Bank

by David Bledin

  I sit at my desk, drooling over six M&M’s cookies (that New Year’s resolution is out the window too), when the IKEA chair, weary from supporting my buttocks over the last few months, decides to call it quits. The whole frame collapses underneath me, sending me toppling to the ground.

  “Fuck!”

  The Defeated One starts clapping.

  “Bravo, Mumbles, bravo!”

  Even the Star erupts in unsympathetic cackling. I pull myself up off the floor and kick the mangled base in frustration.

  Wednesday is the inevitable twelfth hour for scrambling around to get out the forestry pitch I’ve been putting together. For some obscure reason, five of our senior guys plan on attending a beauty contest we have no chance in hell of winning, which means I have five marked-up copies of the final presentation strewn across my desk. To make matters infinitely worse, the Coldest Fish In The Pond is also joining them.

  With an hour to go, the Crazy Brit appears in the doorway, checking his Rolex.

  “Make sure you have twelve copies printed and bound by three. We’re looking to get an early start on the road.”

  Three o’clock; less than twenty minutes away. Is the man off his rocker? Only one thing left to be done—old Adam Smith and his specialization of labor:

  From: Me@theBank.com

  To: TheDefeatedOne@theBank.com, TheStar@the Bank.com, Tool#1@theBank.com, Tool#2@theBank.com

  CRISIS SITUATION. Pitch going out at 3 and haven’t even finalized the edits. I should be wrapped up in ten minutes, after which I’ll need some help down in the copy room. 12 copies, bound, clear cover. Please let me know whether you’re available.

  The responses dribble in as I plow through the edits:

  From: Tool#l@theBank.com

  To: Me@theBank.com

  Really busy right now. Hope you can find somebody else.

  From: Tool#2@theBank.com

  To: Me@theBank.com

  Sorry, man. Too much going on at the moment.

  From: TheStar@theBank.com

  To: Me@theBank.com

  In a crunch. Can help out after 4 if you still need it.

  God fucking almighty.

  I whip a pen in the Defeated One’s direction. It deflects off the back of his head, prompting him to swivel around angrily.

  “What the hell?”

  “Dude, I really need your help.”

  “Tough shit. You ain’t getting any sympathy by hurling pens at people, Mumbles.”

  “I’m not messing around,” I grovel shamelessly. “I swear on my life; help me out with this and I owe you such a big one.”

  “How big?”

  “I’ll get your lunch for the next week.”

  He scratches his chin.

  “Two weeks.”

  “Deal.”

  The Defeated One slowly rises from the chair, yawning.

  “So, what do you need again?”

  “Twelve color copies. Bound, clear covers. Try getting the Utterly Incompetent Assistant to help out.”

  Ten minutes later I’ve sent the final version to the printer, praying I’ve deciphered the Crazy Brit’s squiggles correctly. I bolt toward the copy room, barreling along the corridors at breakneck speed. Fortunately the Defeated One and the Utterly Incompetent Assistant are already stationed by the binding machines. It’s 2:52; we only have eight minutes.

  “All right guys,” I pant, rubbing my hands together. “Let’s do this.”

  The colossal color printer hums to life and begins belching out papers. I hand them off to the Defeated One, who ensures that all the pages are in the correct order before slapping on a plastic cover. Once this is complete, he hands it over to the Utterly Incompetent Assistant for the binding. It’s risky having her as our ringer, but there is no other option. And it’s the most brainless of our respective brainless tasks.

  With five minutes to go, our well-lubricated assembly machine has successfully bound four presentations. I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing we’re going to manage this just in the nick of time. This sentiment lasts for another sixty seconds, with seven bound presentations down, when the printer halts spitting out pages.

  “What the . . .”

  Murphy’s Law in effect, of course. I check the LCD screen for the obligatory CLEAR PAPER JAM IN TRAY 4.

  “Aaargh,” I groan, dropping to my knees.

