Bank

by David Bledin

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “What do you have to be sorry about?”

  “I mean, my ditching you like this—”

  The Defeated One rolls his eyes and says, “Mumbles, that’s absolute bullshit and you know it.”

  He rises from his chair and takes his jacket off the hook.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “Where are we going. Come on, we have some final business to take care of.”

  I follow him into the elevator, through the lobby, and down a flight of stairs, until we’re finally slumped at the bar of the Recessions Brewhouse, a dank little drinking hole tucked away in the basement of our office tower. The bartender, a jowly blond, shuffles over.

  “Gentlemen?”

  “Whatever you have on draft,” the Defeated One says, taking out his wallet and winking at me.

  What follows is a rare midafternoon boozing session, made all the more decadent with the knowledge of the soul-crushing tedium that is taking place thirty-two floors above us. Four pints in and we’re comparing our battle scars under the Crazy Brit and the Sycophant. Six pints in and we’re reminiscing about some of the better moments with Clyde and Postal Boy. Eight pints in and we’re undisputedly shit-faced.

  “Tell me again why we didn’t do this when Postal left?” I slur.

  “What can I say,” the Defeated One says, then belches, clinking my glass. “You inspire greatness in people, Mumbles.”

  “And alcoholism.”

  We clink glasses again.

  “It must be a great feeling, finally escaping this place.”

  “I’m not out the revolving doors just yet,” I say and hiccup.

  “You’re on the homestretch, though.”

  The Defeated One orders us a fifth round. As we sip our pints thoughtfully, I ask, “Why are you sticking it out, then? I mean, you’re a smart guy. Not clinically psychopathic like everybody else we work with. You could easily find something else.”

  “Not psychopathic? How sweet of you, Mumbles.”

  “Seriously, though, why haven’t you tried finding something outside of the industry? Because I’ll tell you, this shit is going to drive you insane.”

  The Defeated One nods, swigging his beer thoughtfully.

  “It’s fairly sadomasochistic, I’ll give you that. But think of it like this: Investment banking, it’s like boot camp for the corporate world. Can you imagine a regular nine-to-fiver after this? Piece of cake, right?”

  We settle into a contemplative silence.

  The Defeated One drains the last of his pint and says, “Anyway, don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.”

  He slips on his jacket, wiping his mouth.

  “Well, as much as I’d like to spend the rest of the afternoon drinking myself into oblivion, it’s time for my return to the gallows. Are you coming back upstairs?”

  “Nah. I brought all my stuff down with me.”

  He shakes his head in disbelief.

  “So you’re really out of here?”

  “Yeah, I’m really out of here.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I know.”

  We take the stairs up to the lobby. There is an awkward moment when we’re both unsure of how to bid our final farewells, eventually settling on a firm handshake followed by a quick clapping of each other’s back. As he turns to the elevators, I call out:

  “Wait.”

  I reach into a pocket and pull out the rubber-band ball, a year in the making, and toss it to him.

  “Keep it.”

  “Aw,” the Defeated One says, bouncing it in his palm, “you gave me your lucky ball. Your generosity is truly overwhelming.”

  “Hey, you better keep in touch.”

  He nods in agreement. We stand there for a bit, neither of us knowing how to prolong the conversation, before the Defeated One makes a clumsy retreat for the elevators, leaving me alone in the lobby. It’s anticlimactic, I have to admit: no angels blaring their trumpets, no final movement of Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries. I stand there amid the chrome and the marble and the potted floral arrangements, trying to force the euphoria, to squeeze it out of my pores, but it’s no use; there’s only numbness.

