Bank

by David Bledin

  I raise my can of Coke to him. Clyde’s behavior has drastically improved lately: showing up to work at a reasonably punctual hour, not smoking up on the job, and keeping his disappearances to a minimum. I’m almost positive the Defeated One chatted with him after Postal Boy’s breakdown, though nothing has been mentioned explicitly. Postal Boy, as per usual, is the voice of dissent:

  “I don’t know, guys. I don’t think I’m comfortable with this.”

  “What’s the problem?” I ask.

  Postal Boy removes his glasses and blows on the lenses.

  “What if you guys get more than me? Then I’m left feeling like crap. Maybe it’s better if we just keep it to ourselves—”

  “But knowledge is power,” Clyde interjects. “Postal, wouldn’t you want to know if you got royally screwed over? Sure you’d feel terrible if the Toad gave you the short end of the stick, but is that worse than not knowing the injustice of one of us potentially getting a fatter check than you?”

  “I guess you’re right,” Postal Boy sighs.

  “So, you’re in?”

  “Yeah,” Postal Boy agrees.

  And finally, the day of reckoning is upon us . . .

  From: TheToad@theBank.com

  To: Analysts; Associates

  After an excellent recovery over the last few months, I’m pleased to announce we will be distributing year-end bonuses and reviews throughout the day. Please see the attached schedule.

  I’m allotted an afternoon appointment at 3:30. The Defeated One is scheduled in at an earlier 12:45. He rubs his hands together gleefully.

  “So, are you excited, Mumbles?”

  “Yeah, ecstatic,” I deadpan.

  I’m actually shitting my pants, in all honesty. I know it’s kind of unfounded, but what if the Sycophant gave me a really horrible review? Despite busting my ass over the last several months, jumping through all sorts of demeaning hoops, I wouldn’t put it past him.

  “Don’t get too excited by the Toadian language,” the Defeated One instructs. “We had an ‘excellent recovery’ last year as well, and bonuses were still flat.”

  “Great,” I grumble.

  “Awww,” he says, pouting. “You’re worried you won’t be getting that big fat bonus check for thirty-five grand.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Mumbles, you know I’m just fucking with you.”

  Then he starts giggling hysterically, unable to restrain himself:

  “But thirty-five thousand! My god, what tailpipe are you sniffing?”

  Eons have passed by the time the Defeated One is getting ready for his appointment. Despite all the big talk, he’s looking nervous as he takes a deep breath and strides out of our office like the royals being prodded along to the guillotines.

  Fifteen minutes later and he’s slumped in his chair with the manila envelope on his lap. He looks downcast at the envelope before hurling it against the window.

  “Goddamn.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  He shakes his head and points to his stomach.

  “Gets you right here, didn’t I tell ya?”

  On that ominous note, by the time the clock flickers to 3:25, my nervousness has manifested itself as a physical nausea. I arrive at the Toad’s office just as an Asian associate rushes out. She’d make a brilliant poker player; there is nothing in her expression that betrays whether she’s pleased or devastated by the manila envelope she clutches in her hand.

  The Toad sits regally behind the desk, his posture painfully erect in an attempt to boost his five foot two inches above the stack of envelopes piled neatly before him. A shaft of sunlight breaks from the murky clouds beyond the window and illuminates the glistening expanse of his receding hairline.

  “Please sit down.”

  He’s clearly eating up this full day of intense power-tripping egomania. There is one envelope separated from the rest of the pile; I imagine that’s mine.

  The Toad presses his hands together and clears his throat. He has this peculiar habit of spreading his arms real wide when he speaks, like he’s maximizing his surface area for optimal windpipe clearage before he finally utters a peep. After such a physical production, you’re expecting a supernatural baritone, Barry Manilow reverberating out of his tiny frame. Instead, it’s choirboy falsetto, a squeeze toy held down too long. He could use a misshapen beret with a feather in it. Silken tights. All hail the great orator, Sir Venomous Toad.

