Bank

by David Bledin

  On the mantel straight ahead rests a smattering of framed pictures: the Sycophant dressed in ski gear at the top of a chairlift, the Sycophant smugly holding up a large trout, the Sycophant and his family grinning away in a Jacuzzi. Either his wife hasn’t finished her housekeeping yet or there’s still a chance at salvaging the relationship. I’m feeling dirty looking at these pictures, a shameful voyeur. I’m reminded of the time I ran into Mr. Gilbert, my third-grade teacher, at the Baskin-Robbins with my mother one summer. He was with his two kids, and it was a real creepy experience. I mean, I didn’t want to know that Mr. Gilbert’s favorite flavor of ice cream was mint chocolate chip, or that he wore shiny basketball shorts, or that he was one of those paternal figures who had no qualms calling his son Squirt. I wanted him banished immediately to the classroom, with its popcorn strings and paper chains dangling from the walls and cubbyholes with our name tags above them, to have no other facets of personality beyond being my third-grade teacher. It’s the same way with the Sycophant, I guess.

  His wife emerges from the kitchen with a tray laden with two glasses of iced tea and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. After positioning the tray carefully on the table, she joins me on the couch. Not all the way at the other end but with only a finger’s length separating us. As we drink our iced tea, the house is as silent as a mausoleum, the stillness only disturbed by the occasional clinking of ice cubes in our glasses or the crunching sound from trying to gnaw at an overbaked cookie.

  Fortunately she takes the initiative.

  “They’re not very good, are they? My son likes them rock hard for some crazy reason. I prefer them chewy myself.”

  I grin, trying to mask my discomfort. “No, they’re fine. A nice texture, good ratio of chocolate chips to batter . . .”

  She laughs off my attempt at being polite. Settling back into the cushions, invoking an image of a svelte jungle cat, she asks, “So, do you enjoy working at the Bank?”

  I give my typical prefabricated response: “Yeah, it’s all right.”

  “And you like working with my husband?”

  What a question. Another of my prefabricated responses:

  “Yeah, he’s a decent guy.”

  She’s unconvinced, rolling her eyes.

  “He’s an absolute shit. Really insecure. I can just imagine his behavior at the office, groveling to the senior guys while giving you young bucks a load of crap.”

  Bucks. Weird choice of noun. I shrug and pick up my glass. She reaches over and pats my thigh.

  “I understand. You’re just being a good boy. Trying to protect yourself.”

  More uncomfortable grinning from my end. The problem is this: A minute or two passes and she still hasn’t removed her hand from my pant leg. It rests perfectly content on my thigh, even being so bold as to make a suggestive circular motion.

  “I, um . . .”

  While I’ve never technically been propositioned by an older woman before, I’ve watched The Graduate a few times and have a vague notion of how this seduction is supposed to transpire. Inviting me in for a glass of iced tea, a hand on my thigh, rolling around in the upstairs bedroom, sending framed pictures of the Sycophant crashing to the floor. Yet despite Anne Bancroft’s fueling the odd masturbatory session, I can’t seem to shake off who this woman is: bearer of the womb that incubated the Sycophant’s progeny, she who has witnessed him in all his bare-ass naked grotesqueness and lived to tell the tale.

  She winks at me coyly and suddenly the reality of the situation—the Sycophant’s wife has her hand on my inner thigh!— smashes into me like a kamikaze pilot’s final sayonara. Holy fucking crap. The Sycophant’s wife is unfazed by my tension. She scoots over, nonchalant, as if seducing the young’uns is a part of her daily routine, until our legs are squeezed firmly together. She’s wearing a sheer blouse and I’m certain I can decipher the outline of a nipple—the teat that has nourished the Sycophant’s children!—and even the surrounding areola, this hyperreality really kicking in.

  All right; I’m putting a stop to this.

  Just as I’m about to push up off the couch, the hand on my thigh continues its upward trek, venturing boldly to my crotch and probing at my trousers. I’m not fully erect—I’m way too nervous to achieve that level of turgidity—but the hand seems content probing at my squishiness.

  “I love your ears,” the Sycophant’s wife purrs from close by. “Do you mind if I touch them?”

