by Carter Blake
“Uh, thanks. Why are you here?”
“Oh, come on, Ethan.”
Kallie’s eyes are on me, but I can’t stop looking at the surface of my desk—the surface that Kallie’s feet just left. I need to go take care of that shit.
“Come on, what?” I ask while making a beeline for my desk. “Be specific. I’ve got things to do today.”
“You haven’t heard the news?”
Digging though my bottom desk drawer, it takes me a few seconds to find the small aerosol can of disinfectant I keep there. I knew it would come in handy someday.
“There’s been a lot of news, Kallie,” I comment while spraying.
“Like what?”
My deep well of patience is just about fucking exhausted.
“Just tell me your news, Kallie.” I throw the disinfectant back in my desk, and I try not to slam the drawer.
“I’m your competition!”
Kallie grins merrily at me as I sit down at my desk.
“What does that mean? And be specific, please.”
“I’m up for the position in Basel!” Kallie’s chirpiness is downright disconcerting. “The two-year contract! And there can be only one of us, you know.”
My first instinct is to call bullshit, but who the fuck even knows anymore.
“Who told you that?”
“John!”
“Barrister?”
“Just this morning. Leroy was there too!”
“Rosen?” Who calls these people by their first name? I doubt their wives even do that.
“Kallie...I think I might have been misinformed. Are you a hedge fund manager?”
“Not yet.”
“So, you have no experience with hedge fund management.”
It’s time to call bullshit on this, which is what I’m trying to do. Kallie’s silence and her unceasing grin are telling me that she’s full of it.
“This has been fun, Kallie, but I’ve got—”
The office door swinging open interrupts my dismissal.
“John! Leroy!” Kallie greets Barrister and Rosen with her enthusiastic smile. “I was just telling Ethan that I’m his competition.”
Holy shit, I think Kallie might live somewhere outside reality.
“Yes,” responds Barrister. “Thanks for delivering the news.”
I nod silently, because what the fuck? Is he humoring her?
“Okay,” I say finally. “What in the world is happening?”
“We’ve come to the conclusion that Ms. Fern...that Kallie is a worthy candidate for the hedge fund manager position in Basel.”
I nod again at Rosen’s words. A worthy candidate.
“We’re in competition?” I ask.
“How many times to you need to be told, Barrett?” Barrister growls.
This is really happening, I guess. What the fuck else is new?
“Kallie, how much experience with hedge fund management did you say you had?” I’m not even trying to be antagonistic. I’m just making sure I understand this correctly.
“Ms. Fern has a BA in economics from Hunter College,” Rosen responds.
“With a solid grade point average,” adds Barrister.
“I like to call it ‘Cunter Hollege,’” Kallie says proudly.
Whoa.
Barrister and Rosen sure enjoy that joke. Their robust, executive laughter fills my office. The sound is so intense, I can almost smell the cigar smoke and brandy.
Just as the laughter starts to die down, Barrister chimes in with a quip of his own.
“Didn’t your wife go there, Rosen?”
Rosen, Barrister, and Fern break into unrestrained fits of laughter.
“It is a prestigious school, Barrister,” Rosen gets out between laughs. “Being your mother’s alma mater!”
As I sit, watching quietly from my desk, the three guests in my office dissolve into wild hysterics.
“Hey, watch out for this guy!” Kallie shrieks, her face red from laughing.
Watch out for this guy? Fucking really?
It works. Kallie’s comment adds fresh fuel to the laughter. Tears, honest-to-fucking-goodness tears, are rolling down Barrister’s face.
I’m almost envious for about a second. I’ve never laughed that hard in the office or had that much fun at work.
But despite the tears and red faces and near-falling over, it just doesn’t seem real. I feel like I’m watching a play in my office, and the actors know their parts very well, but boy are they overdoing it.
Rosen is almost ready to collapse, his hand gripping Barrister’s arm for support.
Just like that, with Rosen still leaning on Barrister, the two executives leave my office, guffawing their way into thecorridor.
Fern stays planted where she is. The smile doesn’t leave her face, but the laughter drains so quickly from her eyes that I almost fucking gasp.
And I am not usually a gasping man.
Kallie Fern doesn’t say another word. I watch her cross her arms, and smile.
That was indeed a performance I just watched, or part of one.
Kallie doesn’t have the experience I do, and she doesn’t have an exceptional track record going back years. But she’s picked up on the culture and the language of the firm’s upper management almost instantly.
She knows just what to say, no matter how ridiculous it is, and when to say it.
As for me, I’ve always been more of a lone wolf within the company. I shine when speaking with investors and with lenders, but I was never interested in ingratiating myself with the inner circle of upper management.
Looking satisfied, Kallie leaves my office, closing the door behind her.
Ethan
Get over it, get used to it, stop fucking whining.
Those are the words I type into a blank pdf in the biggest fucking font size that’ll fit on my laptop screen.