  He rambles on about how the year started off in the dumps but ended respectably, how I should be very proud of my contribution to the Bank’s performance, how senior management doesn’t take for granted the immense importance of us flea-ridden monkeys humping the base of the totem pole. At the end of this two-faced monologue, the moment of truth has finally arrived. He hands me the manila envelope. The first page is my review scorecard, mostly a bunch of 3’s and 4’s. Not great, but not as terrible as it could have been.

  On the next page, halfway down, there is the number:

  $22,000.

  It’s not my minimum, I grant you that, but it’s definitely not something I’m going to cream my pants over. Before I’ve looked up, the Toad is narrowing his eyes; he’s perceived all of this in a flash. A stern shaking of hands and then I’m dismissed with a nod of his gleaming head, off to commiserate with the Defeated One.

  “So, we’re going to pull them out one by one and write the numbers on a piece of paper, right? Nobody will know for sure exactly who got what.”

  I shake the hat with the three strips of paper, each containing our scribbled bonus amount. Clyde rolls his eyes.

  “Like this isn’t going to be painfully obvious.”

  The Prodigal Son saunters in right as I’m about to unfold the first strip. He collapses in his chair, arms behind his head.

  “Hey, boys.”

  “You’re here late.” Postal Boy’s monotone wavers with contempt.

  It’s only 5:30, a ballsy comment coming from him.

  “Yeah, tell me about it, dude. Just forgot my wallet. Headin’ home in fifteen minutes.”

  He scratches his belly and yawns.

  “Anyway, what’s in the hat?”

  “We’re comparing bonuses,” Clyde answers matter-of-factly.

  “Cool.” The Prodigal Son stifles another yawn. “Hold up a minute.”

  He writes something on a piece of paper and folds it. Tossing it in the hat, he puts on his jacket and swaggers out of the office.

  “Fucker,” Postal Boy mouths after him.

  “Back to business.”

  I shake the hat again. After unfolding the four pieces of paper, I write the numbers in a column:

  $22,000

  $27,000

  $22,000

  $22,000

  “There it is, gentlemen.”

  “Congratulations, Postal.” Clyde slaps him on the back.

  Postal Boy doesn’t even flinch at the smack. He’s gone white as a sheet, literally, all the blood draining from his cheeks. He peers at me quizzically, his left eye twitching in disbelief.

  “Did you get more . . . ”

  I look over at Clyde. He shrugs.

  It dawns on all three of us simultaneously.

  “Fucking hell,” Clyde roars.

  From: Me@theBank.com

  To: WomanWithTheScarf@GoodmanWeisenthal.com

  So we just received our bonuses. I’m still trying to work out whether it’s adequate comp for being a slave to the Bank; figure probably not. Nonetheless, it’s a decent enough excuse to celebrate. Any chance you’d be up for grabbing another dinner sometime? Come on, write back.

  My original idea was to celebrate my bonus with a low-key affair, wings and beer and a few rounds of Texas Hold’em with a few friends who had miraculously survived my extreme negligence. However, Lulu popped by all flustered this afternoon and sabotaged my happy plan, weaseling us into attending the WETI Society Annual Winter Gala this evening. It happens all the time: The Bank purchases a table at one of these
hoity-toity charity events, and if it’s for a boring cause, meaning it doesn’t involve hobnobbing with the industry’s finest, then the Bank fills the thousand-dollars-a-plate chairs with sullen analysts.

  “What does it stand for again?” Postal Boy swigs from his personal-size bottle of Moët. “Women for the Ethical Treatment of . . .”

  “Iguanas,” the Defeated One slurs.

  “Inuits,” Clyde chimes in.

  I down my champagne irritably. Aside from the frustration of not having heard back from the Woman With The Scarf over the past few days, this gala reeks of pretension: elegant women scuttling around, blowing air kisses at one another; the fun-size bottles of Moët; the pecan-encrusted catfish and garlic broccolini that tastes no better than rubber chicken and overcooked spinach.

  A woman in a brown dress resembling the pecan-encrusted catfish taps the microphone at the front of the ballroom, then immediately breaks into a militant tirade.

  “We must stand by the men in our lives who feel the insecurity of satisfying us, who roam through this world limp and vulnerable—”

  “My god.” The Defeated One grimaces. “Women for the Ethical Treatment of Impotence?”

