by Min Jin Lee
“I’m fine right here,” she said.
“You sure?” Ted asked. “We could surprise him. Or I could phone him and ask him to swing by my office. I can make people do that.”
“I bet you can.”
“You think I’m an asshole.”
“On occasion. Absolutely.”
Ted laughed out loud. It was the first time he liked her.
“Jay Currie is not here today. He’s down in Austin assisting with a roll-up.”
“I was told that you did not work with Jay.” It hurt to say his name. But on hearing that he wasn’t there, Casey was at once relieved and disappointed.
“I haven’t had the pleasure. Yet. But I did check him out.”
“I’m flattered by your interest,” Casey said, her voice even. “Are you done?”
“Funny. I’d never noticed him, and I’d been in that room dozens of times. Figures.”
Casey exhaled through her nostrils, then held out for his verdict.
“Standard-issue white guy who dates Asian girls. Everything pale, generic looking. Not much personality there. Hmm. Heard he’s some kind of stud due to some recent twin babe exploit.” Ted coughed, amused with himself. “I am a little disappointed in you, Casey. I had you figured for the alpha type.”
Casey looked at her watch and got up from her seat. “No, Ted. Ella likes the A types.”
“You mean type A.”
“No, I don’t.”
Ted laughed with pleasure. This was fun.
“Now, are you done?” she asked. His comments stung her, but she priced this mocking as payment for the favor. He was the sort of Korean guy who was angry about Korean girls dating white guys. She wanted to argue, however: But it wasn’t as if you or your buddies were ever asking me out. Should I have just stayed home? To a Ted, she was too tall, too plain, and too much of a talker. Her family had no money. He had made his view of her clear. He believed that her present circumstances were justly deserved.
Ted grinned at her angry face. She was kind of sexy when she half pouted like that. He felt a little sorry for her.
Determined to behave like a good sport, she smiled at him.
“Well, I guess I’ve had my fun,” he said.
“I am glad to be of service.”
“So, Casey, let’s dance,” he said, getting up from his chair, his voice still whimsical. “Though you must be somewhat disheartened at not seeing your Mr. Currie today, looking so spiffy in your new suit.” He stared at her suit jacket. “Aren’t you hot in that? What is that? Wool? It looks warm.”
“It doesn’t feel very warm. In here.”
Earlier that morning, she’d thought of Jay as she got dressed. In case she ran into him, she’d checked her makeup carefully on her way up to Ted’s. After seeing his mother at the sandwich shop the day before, she’d longed to call Jay. He was a jerk; that was established. But she missed him intensely. He’d already tried to get her number from Tina, but under Casey’s orders, Tina hadn’t yielded to his pleas. So Jay had no idea where she was. But he was better off, since she knew where he was, and it was she who had to restrain herself from contacting him, when restraint was the very thing she was weakest in.
Ted walked out of his office, and Casey followed behind. She wished she could talk to Jay. He would’ve found it amusing that she was applying for a sales assistant position—basically, office manager work with a secretary’s salary—because it was such a random thing for her to do. And Casey would’ve liked to joke with him. She missed laughing, and they’d always been good at laughing at themselves.
This was Casey’s first time on the trading floor. It vibrated with activity. Seeing all these men in their crisp white shirts with their neckties swaying with their bodies was oddly thrilling. In contrast, Ted looked ridiculous with his Tiffany cuff links and silk braces crisscrossing his back like an X, marking him as a target. Rows and rows of men were positioned opposite computer terminals, talking, shouting, standing, and sitting down—their faces intense and kinetic.