It’s just stark black letters on a white background, followed by a simple period to drive the point home. After I take a screenshot, I set the message as my desktop background.
It replaces my previous background—a photo of the night sky from the middle of the ocean somewhere. The view through my office window is outstanding, and the scenery through my living room window’s even better, but a starry sky is something I never get to see with all the light pollution in the city.
The night sky photo has been my background for ages, and it’s the only bit of personality I’ve given my laptop. Otherwise, my work computer is nothing more than a humorless business machine.
But for the time being, the night sky will have to wait.
Get over it, get used to it, stop fucking whining.
For the time being, that message is more important.
For the time being.
When I stop feeling sorry for myself, and I no longer need to be reminded to stop whining, then I can put the night sky photo in its rightful spot as my background.
The giant, unadorned words are fucking jarring in my desktop, but that’s the idea.
It’s time to get to work.
After clicking on my web browser icon, the International Business Daily, Wall Street Journal, CNBC, Bloomberg, and MarketWatch websites all open in different tabs. That’s the way I have it set up, so I can ingest and digest financial news efficiently, multiple times throughout the day.
I click on a random tab and stare at the headline at the top of the page.
It looks like fucking nonsense.
VPX Dip Indicates FRT Volatility, Pooled Systemic Risks in Medium-Yield Investments
After a minute goes by, I’m still staring.
After two minutes, I feel my eyes glazing over.
After five minutes of trying, it’s clear that I cannot get into that world today.
Usually, I have no trouble spending time in that world. It’s a world I understand, and it’s a world where I feel comfortable spending hours or days at a time.
Okay, one more try with this shit.
VPX Dip Indicates FRT
Volatility, Pooled Systemic Risks in Medium-Yield Investments
Nope.
How do I read this shit every day?
Most days, reading a headline like that is when I start to lose myself in work and leave all the other garbage behind. The problem right now is that there’s just too much garbage.
For years, I accumulated as little garbage as possible. It was all short flings and one-night stands.
I always made it clear right away that I wasn’t interested in anything remotely serious.
For five years, I did everything I could to avoid drama.
And to avoid having to feel much of fucking anything.
VPX Dip Indicates FRT Volatility, Pooled Systemic Risks in Medium-Yield Investments
That headline’s just fucking mocking me at this point. I push down on the laptop’s power button until the screen goes blank and the machine shuts down. Next to the laptop is my tablet, showing real-time market data—I turn that off as well before throwing the device in my bottom desk drawer next to the disinfectant spray.
The chemical smell of the disinfectant still haunts my desk. According to my wristwatch, it hasn’t even been an hour since Kallie plopped her bare feet down on the oak surface.
Time’s going by fucking slow these days.
“Get over it, get used to it, stop fucking whining.” With my laptop off, I need to remind myself of...something.
What do I need to get over, or get used to, again?
Maddie told me she was going to Boston for the weekend. Whether that’s true or not, the weekend is over.
It isn’t like she told me never to call her again—and my personal phone is sitting on the desk, waiting.
Fuck.
Okay, I’ll call her—just to see where things stand and to see if I can do anything for her.
If she still needs my help with the investigation, I’ll do everything I can.
Maybe she’s still interested in going out again soon, or maybe she just wants to tell me to fuck off.
Picking up my personal phone, I mutter some more advice to myself:
“Just don’t mention Switzerland again. Seriously. Don’t.”
Maddie might ask about it anyway, and I’ll discuss it honestly if she does, but...
Okay, it’s ringing.
“Don’t mess this up,” I tell myself as Maddie’s phone continues to ring.
Leaning back in my chair, I try to convince myself I’m relaxed, but all I can think about is saying the wrong thing again.
The ringing stops, and I hear Maddie’s voice. Apparently, I’ve reached Madeline Quinn, but she’s unable to answer the phone right now...
It’s her voicemail. I hang up before I can convince myself to leave a message.
That’s probably the right decision. Not calling again is another good decision—at least not right away, and probably for another couple of days.
It is the middle of a weekday, though. Maybe she’s busy.
That doesn’t mean I should call again.
Okay, just one more time while I’ve got my phone out.
One tap on the screen and my phone redials Madeline’s number, and I wait for her to pick up.
She might still pick up; it’s only been two rings this time.
Three rings.
Four rings...and Madeline Quinn’s outgoing voicemail message abruptly starts again.
Okay, time for me to hang up, and time for me to give up.
She actively sent me to voicemail. It’s over.
Still leaning back in my chair, I stare at my phone for a moment. The Call Ended screen fades to black.
It’s over—in case there was any doubt left.
I toss my personal phone in my desk drawer and lean back in my chair again. I even put my feet up on the desk like Kallie—although I’m wearing fucking shoes, at least.
There’s no way in hell I’m getting out of this unscathed. If it is over, which it really seems to be, the numb calm I feel now is not going to last.
The reality will hit me sooner or later. There’s nothing I can do to stop it, so I might as well get to work now and deal with things as they come.