  “Relax.” Clyde passes him another bottle of Moët. “It’ll make for a great story one day.”

  The Defeated One turns to an analyst on his left, a guy who eerily resembles Postal Boy. I wonder if they’ve always looked similar or if it’s the Bank’s evil doing, converging their physical identities like those Borgs on Star Trek.

  “So brotha, what trouble are you getting up to with your bonus?”

  The guy doesn’t even hesitate and says, “I’m investing it.”

  “All of it?”

  “Yup.”

  “But, dude,” the Defeated One reasons, “if you don’t treat yourself to anything, if you just save it all, then it’s almost as if it never happened.”

  The guy frowns. “Look, I’m really trying to pay attention to this, all right?”

  It’s hard to believe, truly, and I’m reminded of why I rarely make any social effort outside of our Gang of Four. The catfish lady’s voice rises over the microphone:

  “And now I’d like to introduce the venerable Mr. J. P. Reynolds from Sotheby’s, who will commence the auction of more than twenty lots of stunning American Indian art and textiles. A gentle reminder: Ten percent of all proceeds will be graciously donated to fund programs coordinated by the WETI Society.”

  The catfish woman exits the stage to vigorous applause. An elderly man in a tuxedo takes her place before the microphone.

  “Thank you, Evelyn. Please note the bid cards arranged on each table . . .”

  It’s not long before the auction is in full swing. It’s actually somewhat exciting, believe it or not. Our participation is restricted to voyeurism, as the auction is anything but child’s play: The first item, a Tsimshian mask, sells to a flamboyant man in a mustard-yellow blazer for eighty thousand dollars. The room claps enthusiastically as the man pumps his fist victoriously.

  “The cheese has slipped off their crackers,” the Defeated One says, shaking his head. “Frothing at the mouth over a faded strip of cotton.”

  He’s referring to an authentic Navajo woven shawl, bid up to sixty thousand dollars before it’s finally won by a beautiful woman who doesn’t look all that much older than us. She shrieks in excitement and hugs an equally breathtaking socialite beside her.

  One of the final lots is a painting only slightly larger than a postcard of two Indians paddling across a lake. As soon as it’s brought onstage, a murmur starts up in the room. The Defeated One and I exchange a glance and shrug; neither of us can figure out what gives. Perhaps it’s the final work of a European master who grew bored of painting cherubic ladies sprawled under apple trees and decided to immortalize the brown-skinned natives frolicking around the forest, earning him an arrow through his gut for not minding his own business.

  The bid starts at eighty thousand dollars.

  “Ninety thousand?”

  The man in the mustard-yellow blazer shoots up his bid card.

  “Ninety-five thousand?”

  By the time I’ve polished off my fun-sized Moët and beckoned the waiter over for another, four socialites in ruthless competition have bid the paddling Indians up to one hundred and forty-five thousand.

  “One hundred and fifty?”

  From a landing directly above us comes a brash “Hell, yeah!”

  All eyes in the room glance upward. That voice—

  “One hundred and sixty?”

  The man in the mustard-yellow blazer grits his teeth and holds up his bid card.

  “One hundred and eighty?”

  Again from above our heads:

  “You betcha!”

  The murmuring reaches a feverish pitch. My gaze flits to the Defeated One, then to Postal Boy. The three of us bolt from the table simultaneously, rushing out so we can have a better view of the landing. Visual confirmation: Clyde is slouched over the railing, twiddling the bid card between his fingers.

  “Holy shit,” the Defeated One curses.

  As we race toward the stairs, the man in the mustard-yellow blazer, clearly frustrated, reluctantly holds up his bid card. The crowd is eating this up; there’s a smattering of applause even before the auction is over. We’re halfway up the staircase when Clyde has spotted us.

  “Hey, guys,” he says thickly, obviously drunk off his ass.

  “Going once,” the auctioneer intones gravely.

  “Clyde, don’t be a fucking moron,” the Defeated One bellows.

  “Going twice.”

  Clyde grins goofily, waving us over with the bid card.

  “Check this out. I’m gonna get me something for my wall.”

  The crowd gasps in disbelief.