  Anyway, pushing through the revolving doors, stepping out into the sunlight, I’m not really all that concerned about it. I’m twenty-four, barely tainted, and things are about to change.

  ten months later

  Han’s Blue Diamond Chinese Gourmet is a fungus of the downtown core, a grease-stained blot against the chrome landscape. Even now, when I’m crammed into a booth with the Defeated One and Postal Boy, nothing seems to have changed since we were last here over ten months ago: the crumpled Fanta cans in the corner, the dusty bottles of chili sauce lining the walls, a Dukes of Hazzard episode playing on the small black-and-white television above the counter. This immutable setting seems inappropriate for our first reunion since we parted ways, especially with Postal Boy transformed into a full-fledged Procter & Gamble drone:

  “At the risk of sounding immodest, life is so fucking awesome right now. I just found out I’m being considered for a promotion to Brand Manager Level Four. I mean, Level Four; that’s a full two levels above my current position. It’s not the biggest pay increase, but I get to handle this sexy new dishwashing detergent launch. And that girl I mentioned before; she’s moved in with me. Sweeeeet deal. We’re talking steak and eggs at least twice a week for breakfast, boys. It’s almost like I’m living with my mom or something,” he snickers.

  The Defeated One snorts, “Postal, don’t force me to lean across the table and smack you goddamn silly.”

  He puts his hand to his heart and winces.

  “Jesus, I forgot how this stuff burns when it goes down.”

  Postal Boy asks the Defeated One, “What about you, man? What have you been up to?”

  The Defeated One gives a resounding belch before devouring another congealed lump of General Tso.

  “Yeah, things are chugging along. My old lady has stopped with her whining now that I’m spending more time at home after starting up the MBA—”

  “What the fuck? You’re back in school already?” I ask.

  I knew something was off with him: the healthy flush of his cheeks, his grin a little less insincere. And that means the bastard must have submitted his applications back in January, long before I left the Bank.

  “There I was, stressing about quitting, worried for your sorry ass, and you had it all planned out, didn’t you?” I shake a chopstick at him.

  The Defeated One releases another burp.

  “I was keeping it under wraps. Sorry, bud. Besides, if word got out, it would have wreaked havoc on my bonus.”

  “No excuses. You’re still a jackass.”

  “And what’s it like with you, Mumbles?” Postal Boy asks.

  “Heh, from one cubicle to the next. Economic consulting for a small private firm. I’ve racked up seven months already.”

  “Econ consulting . . . what the fuck is that?” the Defeated One asks.

  “I’m not too sure, honestly,” I reply with a shrug.

  “And you’re doing what, specifically?”

  I shrug again. “Spreadsheet bitch, part deux.”

  I don’t particularly want to get into the details right now. How I was lured into consulting with the promise of billable hours, frothy cappuccinos away from my desk, and themed happy hours with imported Belgium beers and boozy assistants in the boardroom every Friday. How seven months later I’m struggling to keep my billing utilization over the bare minimum even pulling seventy-hour weeks, and Friday afternoon happy hours consist of nothing more than a few Pabst Blue Ribbons with the assistants who aren’t bogged down enough with work to chug them back. The Defeated One understands all of this without my having to verbalize it:

  “Well, aren’t you just a glutton for punishment?”

  “It’s in my blood, I guess. The eternal whipping boy.”

  The Defeated One and Postal Boy ex
change fleeting glances. I know I’m putting a damper on the intended mood of this reunion—let us rejoice in how we’ve all moved on to bigger and better things!—but I really can’t quell the self-pity at the moment.

  “I mean, when does the cycle ever end? Is your whole life just careening from one desk to another until you’re retired in Palm Beach at age sixty-five, moping around a piss-warm swimming pool because you’ve forgotten what to do with your free time?”

  The Defeated One rolls his eyes.

  “Whatever, man,” I sneer. “You going back to school is just delaying the inevitable. A final stretch of freedom before you’re back to being a desk jockey.”

  “On paper, yes. But I envision quite a different corporate existence from your own: a nice corner office with a door that shuts properly, a team of monkeys to do all the legwork, afternoons spent leaving little love bites on the thighs of my Scandinavian secretary. Or maybe Estonian; isn’t that where they ship them from nowadays?”

  “Croatia,” Postal Boy chimes in. Addressing me, he asks, “And what would you be doing otherwise, Mumbles? Sitting on your ass eating Doritos and watching Price Is Right reruns twenty-four/seven? Do you know how bored out of your mind you’d be? It’s true what they say, that work is mankind’s salvation. We’re all corporate sluts at heart.”