  Before I give my consent, she reaches over and starts stroking an earlobe.

  “Oohhh,” she moans, “the skin is just so supple.”

  With one of her hands fingering my earlobe and the other on the verge of a handjob, I’m definitely approaching the point of no return. Do I really want this? Rationally, no. Too many complications for a quick roll in the hay. And then there’s the Woman With The Scarf to think about.

  “The driver. He’s still waiting outside . . .”

  “Fuck your driver,” she moans, licking the side of my neck.

  Enough with the rationality. It’s been way too long since anything more serious than those tentative kisses at Starbucks. And when it boils down to it, I’m getting mad bragging rights for this.

  She gasps as my tongue pushes between her teeth, invading her tonsils. My hands are all over the place: tearing at the buttons on her blouse, fumbling with the clasp of her bra, squeezing a breast, trying to worm their way inside the waistband of her slacks.

  “My god,” she chuckles throatily, “you’re so positively . . . virile. I forgot about the pleasures of youth.”

  All I can manage is a pretty inane “Yeah, baby.”

  She slides down the couch, pulling me on top of her. Grinding into her pelvis, I’m overwhelmed by my insatiable horniness. I have to slow down or I’m going to get off too soon.

  My fingers reach their final destination and she’s squirming underneath me like a fish fresh out of water. Gone is the awkwardness that she’s the Sycophant’s wife, gone the awkwardness that she’s at least twenty years older than me. All this awkwardness dissipates under a primal lust, an impending orgasm. I dry-hump her ferociously into the couch, rubbing my hardness against her stomach.

  We’re really getting into it when there is a knocking at the door followed by a little boy’s voice:

  “Mommy, Janice dropped me off early.”

  She stiffens beneath me, then tries to hurl me off her—except for the fact that my hand, entangled in her panties, won’t come loose from her slacks, and her bucking below me isn’t making this any easier.

  “Oh fuck,” she hisses, fumbling to reclasp her bra.

  “I’m sorry. It’s my fingers, they’re stuck—”

  “Just get them fucking out!”

  We’re interrupted by the appearance of a short blond boy with egg-head glasses.

  “Mommy, what are you doing?”

  With a burst of panicked strength, she yanks my hand out of her crotch, sending the top button of her slacks flying. She leaps off the couch and smooths down her hair.

  “We were just wrestling, honey.”

  “Wrestling?”

  The boy peers at my open fly with obvious disdain.

  “Who’s he?”

  The Sycophant’s wife is superbly collected, as if she’s had a lot of experience with these close calls.

  “He’s one of Daddy’s business colleagues.”

  The boy doesn’t look too convinced.

  “He’s got stick-out ears,” he says, scowling. “Much dopier than Daddy’s. Where is Daddy, anyways?”

  The Sycophant’s wife strokes the top of his head.

  “Daddy’s very, very busy with work right now. We’ll only be gone for two weeks and then you’ll see Daddy again.”

  The boy stares at me with the youthful manifestation of sheer hatred before bounding up the staircase. The Sycophant’s wife puts a hand to her forehead and stares wistfully at the ceiling. Then she walks me out with minimal eye contact, neither of us saying a word.

 
Back at the office, the Star’s monitor displays a little girl jumping up and down on a trampoline. The Defeated One is hovering over it.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “My sister’s birthday party. My folks wanted it on film, and the camcorder was just lying around, and, uh, the clip had already been transferred to the CD . . .”

  “Fuuuuck,” the Defeated One moans.

  “I thought we didn’t need it anymore,” the Star whimpers.

  The Defeated One puts his head in his arms.

  Hanging up my coat, I ask, “What about the file on the CD?”

  “All gone.” The Star puffs out his bottom lip. “Somehow the projector corrupted the data when it crashed. I tried everything, but it’s no longer extractable.”

  I shrug. “We can always try filming them again?”

  The Defeated One looks up woefully.

  “I’m not even sure if they’re sleeping together anymore.”