The trading floor was nothing like a classroom or a library, an exclusive clothing store, or even the back room of a dry-cleaning shop—places Casey natively understood. There was no space for quiet reflection or planning. Energy bounced off every surface: Lights flickered across screens, fingers dashed across phone keys and computer keyboards. Here and there she spotted a woman, but the vast majority of those who filled the football-stadium-size room with its concert-hall-height ceilings were men: white, Asian, and a few blacks—under forty and presentable. Everyone sat side by side in long, parallel rows—a white-collar assembly line with Aeron chairs. It was hard not to feel propelled by the swirl of masculine power, and for the first time, Casey wanted this job. Suddenly it no longer mattered that being a sales assistant lacked prestige, money, and purpose, since she was likely going to law school after this year. Before this moment, her thinking had been that if she got the job, she’d still look for another position, then quit this gig (the very idea of remaining in Ted’s debt and dominion had been offensive to her), but now she didn’t want to consider her next move, and the thought of even plotting the next step seemed absurd. She’d stay for a year, then law school.
Ted remained beside Casey near the elevator and scanned the floor for Walter Chin, his pal from HBS. Reflexively, he crossed his arms over his chest, hating the noise and locker-room feel of two. He made a point never to go down here unless he had to. Even the smells bothered him—the cloying scent of street cart coffee and the lingering aftershave of the traders, whose way of talking reminded him of the men at the cannery. The guys on the trading floor seldom wore jackets. Ted disdained the untucked shirttails, the stained neckties, and the cheap haircuts. Junior analysts could look like shit since they rarely had time to shower, but brokers and traders, the company’s front line, should look much better, Ted thought, as a man who cared a great deal about his appearance.
Ted wasn’t budging from his spot of carpet, and Casey wanted to know why. He was taking in the scenery, too, but his face revealed contempt more than wonder. In all the busyness of the second floor, no one took notice of them. At the sight of Ted’s profile, his square jaw tilted upward, his face so cleanly shaven, looking like a man who knocked down his fears on a daily basis, Casey felt humiliated having to wait for his move.
In life, it seemed that the ones who talked less, ate less, and slept less usually won. She’d picked up a factoid somewhere that said that sharks didn’t sleep. Did winners have fewer needs or did they have greater desires than the losers? Ted’s obvious advantage and ease in this room reminded her of what she’d once heard at a football game at school, that Harvard always won because Princeton thought they were too good to fight, and she thought, Yes, Harvard was winning again.
She needed this job, and no one understood that better than Ted. He predicted that eventually, with her qualifications, she could have gotten a far better position than sales assistant from one of the letters she’d sent out, but few companies hired a person based on sheer résumé, and it was nearly the end of July—a dead time for hiring. The girl had no cash left and no backup plans. The most hilarious thing about this girl was that she was too proud to use whatever connections she might have made. Her arrogance stunned him; he almost admired it. She was one of those Korean girls who thought she was as good as white and that the world was fair, and it tickled him to see her reduced to this position—to have to ask a member of the immigrant tribe for a patch of floor to sleep on and to ask another member to pull a favor on her behalf. Where are all of your little white friends now? he wanted to say to her. She was acting like a rich white girl, and Ted knew that life did not let you lie to yourself for very long. In that way, you had to admit, life was quite fair.
“Excited?” Ted faced her. “Or nervous?” He grinned.
“Let’s play ball,” she answered him. Ted Kim was sadistically illustrating that she’d only gone to Princeton, she was not of Princeton. As if she hadn’t figured this out yet.
She had exactly four dollars in her pocket, and after this demoralizing experience, wearing someone else’s high heels, she’d walk thirty blocks to an apartment that wasn’t hers, either. An Ivy League degree wouldn’t get her on the subway, and she tried not to think of Virginia, who was in Bologna by now, taking a course or two for her master’s degree in art history and filling out her afternoons flirting with the rich clients at her uncle’s art gallery a brisk walk from the university.
Ted did not pay any mind to Casey’s pout. He spotted Walter nearly half a city block from the elevator and instructed her to remain there. Casey held her back erect and her shoulders square like an athlete. This was no different from all the other times she’d pretended that she wasn’t a visitor but in fact an honored guest. “Baby, when you’re scared, walk round like you own the joint,” Jay had once advised her, sounding more Trenton than Princeton. What the hell was he doing in Texas? And she wanted to know if he was thinking of her at all. She felt foolish and angry. And alone.
