Bank

by David Bledin

“I figured a few hours wouldn’t hurt—”

  “Very good, then. Pip pip.”

  And with that he’s sauntered off, crossing the garden in long, urgent strides to pay court to the Ice Queen. The Woman With The Scarf shakes her head in disbelief.

  “Unbelievable! What an asshole!”

  “Yeah,” I say with a shrug. “That’s the Crazy Brit for you.”

  I turn toward the Defeated One, but she’s pulling me back into the throng.

  “Not so fast. Let’s meet a few more of these megalomaniacs.”

  “Why? You know they’re all going to be just as terrible. Everybody molded from the same archetype.”

  She persists in tugging at my hand.

  “You’re just being uptight about the flip-flops. Come on,” she pleads, “it will be enlightening for me.”

  “I really don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  She puffs out her lower lip. “Why’d you drag me to this, then?”

  “You asked to come!” I sputter.

  “Look,” she says, frowning, “I don’t know why you’re being such a wimp about this.”

  And like that, something inside me just snaps. With a few bystanders looking on, I lose it right there in the garden.

  “A wimp? What the fuck are you going on about? Standing there having a hissy fit when it’s you that asked to come to this, you that’s going back to grad school, you that’s walking away from our relationship . . .”

  Too late. It’s out before I can stop myself. Her eyes widen in disbelief.

  “Hissy fit! I can’t believe you!”

  “Look, I didn’t mean it in exactly that context—”

  “Fuck off,” she snaps.

  She storms across the garden and disappears behind some sculpted hedges. I consider making a pursuit but decide against it; it would probably be best if we each had a few minutes to cool down. I retreat back to the Defeated One, chugging down my beer.

  “Where’s that woman of yours?”

  “Don’t have a fucking clue.”

  “You sure have a way with the ladies, Mumbles.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  I head to the bar for another drink. My arrival coincides with the Coldest Fish In The Pond’s, who begins pouring himself a Corona. He’s clearly inebriated, swaying precariously as he munches on a hamburger.

  “Hello,” he slurs between mouthfuls of beef.

  “Hey,” I say and nod curtly.

  “So kind of you to make it out this afternoon. Of course, you probably had no choice in the matter, huh?”

  The Fish bursts into high-pitched laughter, wiping a glob of ketchup off his chin. I force a weak chuckle. As his laughter subsides, I glance over his shoulder and spot two solitary figures standing beside the swimming pool: the Prodigal Son and some woman with her back turned to me, probably his date. The Prodigal Son catches me staring and makes the thumbs-up sign.

  I’m trying to figure out the meaning of his hand gesture, when it hits me:

  The black sweater. The floral skirt.

  Oh no.

  My view is blocked as the Fish steps in front of me. I’m trying to peer around the sides of his head, but it’s almost like he’s anticipating my every movement, shuffling around so I can’t get a clear vantage point. He’s still slurring away, peppering me with hamburger.

  “This industry is all about survival. Survival. The weak among you will drop like flies, one by one, after which only the strongest will remain.”

  “Look, I—”

  “And for those final few who do make the cut,” he continues, sweeping his hand over the expanse of his garden, “greatness will be yours.”

  He takes a final bite of his hamburger before saying, “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  With the Fish gone, I have an unobstructed view of the Prodigal Son clearly putting the moves on my girlfriend. He leans down and whispers something in her ear and her shoulders shake with unabashed amusement. We make eye contact again, and he gives me another thumbs-up sign.

  I’m crossing the lawn, poised and ready to do something drastic, when he places his hand on her lower back, a possessive gesture, and leads her back into the house. It’s enough of a shock to stop me dead in my tracks.

  Fuck.

  My chest constricts; I release a guttural whimper. Aside from the anger and disbelief, I’m struck by the realization that somehow I expected our relationship to work out. A foolish indulgence in that vision of hers: a house and kids and decades of roast chicken and stupid fighting and trips to Costco and an unnerving contentment, because no two humans deserve to be so damn happy together.

  And now it’s all fucked up. My whole conjectured future, gone, just like that.

