limb that suggests she must have gone through a fairly awkward puberty. Despite overdoing it on the perfume, the Sycophant’s wife seems to radiate good health, her skin slightly tanned as if in cheerful defiance of the onset of winter, and there is a prominent muscle running down her forearm that hints she either plays a lot of tennis or sweeps the house obsessively.

  “I, um, I’ve got the passport right here.”

  I fumble around in my jacket pocket and hand it to her. She looks it over with complete disinterest before depositing it beside a vase of lilies on a side table.

  “Can I offer you something to drink?”

  “I have a driver waiting outside. It’d probably be best if I get going . . .”

  “Please,” she says, shuffling off in her slippers, motioning for me to follow her down the hall. “I’ve just brewed some fresh iced tea.”

  I make myself comfortable on the sofa in the living room while she slips into the kitchen. Though I’m itching to explore the lion’s den, to snoop around the closets for rotting corpses or studded leather ensembles, it’s impossible to deny that the room has a soothing pleasantness to it. Long, airy drapes, a gleaming hardwood floor, a ceramic urn of dried roses beside a canvas print of a famous impressionist painting.