by David Bledin
“Um, how old is your daughter?”
He stops his flurry of activity, scrutinizing me from behind his thick glasses. In that frosty accent, he inquires, “Might I ask why it concerns you?”
What an asshole. He takes a bite of his bagel, records a personalized greeting for his voice mail, and flips through a new pile of paper before speaking again.
“She was born on Saturday.”
“Last Saturday?” I ask incredulously.
He adjusts the settings of his monitor.
“Yes.”
Jesus. That means the guy must have been here alphabetizing his files while his wife was pushing and shoving in the maternity ward. Talk about priorities.
“Well, then,” he sighs, “where are those comps?”
I’m taken aback. “Which comps?”
His mouth clenches into a thin slit; the Crazy Brit is not pleased.
“The comps that were expected on my desk by first thing this morning.”
He cracks his knuckles one by one, biting his lower lip.
“Am I to believe you have been neglecting your duties in my predecessor’s absence?”
“No, not at all. It’s only that I, um, was confused about the timing, what with the staffing change—”
He’s clearly not buying any of this. He puts his hand up to silence me.
“I will let this slide, but no more. You will have those comps on my desk by three o’clock this afternoon.”
I utter a guttural Push Back: “There’s four sets of them. It’s not possible—”
His entire body stiffens in the chair, and that focused stare turns my skin into gooseflesh.
“I have never come across an impossibility in this industry.”
His demand is different from the maddening requests the Sycophant would drop on my plate; the Crazy Brit draws his deadlines with the weight of ten years of experience resting on his shoulders.
“Are we clear?”
“Yes,” I mumble.
The Crazy Brit is unconvinced. Repeating himself, he says, “Are we clear?”
“Yes!” I nod my head vigorously.
The Crazy Brit sneers as I rise from the chair.
“Do not forget. Three o’clock.”
Over the next few days, the workload accelerates from moderate to heavy, then, with a final hiccup, to mind-numbing, you’d-rather-shoot-yourself-straight-through-the-gut insanity. It’s not just me; the whole M&A division is shuddering under this looming crisis, namely too much work and not enough warm bodies to process it all. Even the Prodigal Son is picking up some of the slack: not sneaking off to the gym in the middle of the workday, staying an hour or two later than his normal departure time of five-thirty, and asking Postal Boy for help with basic Excel functions that every other analyst learned months ago.
My continuing encounters with our tyrant from across the pond have been anything but pleasant.
“He’s a lunatic,” I say, shaking my head in bewilderment.
I’ve just spent the last two hours trying to decipher the Crazy Brit’s markup of a presentation before I finally enlisted the Defeated One’s help. You’d think that in this industry, where attention to detail is crucial, where it’s not uncommon for an analyst to get bitched out over inserting an extra space after a period, our senior guys would try to provide us with something more legible than chicken scratch. Instead, every page is a mess of arrows and squiggles.
I’ve managed to decipher most of the edits using logical deduction, but there are still a few loopy lines that could mean anything. I’d go straight to the source for clarification if the Crazy Brit didn’t scare the shit out of me.
“I think he could be leaving out the vowels,” the Defeated One suggests, scratching his forehead.
He swivels over with the presentation.
“There,” he says, pointing to a horizontal line with only the subtlest upticks. “Doesn’t that spell ‘efficiency’?”
I squint at it.
“I thought that was ‘structural.’?”
The Defeated One scratches his forehead again and says, “Yeah, it could be that too.”
“Great,” I grumble.
Or there is Wednesday’s wild goose chase:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Please pull up press releases covering the recently announced merger of SBC and Sprint.
I begin with a Google search. A half hour later, not finding anything that is remotely related, I know something’s fishy. These are two grotesquely humongous corporations we’re talking about; if either CEO had passed wind, it would have been a major press event. I ask the Defeated One but he shakes his head.
“Sorry, Mumbles. Telecom has never been my forte.”