  “Two hundred thousand?”

  The man in the mustard-yellow blazer shakes his head and sits back down. The room breaks into thunderous applause. The gavel strikes down just as Clyde unloads his catfish all over the plush carpet.

  “Sold, to the man on the landing for two hundred thousand dollars.”

  The next day it’s damage control at Han’s Blue Diamond Chinese Gourmet. We’re in no particular rush, as the Bank has settled into an eerie calm following the distribution of bonuses.

  “What do you mean, you didn’t inherit all that much?” the Defeated One implores him.

  Clyde gingerly caresses his temple.

  “Stop screaming, dude. My head is totally pounding.”

  “Screw your fucking hangover,” the Defeated One growls. “What happened to your dad’s money?”

  “I don’t know,” Clyde says, wincing. “He gave most of it away to the ethnic Albanian refugees, I think. Wanted me to pull myself up by my bootstraps.”

  I pick at my General Tso, but I’m not all that hungry. The whole situation is ridiculously absurd—you kind of want to laugh about it, but at the same time, it’s gravely serious. My god. On the hook for two hundred thousand dollars.

  Clyde puts his head on the table.

  “Jeez, what am I going to do?”

  The Defeated One doesn’t look all too pleased.

  “How much did he leave you?”

  “A hundred grand.”

  “And what about extending your personal line of credit?”

  “Checked this morning. The Bank is only willing to lend me thirty.”

  The Defeated One furrows his brow in consternation.

  “So you’re in the hole for seventy.”

  Clyde closes his eyes and begins to whimper.

  “Shut up,” the Defeated One barks.

  Clyde stops whimpering.

  “All right. You’ve got fifteen after tax from your bonus. Fifty-five left. This is how it’s going to work. I’m willing to lend you twenty-five thousand; you pay me back when you sell the painting, or fork it out of your next bonus, whichever comes first. That leaves a gap of thirty.”

  He turns to Postal Boy and me. Postal Boy’s m
outh gapes open and shut, but I know he’s not going to say anything. That leaves me to take the reins.

  “No.”

  The Defeated One balks at this.

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “Simple. I’m not lending Clyde the money.”

  “Why not?”

  Clyde still has his head down on the table; it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s fallen asleep. I slip out of the booth and motion for the Defeated One and Postal Boy to follow me to the front of the restaurant.

  “I don’t trust him. At the rate he’s going, what if he gets fired? If he doesn’t get his next bonus, then we’re seriously fucked.”

  “Haven’t you noticed him getting better?”

  So, the jackass did talk to Clyde without mentioning it to us.

  “I don’t know about this,” I say, crossing my arms.

  “What about you, Postal?” the Defeated One asks.

  Postal Boy shrugs. The Defeated One turns back to me.

  “It’s all about faith, man. You know Clyde’s back on track. Look me straight in the eye and refuse to acknowledge it. He’ll pay you back in a year, tops.”

  I have a really bad feeling about this.

  “Come on, Mumbles.”

  The Defeated One glares at me with determined conviction. Before I can stop myself, I crumble under the pressure.

  “All right. Fine.”

  The Defeated One takes one look at Postal Boy, and without even waiting for his response, says, “Good. You boys have made me proud today.”

  Nine

  I formulated my list of New Year’s resolutions during a hazy reunion of sorts in Montreal, the city of shameless debauchery. After three days of getting plastered with Francophone schoolgirls and licking champagne off a stripper’s taut belly and chugging down way too much Fin du Monde lager, I was eventually rewarded for my efforts with a puddle of regurgitated steak et frites spread across the hotel lobby. Good times, I tell you.

  The list of resolutions is as follows:

  1.Restrict coffee intake to four cups per day, two in the morning and two in the evening. An emergency cup is appropriate when the shit really hits the fan.

  2.Learn how to use that stupid fax machine.

  3.At least once a week, make that extra effort to contact a regular human being existing somewhere beyond the confines of the Bank. This includes: mother, father, brother, friend, remote acquaintance. This does not include: pizza delivery guy, taxi driver, the Korean dude who always squirts way too much mayonnaise when preparing our Subway sandwiches.