  I’m finally in motion, sprinting hard, but no, instead of heading toward the house, I’m veering a sharp right, out through the gate, running past an endless string of glinting Mercedes hubcaps, past perfectly landscaped lawns, gasping for breath, wheezing and coughing and feeling like I’m about to collapse, but I’m still barreling ahead, spitting out great globs of phlegm, and I’m not going to stop until I’m all the way home.

  Thirteen

  From: PostalBoy@pg.com

  To: Me@theBank.com, TheDefeatedOne@theBank.com

  Hey guys!!! I’m heading back into town for a training seminar next week—any chance you both have time to sneak out for a quick lunch? I can meet you at the food court if that’s easiest, though another round of Lunch Special No. 3 would be nice. Let me know!!!

  The Defeated One swivels around. “Mumbles, you interested in this?”

  I slurp down the final dregs of my coffee. My two-cup-a-day resolution is officially out the window; this is my sixth jolt of caffeine and it’s not even eleven yet.

  “What the hell is up with those exclamation points? I don’t know, man; we didn’t exactly part on the best of terms.”

  “Aw,” he smirks, “your petty hang-ups are just so darn cute today. Come on, Mumbles, don’t be such a pansy. What about next Tuesday? I’ll tell him to meet us at Han’s.”

  “I really don’t think it’s a good—”

  “All right. One-thirty it is.”

  The following Tuesday the three of us are squeezed into one of the cracked booths at Han’s Blue Diamond Chinese Gourmet. It would almost seem like old times again if it weren’t for the fact that it’s not really Postal Boy sitting across the table from us; it just can’t be.

  For one, the eye twitch is gone. So is the bad complexion. The hair is neatly combed back. If guys didn’t have such hang-ups talking about this sort of thing, I’d even go so far as saying that he’s become, well, somewhat good-looking. The Entity Formerly Known As Postal Boy, dressed like a prepster in an aquamarine polo shirt, wolfs down the congealed lumps of General Tso like his life depends on it.

  “I forgot how addictive this stuff is.”

  Even the voice is slightly off: less monotonous, more confident. In truth, the whole package is making me feel a little drab in comparison.

  “So, how’s the new job?” the Defeated One asks.

  “It’s okay,” Postal Boy says. “I mean, it’s a job, right? I’m definitely not too crazy about it when my alarm is going off in the morning. But the people are really down-to-earth, and the work is more challenging than you’d think, and I’m out of there by five-thirty every single day. Nobody ever works weekends.”

  “So, it must seem like Candyland, huh?”

  Postal Boy grins sheepishly.

  “Oh, sorry about that. I guess I was being a little insensitive.”

  The Defeated One waves it off.

  “We’re big boys. And what’s it like in Chicago?”

  “It’s great. I found a sweet apartment that’s close enough to work that I can walk, and the girlfriend lives just around the corner.”

  “You have a girlfriend? How’d you pull that off so quick?”

  Postal Boy devours another dubious chicken morsel.

  “Met her in training. She’s with P
and G too; a brand manager for Tide.”

  “You nasty dawg,” the Defeated One says, reaching across the table and clapping him on the shoulder. “Cubicle-cest; I definitely approve.”

  “Yeah, there is the convenience factor. And get this”—he leans in conspiratorially—“they’ve got this private bathroom upstairs, for handicapped employees or whatever, and it’s equipped with a shower and everything. I tell you, it’s like a brothel in there.”

  “Just filthy,” the Defeated One guffaws.

  “And what about you?” Postal Boy attempts to draw me into the conversation. “What about that chick you were screwing around with from before? The one who always wore the scarf?”

  I poke at my Lunch Special No. 3, forming mounds of rice with my chopsticks.

  “It’s going fine,” I drone monotonously.

  It takes me a second to appreciate I sound exactly the way Postal Boy used to while he was still employed at the Bank.

  “No, it’s not,” the Defeated One helps out. “The Fish had his annual barbecue last weekend. Prodigal Son, the motherfucker, put the moves on Mumbles’s wench when he was distracted. Needless to say, she crumbled like all the rest of them.”

  “Thanks,” I say, glaring at him.

  “I’m sorry, man,” Postal Boy says, shaking his head. “Anyway, she probably wasn’t worth it, right?”

  “Yeah,” I mumble, “she wasn’t worth it.”