I ring up our Library Department. I’ve trudged down there once before to return a report, so I’m not duped by the mellifluous voice of the woman on the other end asking how she may be of assistance. The Library is staffed with three female “information consultants” who look as if they’ve just dashed over from a prison break: high and tight haircuts, cobra tattoos crawling up their bulging calf muscles, pink-ringed eyes that dare you to fuck with them by filing your annual report on the wrong shelf. I wouldn’t have a problem with any of this if it weren’t for the fact that they’re useless, wallowing in the depths of the value-added chain with the likes of the Toad and the Dirty Hippie Office Supply Manager. In truth, this call is merely a formality, to have an affirmative answer when the Crazy Brit asks whether I’ve consulted the ex-convicts downstairs.
An hour later and I’ve checked every news source I can think of—still nothing. I consider swinging by the Crazy Brit’s office and acknowledging that I’m having difficulties, but that’s the thing with these ambiguous search requests: You never want to default to the empty-handed position unless you are one hundred percent positive you haven’t overlooked something. The last thing you need is a senior manager pulling up a major website, or flipping through a report, and bingo, there it is in all its brazen obviousness.
My phone rings. The Crazy Brit’s extension. It’s amazing how quickly a sequence of four numbers can be associated with such futility and despair.
“Where is that info? Come by my office immediately.”
He’s in the middle of dissecting a Subway sandwich, laying the tomatoes and pickles precisely on a tissue. He looks up as I enter.
“Is this task really so difficult? These are two major firms participating in this alliance. What sort of a nincompoop can’t click on a simple corporate home page?”
He motions for me to come around behind his desk.
“Now, look here,” he says, speaking to me as one would a simpleton.
He types SBC and AT&T into Google and the screen is inundated with press releases announcing their recent merger.
“But wasn’t it Sprint—”
The Crazy Brit puts his hand up to silence me.
“I’m flabbergasted, truly. It was a simple request and you failed at your task. Failed. I will have to discuss this with Human Resources. In the meantime, I’d highly advise you to familiarize yourself with the concept of a web browser; they are quite useful for the type of work we do here.”
I clench my teeth; I’m this close to snapping his brittle neck in two. The Crazy Brit isn’t even paying attention, going back to his sandwich deconstruction. As I’m turning to leave, he addresses me.
“Are we clear?”
There’s no point in arguing, really.
“Yes.”
“Very good, then.”
I’m lying entwined with the Woman With The Scarf (though she’s currently scarfless in only a T-shirt and sweat pants) on the couch in my living room. It’s the first time I’ve invited her back to my place, and the standard of cleanliness could be improved: There is dirty laundry strewn everywhere, dishes piled high in the sink even with a dishwasher right beside it, and a half-eaten pizza from three weeks ago fermenting on the side table. I warned her in a
dvance and apologized profusely as she took it all in, and so far she’s been kind enough not to voice her criticism.
I stifle a yawn. I’m exhausted after the brutality of the day, barely able to keep my eyes open, but I’m trying to stay focused on an episode of Seinfeld, the one where they all get lost in the parking garage, so the Woman With The Scarf won’t think poorly of me.
“There was this talent show at my residence hall during freshman year,” I mumble. “One of those excuses to get blitzed in the middle of the week. Anyway, my roommate decides that a couple of us are going to act out an episode of Seinfeld. Just go up there impromptu, with no gimmicks or anything. So I’m supposed to be George—”
“Which episode?” She reaches over and strokes my cheek.
I nuzzle her neck, smelling her apricot shampoo.
“I can’t remember. So, I’m George, and I have to adopt his whiny voice, but I suck at voices. And you know how those talent shows are, so easy to make a complete ass of yourself . . .”
I’ve lost my train of thought. I’m silent until she nudges me with her elbow.
“So, what happened? You blew it?”
I snap out of my stupor.