I switch my laptop back on, I get my tablet ready, I turn on my business phone, and I immediately start going through my emails. There are dozens of emails from people representing insurance companies and large banks—the type of institutional investors the partners and other execs drool over.
Right now, there’s nothing I can do for them. Not until I know more about the future of the firm.
Financial news might not interest me much today, but I’d like to be a little less in the fucking dark about this company I’ve given so much of my life to.
Especially if I’m going to move with them overseas.
With my laptop now ready to go, I start furiously searching for any information I can on the company and the investigation.
I leave no online stone unturned, searching for any news about the company, or any of the higher-ups like Phil, Barrister, or Rosen, but there’s no recent news—not even about the move. The only thing I can glean is that the SEC hasn’t made the investigation public yet, because there’s nothing about it on their website.
I even search for Kallie Fern, but all I can find is her LinkedIn profile.
Fuck this shit. I’ve been here for years. If they want to keep me, I deserve transparency. I shouldn’t have to be fucking Googling any of this.
My wingtips echo loudly as I blast through my office door and down the corridor. It’s empty right now, except for the sound of Kallie’s voice going on about something or other from the boardroom.
My plan is to burst right into that boardroom and demand answers. My enthusiasm’s dampened when I see Phil walking Sarah out the boardroom door. Sarah sniffles, wiping away a tear, as Phil says something to her softly—I hear him say the word severance.
I can’t make out anything else he says, but it’s obvious that Sarah, the one-person HR department for the entire firm, just got let go.
Kallie leaves the boardroom next and follows Phil and Sarah toward the exit.
The only person left in the boardroom when I finally walk in—a lot less dramatically than I planned—is Barrister. He’s standing up from his spot at the conference table, getting ready to leave himself.
“What’s really going on?” I ask.
“We’re starting the process of letting people go.” I expected Barrister to be gruff as he usually is, but it seems like having to fire his employees may actually be difficult for him.
I still need answers, though.
“When is the firm moving?”
“We’re leaving this office in four weeks. The new office opens in two months.”
“Why aren’t you being more cooperative with the SEC?”
“Because their investigation is misguided. They haven’t contacted us recently, anyway.”
The sensation of my heart sinking stops me for a second, but I jump right back into the interrogation.
“Then why are you moving to Switzerland?”
“France, Italy, Germany, and their powerhouse economies are all right there—not to mention the top-tier infrastructure and quality of life.”
Barrister’s looking me in the eye, seemingly sincere.
“But why not keep an office open here?”
“Ethan...” It seems like he’s ready to confess something—maybe I should be wearing a wire. “We’re still a small concern. We can’t expand like that. The upper management, we’re old, you know that, and we want to continue our careers someplace...healthier.”
I could ask why they’re not just fucking retiring to Europe instead of moving their business there, but I know guys like these don’t retire. They can’t; they don’t know how not to work.
Honestly, it all kind of makes sense.
“So, you’ll find replacements for Sarah and everyone else there?”
“Everyone except you...or Ms. Fern.”
“Okay, just one more question.”
“What was Kallie just doing here?”
Barrister starts to stand up gingerly.
“She wanted to go home for the day, to plan another presentation for something or other. It wasn’t the best time, I’ll confess.” Barrister finishes standing up and leaves the room without another word.
I don’t know why Kallie couldn’t do that here or why she’s so fucking obsessed with presentations.
But shit, to his credit, Barrister answered all my questions. I think he’s being honest too.
I think.
Ethan
In my neighborhood, they still roll up the sidewalks at 5:00 p.m. You can tell it’s still a business district, especially on weeknights when you can see tumbleweeds rolling down Broadway.
Wednesday, being as far removed from the weekend as you can possibly get, is the worst for this.
Now that it’s late March, it’s fucking finally starting to get warm enough to walk from my place to Lush Republic without feeling like you’re on an Antarctic expedition.
Transitioning out of the ghost town of the Financial District is a slow process on foot.
Walking through City Hall Park, things are so quiet and still that it’s almost eerie. Crossing the Brooklyn Bridge walkway entrance, the sound of witless tourist yells piercing the night is even eerier.
I’ll be happy to reach civilization soon. Things warm up walking through the Lower East Side along Essex Street, then East Broadway.
There are dive bars, rowdy college kids, loud motorcycles, and swerving taxis.
I’m going to miss this, even if I’m only gone a couple years.
It’s getting close to 9:00 p.m., and a chill is setting in. It’s still fucking cold, I realize. The winter does not want to let go.
People are trying to pretend it’s spring, though, and I can’t blame them. Crossing Delancey, groups of bar hoppers are making mad dashes across the middle of block while speeding bicyclists try to defy the laws of traffic even more brazenly.
I’m content to just stroll across at the crosswalk after waiting for the light.
I’m even smiling a little, I think. I’m pretending it’s spring, too, and that the near future is promising.