  The Star guiltily hands the CD case back to the Defeated One, who tosses it on his desk. We observe a moment of silence to mourn the plan’s failure before I suggest a Starbucks run to lift our spirits. The Defeated One and I head down the hall to round up the rest of the troops. As per usual, Postal Boy is the only one around. He’s rooting through Clyde’s desk, frantically opening and shutting drawers.

  “Postal, what are you doing?” the Defeated One asks.

  Postal Boy ignores us, removing piles of paper and dumping them on the floor.

  “What the hell is going on?” the Defeated One asks again, raising his voice.

  When Postal Boy reaches into the back of Clyde’s filing cabinet and tosses a tattered Swank magazine across the room, the Defeated One grabs hold of one of the swivel chairs and pushes it in Postal Boy’s direction. It nudges into the back of his legs, causing him to stumble forward and bash his knee against the edge of the desk. Postal Boy emits a strangled, unnatural “Aaarrggghhhhhhh.”

  He whips around to glare at us, his shoulders hunched forward and fists clenched in the stance of an avenging zombie in a B-grade horror flick. In a voice I’ve never heard before, one shaking with rage, he says, “Do you know what I’m doing?”

  The Defeated One throws me a bewildered glance as Postal Boy lumbers toward us.

  “Going through Clyde’s desk?” I offer.

  Postal Boy shakes his head and sneers, “I’m trying to find a pile of research reports on alternative-energy firms. You know why I’m looking for these reports?”

  His left eye is twitching so rapidly that fluttering is a more apt description.

  The Defeated One mouths at me, “This is it. The moment we’ve all been waiting for.”

  Postal Boy continues:

  “I’m looking for these reports, mind you, because I just got called into the Philanderer’s office. Seems like Clyde has been doing some shoddy work of late and they’re getting nervous he’s going to screw this one up. So, with infinite wisdom, they decided to pass this project along to yours truly. Four sets of comps to be completed by Thursday morning. This on top of the one-hundred-and-twenty-hour weeks I’m pulling on these other projects.”

  Then Postal Boy really loses it, grabbing a stapler and hurling it against the opposite wall. It strikes a cabinet beside the Prodigal Son’s monitor and erupts in a gale of shiny silver crescents. The Defeated One glances at me and makes the hand movements of an explosion.

  Postal Boy leans against the edge of the desk, panting hard, looking forlornly at the staples on the floor. Then he gets down on his knees and crawls under the desk, curling into a fetal position beside the buzzing computer and power cords.

  “I just can’t take it anymore,” he whimpers.

  My immediate instinct is to quickly shut the door. Pragmatism, I guess. My second instinct is to stand there wringing my fingers, not knowing how I’m supposed to react to the long-awaited event of Postal Boy finally going mental. With a gentleness that surprises me, the Defeated One steps over and leans down beside the desk.

  “Come out of there, buddy.”

  After some reluctance, Postal Boy slowly gets to his feet, dusting off his pant legs. Though he isn’t tearing up, the desolation etched on his face is heart-wrenching in its own right. The three of us sit in the empty swivel chairs in the room.

  “I’m sorry,” Postal Boy croaks, “I’m not sure what just happened.”

  “Hey,” the Defeated One assures him, “we all lose it every now and again. Consider it part of a banker’s rite of passage.”

  Postal Boy manages a weak smile.

  “I’m just so fucking exhausted.”

  “I know.”

  “And I’ve got to clean up those staples.”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  Postal Boy runs his hands through his hair, further disheveling the crow’s nest.

  “I don’t know how I’m going to handle it. It’s like . . . I can’t physically meet all these deadlines. The comps for the Philanderer, the LBO model for the telecom group, this alternative-energy crap. It’s not humanly possible—”

  “Relax,” the Defeated One urges, repeating his mantra, “you have to remember: Nobody’s going to die from this.”

  Postal Boy slumps further in the chair.