“Oh, right. Anyway, so I’m all geared up for total failure, the two shots of vodka not working at all, and then something happens. I know this sounds kind of silly, but it’s almost like I become George. The voice, the movements—everything is dead-on. I get a standing ovation at the end of it.”
“So, you’re going to do the impersonation for me now?” she asks, smiling sleepily.
“Nah. It was a once-in-a-lifetime performance. I probably couldn’t pull it off again if my life depended on it. But there was a point to this story. Yes, this: that no matter how old you get, you’ll never stop surprising yourself.”
“I already knew that,” she says, yawning. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be lying here with you right now.”
“You evil harpy.”
“Don’t you know it.”
I kiss her on the nose and she giggles. I’m about to kiss her again, when I spot the alarm clock rearranging its digital numbers in my peripheral vision: 2:55. Fuck; in less than four hours I need to be up all over again. It wouldn’t be a big deal if I had a mindless job to wake up to—working on an assembly line or pruning some hedges or driving Miss Daisy around—but I have to be fully functioning to deal with the ticking time bomb that is the Crazy Brit.
Ah, to hell with it; I’ll just have to slip another coffee or two past my quota. I’m back to nuzzling the side of her neck when she notices the alarm clock as well.
“Three already! Oh god, I’ve got to be up in, like, four hours.”
She rolls around so she’s facing away from me, pulling my arms around her waist.
“Would it be a big deal if we just went to sleep now?” she murmurs softly. “You wouldn’t get the wrong idea, right?”
I’m already kissing the back of her neck.
“Shhh, don’t be silly. Of course we can sleep.”
I reach out and take her hand, leading her into the bedroom. Miraculously I washed my sheets only about a week ago, the first time in more than four months. I kiss her eyelids, and my hands graze her body as we assume the same position as on the couch. In less than five minutes we’re both out cold.
The next morning, as the market roars open, the Crazy Brit drops his worst assignment to date.
“I need you to bring up a few files from the archives. Apparently you moved some boxes recently. These are to be restored to their original location.”
He has to be fucking with me. I shiver as a subconscious reflex, my body’s desperate whimper.
“All of them?”
He chews on the end of a pen and sneers. “Of course all of them. How else will I know which files are required?”
“I’ve carefully organized everything,” I plead with him. “If you tell me the specific projects, then I can gather all the related documentation—”
“Are you always this obstinate?” he says with a sigh. “I wouldn’t dally; you have your work cut out for you.”
You’d think he’d know better, you really would. Those ten hellish years spent in the murky depths of this industry should have enabled him to understand firsthand how an analyst can be reduced to a weeping mess by any living soul displaying even a glimmer of kindness. It’s a cycle of abuse, I tell you, the Crazy Brit getting off on crushing my soul as his own was crushed many years before. I turn to leave the office and there are the notorious last words:
“Are we cl—”
I can’t let him finish; it would snap the last threads that connect me to my sanity.
“Yes!”
Then I’m rushing out the door before he can blast me for my impertinence.
A half hour later and I’m still overwhelmed by the ridiculousness of the Crazy Brit’s request, shaking my head in disbelief as I stumble up the staircase with my third box. An hour later and I really wish that I was dead. People always say that, I know, but this time I’m not kidding. I’d love to be buried six feet under, my body caked in the cold clamminess of freshly turned earth, absolute silence except for the muffled sounds of grieving relatives. Two hours later and I’ve collapsed in my chair, the last box having been dredged up from the bowels of the building.
The Defeated One whistles. “Mumbles, you look like shit. I know I’ve said it before, but I take all those other times back. This time it’s the real deal.”
Somewhere in the world outside my bruised and battered body, a familiar pinging sound. Turning to my monitor, I read:
From: [email protected]
To: Associates; Analysts; M&A Department
It is with great pleasure that I announce the promotion of the Prodigal Son from analyst to associate. Please join the M&A department for a beer cart at 5pm to toast the Prodigal Son on this tremendous accomplishment.