  Tray 1 and Tray 2 are at the front of the printer, Tray 3 is a lever at the side. But fucking hell, where is Tray 4?

  “Mumbles, what’s the problem?” the Defeated One calls out.

  “Mumbles?” the Utterly Incompetent Assistant giggles.

  Any other time I’d kick his ass for this, but right now I’m crawling around one side of the printer, then the other; unless it’s a Houdini trapdoor, I tell you, Tray 4 does not exist.

  Bolting to my feet, I snap at the Utterly Incompetent Assistant, “Can you help me out with this?”

  She rolls her eyes at my wigging out. “Sure thing, Mummmbles.”

  She drops to her knees beside me, opening up Tray 1 and Tray 2, then Tray 1 again.

  “Nope, not there.”

  She laughs as if this is the most hilarious thing on earth. She checks the other side, opens Tray 3, and snickers, “Can’t seem to find it. Sorry, Mummmbles.”

  I’m about to go apeshit on her, when there is a clip-clop of loafers from the corridor and a gust of frigid air that breaks my skin into gooseflesh, and suddenly a flotilla of well-tailored suits bursts through the doorway: the Coldest Fish In The Pond phalanxed by a few of the Bank’s biggest bigwigs: a Vice Chairman from the forestry group, two Managing Directors, and the runt of the litter, the Crazy Brit.

  “Where are those presentations?” the Crazy Brit barks, checking his watch. “Did I not instruct you to have them ready by two forty-five? We’re already fifteen minutes late.”

  I get to my feet and say, “There’s been, uh, some sort of printer malfunction.”

  “Printer malfunction?” he snarls.

  The mass of Armani shuffles around impatiently, the Coldest Fish In The Pond whipping out his BlackBerry. No doubt ten thousand bucks docked off my bonus for this; that is, if he isn’t e-mailing HR with my termination already. Where did the Defeated One and the Utterly Incompetent Assistant disappear to? Of course; they’re making themselves invisible at the other end of the copy room.

  “Well, then,” the Crazy Brit says, crossing his arms, “don’t you have a printer malfunction to attend to?”

  “I, uh, yeah, I’ll get right on it . . .”

  I’m back down on my knees, yanking and shutting the trays like a madman. Tray 4, where the fuck are you? A minute of agony later and I’m on the verge of accepting defeat, crawling into a fetal position right there in the copy room, when I spot it: a tiny 4 stenciled on the inside of Tray 2. Beside the 4, I catch a glimpse of white crushed in the printer’s mechanical innards.

  I’m yanking at the paper, trying to wrench it free, when the Crazy Brit just loses it.

  “This is unacceptable! I told you to have the presentations ready by two forty-five. Two. Forty. Five. And what time is it now?” Checking his watch, he states, “Three-oh-five. Gentlemen, we are now officially five minutes late for our meeting.”

  The rest of the Suits pace the room, voicing their own agitation. Amid this commotion, the Coldest Fish In The Pond looks up from his BlackBerry with a subtle twitch of his lips. It’s like in those old samurai movies: You know somebody is going to get seriously clobbered when the grand master finally starts paying attention.

  Before the Fish has a chance to incapacitate me with his five-knuckle, seven-star punch, it comes in a rush of neural connections, electric spike chains whizzing about my cranium, synapses opening and shut—

  A Stark Burst of Truth.

  A Momentous Epiphany.

  A Mindfuck of Staggering Proportion.

  It goes something like this (though these epiphanies are never easily verbalized):

  I’m scared to death of a five-foo
t-six guy with a fake tan.

  And a nerd with an obnoxious accent and a receding hairline.

  And four other guys I know, just know, are terrible specimens of humanity without their even having to open their mouths.

  And it’s fucking ridiculous.

  Ridiculous that I’ve gotten to this point, tired and defeated and sycophantic and borderline postal, in less than twelve months, ridiculous that I’m no longer viewing myself as a creature born with free will. The free will to reject this existence, to shrug off the paranoia instilled in me by cretins like the Toad, and appreciate there is a whole other world beyond this office tower, an infinity of experiences waiting to be explored.