  Settling back in the booth, I’m beginning to feel the onset of Lunch Special No. 3’s various effects: heartburn, a fiery round of hiccups, a tingling in my facial extremities from all that MSG. Or maybe part of my underlying nausea can be attributed to the fact that, despite my rational side imploring me to cut my losses and move on, the Woman With The Scarf will not be exorcised from my neural pathways: Her face materializes in the reflection of my computer monitor, I can smell her perfume on my sheets, and even that damn scarf comes back to haunt me, memories of her conjured up when a woman in line at Starbucks was wearing the same thing.

  Postal Boy interrupts my daze.

  “I nearly forgot. You guys aren’t going to believe this. I ran into Clyde yesterday, a random encounter in the drugstore next to my hotel while I was picking up some toothpaste. Apparently he’s playing in a band now. I scribbled it down somewhere—”

  He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a few slips of paper.

  “Here we go. There’s a gig on Thursday night, a tiny bar that just opened up in the Village. I was thinking about stopping by; is either of you interested?”

  The Defeated One scrutinizes the address. “Clyde in a band—a long ways from banking, that’s for sure. Yeah, I’m definitely in. What about you, Mumbles?”

  Keeping my gaze focused on the paper plate in front of me, I say, “I don’t know. I might have to finish up some precedent transactions for the Crazy Brit—”

  “Mumbles, don’t make me have to kick your ass.”

  Postal Boy pipes up, “It was just a suggestion. No pressure or anything, but if you have the time, then we could make it a night. How’s the Crazy Brit, by the way? Any easing up a bit?”

  Did I just detect pity in his gaze? Oh lord, now I’m getting sympathy from Postal Boy.

  “No,” I deadpan, “he’s still a raving lunatic. It’s gotten so bad I’m almost longing for the old days when I just had to deal with the Sycophant.”

  “The Sycophant!” Postal Boy looks puzzled. “But I thought he was your archnemesis?”

  “Don’t pander to him,” the Defeated One orders gruffly. As he gets up from the booth, he adds, “So we’re meeting for Clyde’s show on Thursday?”

  “It could be a lot of fun,” Postal Boy says.

  They both stare at me expectantly. I nod as a reflex, ignoring the Defeated One’s scowl as I make my exit.

  From: Me@theBank.com

  To: WomanWithTheScarf@GoodmanWeisenthal.com

  Was it really worth it? You know you’re just one of a million girls he’s fucked, right? He doesn’t even give a shit about you—it was all a ploy to get revenge on

  Delete.

  From: Me@theBank.com

  To: WomanWithTheScarf@GoodmanWeisenthal.com

  I just don’t understand it, that’s all. I thought you said you cared about this relationship, that night at your place, when you got your letter of acceptance from Berkeley

  Delete.

  From: Me@theBank.com

  To: WomanWithTheScarf@GoodmanWeisenthal.com

  I’ve got to ask: is this all about me not quitting my job? Because if it is

  Delete.

  I kick the back of the Defeated One’s chair.

  “Let’s hit Starbucks.”

  “Again?” he scoffs. “Didn’t we just come from there? It couldn’t have been more than two hours back.”

  “What can I say, my resolution is off and I’m craving my caffeine. It doesn’t look like you’re overwhelmed right now, anyway.”

  He is logged onto eBay, bidding up the auction for some old Batman figurines his mom found in the attic when she moved house last week.

  “Lookee that,” the Defeated One says. “The Joker’s pulling fifty bucks already. If memory serves correct, I got that one in a Happy Meal when I was six.”

  “I thought you weren’t allowed to bid on your own stuff.”

  He rolls his eyes at this.

  “You set up a separate account and everything slips through.”

  “Come on,” I plead. “Coffee time.”

  “Fine,” he grumbles.

  Waiting in line at Starbucks, I’m practically trembling with anticipation. Not for the coffee; I’m way too jittery to need any more caffeine right now. Rather, I’m furtively scanning the line, peering back across the lobby toward the elevators, hoping to catch a glimpse of Her. And then—well, I haven’t really thought it through that far. I imagine there will be some sort of altercation: a bit of yelling, a bit of name-calling, whatever it takes to make her understand she’s traded in a relationship with real staying power, with substance, for a life of meaningless one-night stands. Forty years from now she’ll be standing in a pair of cheap stilettos by a bar reeking of cigarette smoke, puffing on a Virginia Slims, and hoping she’ll get taken home by a burly trucker with oily chest hair and yellow-stained teeth.