  “Thanks for the sentiment, Postal.”

  It’s a valid point, though—I have no idea how I’d be whiling away my time if I wasn’t working right now. I lean back in the booth.

  “Look, I’m not always this pessimistic. The consulting gig has just been especially rough recently, a few late nights, and Kate is already harping on me.”

  Postal Boy senses his opportunity to steer our conversation back to warmer pastures.

  “She was that girl from Starbucks, right? The one with the scarf? Wasn’t she supposed to head off to graduate school somewhere?”

  “Yeah, she was considering Berkeley but then decided last-minute to stay in the city. She hasn’t said anything outright, but I think she wanted to see if our relationship had any legs. Case in point—we moved in together last month.”

  “Really?” The Defeated One sticks his finger in the remains of the General Tso sauce and slurps it off with a satisfied grin. “Aw, it sounds like our very own Mumbles is in love. Isn’t that just the cutest thing, like little naked mole rats rutting or somethin’.”

  “Piss off.”

  “You know you love it, dude.”

  Postal Boy is already scrambling out of the booth.

  “Gents, sorry to break this up, but I’ve got to be back at my conference in five minutes. We’re discussing brand-positioning strategies for the emerging markets. Sexy stuff. Get all those Indians using Tide.”

  “Your sexiness is killing me, Postal,” the Defeated One says, frowning and sliding out behind him. “When are you next in town?”

  “I’ll be up over the Thanksgiving weekend.”

  “Should we try to meet up then?”

  “Yeah, definitely.”

  As we leave, setting off the familiar electronic chime at Han’s, the Defeated One nods gravely at me, speaking in all seriousness:

  “Mumbles, the key is not to forget what it was like before. To appreciate how each cube is gradually getting better than the last. If you stick to that, you’re going to be just fine.”

  He’s right, of course, though it’s difficult to keep this relativity in check when I’m leaving the office at midnight for the third day in a row. The streets are desolately Gotham City–like at this hour: Steam puffs up from the open vents of the subway system, the Art Deco office lobbies are deserted, and the murky darkness is punctuated only by the odd streetlight or the faint glow of a Reuters ticker tape. I’m stopped at an intersection, waiting for the walk signal, when a tall figure approaches from my left.

  “Hey, buddy.”

  I startle, turning my head. I’m expecting it to be one of the vagrants who patrol this neighborhood, hoping to score a few bucks from a Suit with a sudden burst of conscience, but closer inspection reveals it’s none other than the Prodigal Son peering down at me, his face remarkably changed. He has the bloodshot eyes and sanguine pallor of a coke addict, a cold-sore at the side of his mouth, and a rash of pimples scattered across his forehead.

  It comes out reflexively: “You look awful, man.”

  Don’t get me wrong: Even in his zombified state, the Prodigal Son is still better-looking than I am, but the change is nonetheless a staggering one. The Prodigal Son, seemingly oblivious to his own deterioration, yawns.

  “Pulled an all-nighter yesterday. I am so tired, dude. You just heading home from the office?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you do now, anyway?”

  “Econ consulting.”

  “Cool, cool,” he says, nodding disinterestedly, sucking back phlegm. “And you’re liking it?”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Great, man.”

  He horks onto the sidewalk and checks his watch in disgust.

  “Fuck! Midnight already and I have to be back in the office at, like, six in the morning to prepare for a pitch. You know how it is.”

  “Yeah, I know the drill.”

  The light changes and we cross the street together in silence. I’m stealing sideways glances at his haggardness, still in a mild state of shock. At the opposite sidewalk, we quickly nod our good-byes.

  “Good luck at your meeting tomorrow.”

  “Thanks. Have a good one, dude.”

  I’m still contemplating our brief encounter as I enter the plastic-plant-filled lobby of my apartment building and pass the ancient elevator with the grille door in a state of perpetual disrepair, before embarking on the four-floor climb up to our apartment. I enter the apartment, panting for breath, to a scene of domicile bliss: Kate reclined on the couch reading one of her textbooks and reaching for her mug of herbal tea. She looks up as I hang my coat in the closet.