  And it’s not going to be gnawing on Bubble Wrap or shoveling dirt or signing on for another crappy job where I’m some other tyrant’s spreadsheet bitch. The next step may not be perfect—there is a distinct possibility I might be spending some time at the other end of the bell curve—but there’s a catharsis that comes with the knowledge that, hey, anything has to be better than this.

  Because let’s be frank about things: I no longer have any friends, I barely see my family, and the Woman With The Scarf just technically dumped me. It’s like, day in and day out, all I want more than anything else is to fall asleep, to escape, to dream about being young, when life wasn’t like this.

  In short, I’m a guy with nothing to lose.

  I give up trying to clear the paper jam. Rising to my feet, I wipe my ink-smeared fingers against the side of the printer. For the first time in ages my head is perfectly clear, like that flash of lucidity when you solve the last clue of a crossword puzzle.

  “It’s not coming out.”

  My voice is steady, not wavering at all. The Crazy Brit squints at me suspiciously, sensing something is awry.

  “What are you talking about?”

  I lock eyes with the Coldest Fish In The Pond and chuckle softly.

  “Exactly what I said the first time. It’s not coming out.”

  The Crazy Brit blinks fervently.

  “What the—”

  “And one more thing,” I interrupt him.

  This is it, I realize; I’m really going through with this.

  “I’m no longer putting up with any of this bullshit. I’m done with this—”

  A frosty voice breaks in.

  “That is enough.”

  The Coldest Fish In The Pond takes two steps in my direction.

  “How many presentations have you put together?”

  He’s caught me off guard.

  “There’s, uh, six. I mean, seven.”

  The Fish nods slowly.

  “That should be acceptable.”

  He points to the two Managing Directors I’ve never met before.

  “Go. We no longer require your attendance at this pitch.”

  One of the Managing Directors dares to protest, “But they’re part of my coverage team! I play golf with the CFO twice a month—”

  He is silenced by the razor-sharp glare of the Fish. He points to the door, and the two Managing Directors scamper from the room. Continuing, he asks, “Is a car waiting downstairs?”

  “Yes,” the Crazy Brit replies, wringing his fingers nervously.

  “Good.”

  The copy room has an eerie stillness with the Defeated One and the Utterly Incompetent Assistant still cowering behind stacks of copier paper. The Coldest Fish In The Pond takes two steps closer, scanning me up and down with obvious contempt. My heart pounds in my chest, but I’m not backing down from this; I’ve already gone too far.

  “Never forget,” the Fish finally says, “this industry is all about one basic principle: survival.”

  A few seconds stretch out to an eternity before a hint of a smile creeps onto his face.

  “But it’s always good to have a backbone,” he adds, chucking huskily.

  He extends his hand and I stare at it in disbelief before slowly reaching out and shaking it firmly.

  “Now”—he motions for the Crazy Brit to fetch the bound pitches—“we’ll see how your work holds up with the Client.”

  He nods gruffly and then he’s out the door. The Crazy Brit flashes me a bewildered glance before bolting after him.

  Fifteen

  It takes me another month to finally quit. It’s actually a bit strange that the impulse should strike me now, when things are going better than they’ve gone in a very long time, the general mood jovial with golf season freshly upon us. But I guess it’s the randomness of human nature that though the seeds were planted last month in the copy room, or even long before that, it’s taken until this afternoon to burst through the ribbon at the end of this crazy detour.

  The usual host of characters are packed into Boardroom 121 to discuss the next steps of the forestry mandate we won in the beauty contest: the Coldest Fish In The Pond, looking very much the part of an evil mastermind in a form-fitting black turtleneck; the Ice Queen, filing her nails under a pitch book; Tool #1, on the verge of passing out from the excitement of being staffed on his very first live deal; the rugged Client and two similarly salt-of-the-earth henchmen, eyeing us corporate types with much distrust. Across from me, the Crazy Brit scribbles his notes and peels back the wrapper of a Snickers bar with a sense of urgency. A fleck of caramel gets stuck in his front teeth; he checks to make sure the Client’s attention is turned elsewhere before picking it out with a fingernail.