  “Earth to Mumbles,” the Defeated One snaps in my face.

  “Huh?”

  “You were looking for her, weren’t you?”

  “No. Just a little out of it. Heh heh.”

  “Heh heh,” the Defeated One grunts. “Dude, you’re becoming a stalker. A stalking investment banker. On a scale of one to ten, ten being really creepy, you’re frickin’ off the charts.”

  “I swear to god I wasn’t—”

  “I call bullshit. Look, if you’re going to get all obsessive-compulsive on her, you’re on your own.”

  “Whatever, man.”

  “I’m serious”—he shakes a finger at me—“no more stalking.”

  “Fine,” I mumble.

  I’m hunched before my monitor ogling the Daily Equity Raise Update—the amalgamation of porn blocked by the server that is later distributed to select analysts by one of the junior IT guys—with the safety of a complicated-looking spreadsheet just one Alt-Tab away.

  “Great pictures,” a voice rumbles from directly behind me.

  My fingers fly to the keyboard, but the wrong hot-key combination gets pushed, so a midget performing acrobatic feats with a pylon blots out the screen. I slowly swivel around to face the Prodigal Son with his arms crossed. When his chuckling subsides, he leans in close.

  “Just wanted to let you know, man, that chick of yours sure is nasty.” Clapping me on the shoulder, he adds, “Thanks for bringing her to that barbecue, dude.”

  One final pat and he’s swaggering off, leaving me to mull over all the things I wanted to say and never did.

  Even though I have an obscene amount of work on a forestry pitch, a beauty contest with twelve investment banks competing f
or the same paltry mandate, on Thursday night the Defeated One coerces me into accompanying him to Clyde’s gig in the Village. The bar is small and cramped, one of those single-room places that seem to sprout up like toe fungus around this neighborhood, but there’s no cover charge and the beers are dirt cheap, so I’m not necessarily complaining. The crowd is predominantly hipster in their John Deere trucker hats and leather wristbands and Triple Five Soul T-shirts, strutting back and forth when they’re not swaying like airy reeds to the jarring recording of a band I’ve never heard of. Last time I checked, though, the hipster creed had shunned John Deere trucker hats and leather wristbands; I was under the impression those accessories had already entered the realm of Urban Outfitters–cool. Regardless, the Defeated One and I are blatant pariahs of this scene, still wearing our work ensembles, as we didn’t have time to go home and change.

  “Fucking suits,” spits out an androgynous guy dressed like Michael Jackson circa the Thriller years, as we make our way to the bar.

  From the other side of the room, we hear a familiar voice shouting, “Hey! Guys! Over here!”

  Postal Boy has a sloppy grin plastered across his face as he stumbles through the crowd, trying not to spill too much of his beer. When he reaches us, he says, “Great that you guys could come out tonight. This”—he burps—“is so fucking awesome. Who would have thought?”

  With much bravado, he adds, “The Gang of Four united again!”

  His face is flushed, the eye twitch back in full force. He notices me staring.

  “Yeah, a lasting memento from the Bank. Whenever I drink, it comes back with a vengeance. Like I’m marked for life or something.”

  “Where’s Clyde?” the Defeated One asks.

  “Backstage, getting ready,” Postal Boy says, sneezing. “His set starts up in five minutes.”

  Then Postal Boy lurches forward, spilling half his pint and knocking his head against the bar. I catch him under the armpit and hoist him back up again.

  “Easy there, tiger.”

  He rubs at his forehead, slurring, “Awfully slippery down there.”

  Murmuring builds around us. The crowd recedes from a small space near the bathrooms, and four guys make their entrance to a polite smattering of applause and some raucous hollering from an overeager few who must be close friends or relatives. The guy with the trumpet, dressed in what seems to be a white caftan, is none other than our very own Clyde. The other three band members have adopted the garb of their audience: thrift-store jackets, natty corduroys, Puma sneakers. They spend a few moments tinkering with their instruments before jumping into the first of their set, a cover of Joy Division’s “Love Will Tear Us Apart.”