The news hasn’t yet penetrated the fogginess of my brain before Clyde and Postal Boy burst into our office.
“Do you think it’s a joke?” Clyde is sputtering. “It has to be a joke, right?”
Postal Boy is looking angrier than I’ve ever seen him, his eye twitch a blur.
“Ridiculous. Fucking ridiculous, that’s what it is.”
Even the Star is shaking his head.
“Getting promoted to an associate after one year of work? That’s impossible, I thought. I just don’t understand it . . .”
Then the reality hits me: “Craa-aaa-aaa-ppp.”
Clyde nods in my direction.
“What’s up with him?”
“Don’t ask,” the Defeated One snorts.
“Anyway,” Clyde says, pacing back and forth, “we have to do it this afternoon, at the beer cart.”
“What?” Postal Boy asks.
“Slip that stuff into his drink. It’s short notice, not as surefire as a client meeting, but it could still work. The Fish might be there; definitely the Toad.”
The Defeated One rubs his hands together.
“Sowing the seeds of destruction before his ascension to corporate greatness. Clyde, I like it.”
“So we’re all comfortable with this?” Clyde turns to the rest of us.
Even the Star, oblivious to the intricacies of the plan but understanding there’s an element of sabotage involved, bobs his head in agreement.
Five o’clock is marked by the jangle of bottles directly outside our office—the notorious beer cart has arrived. It’s just another of the Bank’s evil tricks: They yank us up from our spreadsheets mid-keystroke, thrust a brew in our direction, and then we’re expected to mingle, to shake off the mind-numbing tedium of hours of data entry (or in my case, lugging boxes around), and discuss the merits of the P/E ratio, or who made the greatest gains among the Forbes 400, all the while suppressing the bitterness that in less than an hour we’ll be back at our desks, the tipsiness of those three beers not helping things at all when it comes down to seeking those extra spaces in a prospectus going out the following
morning.
“All right, you ready for this?” The Defeated One turns to me.
“Yeah, let’s do it.”
We pull up complicated-looking spreadsheets on our monitors—no real need, given the beer cart is a sanctioned event; instinctive behavior, I guess—and exit into the throng. It’s mostly analysts and associates, with Lulu Heifenschliefen presiding over the cart. I grab a Heineken and observe the Prodigal Son getting slapped on the back from all directions. He has his own entourage as well, apparently—three of the less nerdy analysts who fawn over him and laugh at everything that comes out of his mouth. It’s weird: I had no idea the Prodigal Son had a posse. Then again, he’s probably just as oblivious concerning our Gang of Four. Social circles upon circles upon circles in this world.
Clyde approaches from the cart. He’s double-fisting it: a Rolling Rock in one hand, an Amstel Light in the other.
“Everything all set?” I ask.
Clyde holds up the Rolling Rock and grins.
“He’s been drinking these since this started. I figure I’ll wait until he’s ready for another and then offer this one up, compliments of his especially proud peers in the M&A division.”
“Perfect.”
A commotion erupts from the nearby analysts, a rippling wave of excitement. I glance around for the cause: Unadulterated Sex is sashaying down the corridor toward us. She stands in the doorway and surveys the room, hugging some manila file folders to her wondrous breasts, before sashaying up to the Prodigal Son, whispering something in his ear, and cautiously— checking to ensure nobody is paying them much attention— reaching down and grazing the bulge in his pants. Then the hand is removed, so quickly it almost never happened, and she’s sashaying back down the corridor.
“Goddammit,” the Defeated One curses, “if this wasn’t painful enough to begin with. A promotion and he’s still screwing around with her. I swear, it seriously makes you question whether there is any justice in this world.”
Clyde claps him on the shoulder.
“Take solace in what you know is coming. That’s our mission, right? Dispensers of cosmic justice. The Cubicle Warriors. We should all be wearing capes for this.”
The Prodigal Son makes a move toward the cart.