  And then, without being fully cognizant of my own behavior, I’ve slunk out of the boardroom and I’m striding briskly toward the HR department. The Toad’s office is an avalanche of paper waiting to happen, little piles threatening to take over every inch of counter space. The implied busyness is an illusion, of course, as a game of solitaire is reflected in the window. He startles as I rap on the door, and he picks up some loose papers and shuffles them around earnestly.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you have a moment?”

  He eyes me as I close the door and take a seat. Then he squints knowingly, taking a sip of coffee before asking bluntly:

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m not really sure.”

  “What do you mean, you’re not sure? If you’re off to another bank, then we’re going to find out eventually.”

  “I’m not heading to another bank.”

  “Then which MBA program?”

  “I’m not going back to school.”

  The Toad scratches his chin before switching gears, scowling as he leans across the desk.

  “But that’s just plain stupid. You’re leaving a job where you’re making great money to do nothing? Do you have any idea how tough the job market is right now?”

  He waves a sheaf of papers right in my face.

  “These are two dozen résumés I received just this week!”

  Leaning back in the chair, gnawing on the eraser end of a pencil, he says, “The decision is yours, of course. But I warn you, there are hundreds of kids just itching to get their feet in the door and take your place.”

  The Toad is actually halfway decent at his position, honing in on your insecurities and exploiting them fully. If I wasn’t so confident in my decision, I’d be crapping my pants right now. Nevertheless, I keep my voice calm and steady.

  “I’m resigning. I want this to be my last day.”

  “Don’t be a goddamn fool,” the Toad snarls.

  When he’s accepted the fact that I’m not budging, he switches gears again, hands removed from behind his head. His tone changes ever so subtly, with a tinge of desperation now.

  “Look, with the two new analysts who just started, and in light of the recent departures in your group, we really can’t afford to lose somebody with M and A experience. So if it’s a matter of money—”

  “You can’t pay me to stay.”

  The Toad forces a toothy grin, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “This is just between us, but I’m willing to offer you a five-thousand-dollar bonus on the spot.”

  I’m already rising from
the chair.

  “Ten thousand,” he says.

  “I’ll be out of here by the end of the day.”

  “But, but,” he sputters as I leave the room, “if you’re not heading to a rival firm, then we require you to stay out the full two weeks—”

  His voice drones on as I turn the corner and head back to the M & A department. Our office is empty: The Star is away in New Jersey on a due diligence trip, and the Defeated One is probably down on a coffee run. I begin by sweeping all the clutter on my desk into the trash can. A clean purge. No doubt if the Star ever escapes this place, he’ll leave every last scrap of paper chronologically organized and color-coded. I’ve untacked the “Dilbert” cartoons and Onion articles from my message board, a small pile accumulating of the meager possessions I’ll eventually take with me (my CD collection, three half-finished packs of gum, the rubber-band ball grown to the size of my fist, and a Bank paperweight), when I hear a voice from the doorway.

  “Mumbles, what the hell is going on?”

  The Defeated One strolls in with a Venti coffee and collapses in his chair. He swivels around to face me, wiggling his fingers together.

  “Yeesssssss?”

  “I . . .”

  And with a cocked eyebrow, he’s singlehandedly triggered my first feelings of apprehension since my departure from Boardroom 121.

  “So, where are you heading off to?”

  “I, uh, I’m not sure.”

  “Give it up, Mumbles. School, another job?”

  I shrug. He leans back in the chair, chuckling.

  “So, you’re heading into the unknown, huh? You hate this place that much?”

  I nod feebly. He stifles a yawn.

  “I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. I’m surprised you didn’t just finish off what you started in the copy room instead of sticking it out for another month.”