  “I think I’m going to speak to the Toad this afternoon,” he says. “Tell him that it’s getting to be too much. It’s hard enough picking up the slack for the Prodigal Son, but now Clyde as well—”

  “You are not going to sit down with the Toad.” The Defeated One rises from his chair. “You choose to confide in him and what’s going to happen? The Prodigal Son remains, because he has his head firmly lodged up the Fish’s anal cavity, and Clyde will get the boot. Where does that leave you? Right back where you started, shouldering the work of three analysts, albeit with no sympathy from the rest of the junior employees because you’re about to be known around these parts as the whistle-blower. The guy who is not to be trusted. And don’t forget the Toad really hates a whiner, interprets sniveling as a sign of weakness. A couple thousand bucks docked from your bonus for all your troubles.”

  Postal Boy remains quiet, considering this angle. Putting his head in his arms, he acknowledges, “You’re right, but it can’t go on like this. The Prodigal Son is a write-off, but Clyde . . .”

  “Let’s leave Clyde out of this for now,” says the Defeated One.

  I snap, “No, let’s bring Clyde into this. We’ve had this talk already; enough with the denial. We’ve been patient, we’ve given him his space, but forget it, man. Clyde is now at the point where he’s a liability on the rest of us. Look at Postal; he hasn’t slept in the last week. There’s frickin’ mildew growing out the side of his head.”

  “That’s just fluff from my tie.”

  “Whatever. Maybe it is a good idea to bring it up with the Toad. At the very least, it’ll give Clyde a kick in the pants.”

  The Defeated One slams his hand on the desk.

  “NO!”

  The veins in his neck bulge out prominently. This only makes me equally pissed, and I shout at him.

  “Why the hell are you so loyal to him, anyway? Why are you so perfectly content letting him get away with this bullshit?”

  The Defeated One scowls. “It’s like this, jackass. We slave away at the Bank, these missiles of excrement hailing down on us from all of the senior guys, and there’s not a single moment of reprieve: no time for our families, our friends, not even five fucking minutes when we get home to satisfy that basic human craving for sex. And so, let me ask you this: What do we have left if we turn on one another? I’ll tell you—zip. Nada.”

  He takes a deep breath, turning to Postal Boy.

  “Look, I’m not trying to be Clyde’s protector, and I’m not going to force you to stay away from the Toad. If you really feel the need to lie down on his couch and unburden your woes, then I won’t stop you. But think about what’s helping us survive here—not the Toad, not the Sycophant. It’s the ability to rely on one another.”


  “Kumbaya, my lord,” I hum, but I stop when the Defeated One throws me a menacing glare.

  “I don’t know . . .” Postal Boy sighs.

  The Defeated One sits back down.

  “Postal, I’m just not willing to give up on Clyde after only a few weeks. Granted he’s not dealing with his father’s death in a perfectly natural way, but I’m telling you, that sort of shit has to mess with your head.”

  Again I find myself getting snippy.

  “That’s all fine and dandy, enlightened one, but you’re not working one-hundred-and-twenty-hour weeks cleaning up after his mess.”

  I expect a moral outburst, but instead the Defeated One leans back, scratching his forehead.

  “Okay, how about this? I’ll handle the LBO model for the telecom group, and Mumbles”—?he nods in my direction—“will take care of the alternative-energy comps. That should ease some of the burden for now.”

  “Gee, thanks for volunteering my services,” I mutter. “Like I’m not busy enough with everything else I have on my plate.”

  The Defeated One ignores me, swiveling around to ferret through the Prodigal Son’s desk for a piece of gum. Anyway, it’s not like he really needs to say anything; one glance at Postal Boy, his left eye twitching in a display of infinite gratitude, is enough to confirm that, ah, fuck it, I guess I’m stuck with those comps.

  There is only one method for staying moderately healthy in investment banking. Because your daily exercise routine consists of nothing more rigorous than walking back and forth between your desk and the copy room and flexing your wrist muscles using the binding machine, you have to make do by improving your diet: copious amounts of iodine-enriched seaweed and lumps of raw fish full of protein and low in fat.

  Nonetheless, it’s an acquired taste. The Sushi Progression works like this:

  • Veggie Rolls. Your first brave foray into this alien cuisine. Speckling your shirt with soy sauce because of those damn chopsticks and realizing the weird pink flakes aren’t just for decoration, you struggle to keep down the cucumber and avocado while the more advanced sushi eaters effortlessly drop nasty blobs of raw fish down their gullets.