  “Hey, I made some stir-fry for dinner, with the ginger sauce that you like. There’s some left in the fridge if you’re still hungry.”

  I cross the room and kiss her forehead. She scoots over on the couch, making space for me.

  “Muchas gracias,” I mumble into her ear, nibbling on the lobe. “I’m really sorry I’m coming home so late again.”

  She closes her textbook and puts it on the side table.

  “I had some studying to do, so don’t worry about it. I really needed the peace and quiet.”

  “So, you think I’m a disruptive presence, huh?”

  “Only when I want you to be,” she says, grinning, pulling me down on top of her.

  We’re rolling around on the couch, Kate fumbling with the clasp of my belt, when suddenly I’m laughing uncontrollably, and once I’ve started, I just can’t stop. She cocks her eyebrow in bemusement, but I have no way of explaining the images suddenly flitting before me: the Prodigal Son sprawled on his couch smoking some freebase; Postal Boy with a crooked tie, taking a bow before aisles and aisles of Swiffers; the Defeated One traipsing through a field of sunflowers, a snapshot of absolute contentment.

  My laughter subsides finally, and now I’m staring at Kate hovering above me, her small mouth puckered in a half-smile, and I’m seeing the life we can share together: returning home from our respective offices, me loosening my tie and Kate taking off her heels, a leisurely glass of wine as we chop up vegetables for a stir-fry, some soft conversation, no pressing need to fill the quiet spaces, then sprawled out on the couch watching a Simpsons rerun, her breath warm against my chest.

  “I just want you to know,” I say, tracing her cheekbone with a finger, “that I’m so unbelievably grateful you stayed behind in the city. That you’re making this all possible for me. If I could only just grasp this always, not let everything else get in the way all the time—”

  “Shhh,” she says, putting a finger to my lips. “You don’t have to verbalize any of it.”

  “All right,” I say. “But just kn
ow that I—”

  “Shhh,” she says. grinning.

  Then she draws my head into her lap and strokes my ears, lulling me deeper into this life we are creating.

  From: TheStar@theBank.com

  To: Me@gmail.com, Clyde@yahoo.com,

  TheDefeatedOne@wharton.edu, PostalBoy@pg.com

  Hey, hope I got the e-mails correct—how are you guys doing? I know we weren’t all that tight or anything, but I have to say, it’s not quite the same here without you. The Tools are on the stupid side, though there’s this new girl who just started up with a lot of potential. And the Prodigal Son is picking up some of the slack, but he’s an Excel moron (still has the Daddy connection working for him, though). Bonuses came and went and they were better than usual. I think the Toad was getting scared with all the mice fleeing the ship and decided to juice things up a bit. And you’ll be happy to hear the Sycophant got denied a promotion yet again. And get this: The Philanderer fired the Utterly Incompetent Assistant earlier this week on grounds of “gross misconduct.” The rumor is that she stopped putting out. Entirely plausible. Anyway, you guys aren’t going to believe it: apparently she found the CD with our xxx-mas party montage while cleaning out the Defeated One’s cube (can’t trace it to me, thank god). It must have been my drive—and not the CD—that was corrupt before, because she was able to extract the movie. Check out her farewell message:

  »From: TheUtterlyIncompetentAssistant@theBank.com

  »To: All Employees

  »Some things you should know before I leave:

  »The Philanderer wears zebra print g-strings. Not »suitable under the best of circumstances, but even worse »with a flabby ass!!!!!

  »Those 900 numbers on his expense report are not »research analyst conference calls!!!

  »Speaking of office debauchery, here’s a fun little video »for your viewing pleasure

  » (www.bank.com/intranet/boardroomromp.mpg). Warning: not »suitable for small children!!!!!

  »Enjoy!!!!!!!!!

  acknowledgments

  A special thanks to Matt McGowan, my agent, a man of zealous faith; Helen Atsma, my editor, for an enthusiasm that rivaled my own; Kyla Epstein, Jenn Baka, and Deepa Nayak, who delivered their lashings when they were needed most; and Justin Bledin, my embryo buddy, for invaluable assistance and the title.