Ted’s gait appeared confident and his carriage loose, but she could tell how he, too, hid his determination and anxiety about his future. She was more like Ted than Ella. He tried hard, and so did she; the difference between them was that he’d already figured out what he wanted in this life—money, status, and power—and she wasn’t so sure about the things she wanted, preferring pride, control, and influence. Yet what each sought was related, much like first cousins.
Ted patted Walter on the back, and Walter looked pleased to see him. When he smiled broadly, Walter’s small eyes looked shut. The two HBS alums chatted amiably, with Ted leaning his backside against an empty desk; then, a few minutes later, Walter told the men sitting on the sales desk that Ted had brought someone to interview for the assistant job. The way they talked seemed theatrical, almost funny, and Ted raised his head to look at her, his eyes still scrutinizing. He pointed to where he’d left her, and Casey smiled at them on cue. He made no other indication, so Casey didn’t move. Then Walter waved her over, and she read his lips: “Come by.” Grateful for his invitation, she went to the men, her head down, gaze averted. Then, like a blessing, she recalled Jay’s words about acting as if you owned the joint, so she straightened her neck and looked straight ahead, trying very hard to appear more entitled.
9 WORTH
KEVIN JENNINGS, THE ANTSY HEAD OF THE ASIAN equities sales desk, had a rectangular face and the height and build of a former college basketball player. The Irish Catholic boy from the Bronx went to Georgetown, married a blond marathon runner, and now had a house in New Canaan, Connecticut, and three towheaded kids.
He trained his bright green eyes on the computer monitor, refusing to say good-bye to Ted Kim as he left. As a rule, he hated investment bankers, and as far as he was concerned, Ted would always be Walter Chin’s foppy friend from HBS. This was Kevin’s public sentiment: Guys who went to business school were assholes, and guys who went to HBS, bigger assholes. Walter, an American-born Chinese salesman on Kevin’s desk, was a good guy—the exceptions to Kevin’s rule of B schools in general and of HBS in particular.
Casey was directed to the empty chair between Kevin Jennings and Walter Chin. Ted had made the introductions briefly and then run off, saying he had a meeting across town. The desk head, Kevin, had snubbed Ted throughout—Casey noticed this, and in a way, his dislike of Ted went in his favor, but then she grew worried that she might be tainted by the association. After Ted left, Walter shared that Ted had been the presiding winner at HBS—the one to watch in section E. Casey nodded politely at this bit of Ted’s biography, feeling at once annoyed and impressed. She was busy watching Kevin flick the cap of his blue Paper Mate pen. Pale freckled skin stretched across his long, bony fingers. The desk head continued to study his monitor, then abruptly started talking.
“When are you available?” he asked.
“Today, even,” she replied quickly. His impatience was palpable, so she adapted her speech to follow his. This was a tactic she employed with hostile customers at Sabine’s; in her experience, fawning or placating such people did not work. The only thing that made any kind of impression on people who were easily provoked was to persuade them of your efficiency and competence.
He picked up the fax copy of her résumé and whistled at her transcript. “Hmm,” he said dismissively. “A schoolgirl, I see.”
Kevin dropped her papers beside the stapler, then returned to the conclusion of the report he was reading off the screen. He disagreed with the research analyst’s buy recommendation for the Taiwanese chip maker. Then he picked up the résumé again and turned to take a better look.
She was far too dressed up to be a sales assistant. A daddy’s girl, no doubt. Princess wouldn’t take this job seriously. Personal calls, lots of sick days—he’d seen it all before. People viewed being an assistant as a bullshit job, and it certainly paid a bullshit salary if you didn’t count the O/T, but a clerical error could screw a lot of people and cost a fortune. In the past year, he’d fired three people in six months. His boss, the head of international equities sales, told him that it was starting to make Kevin look bad as a manager. “Buddy”—he’d been pulled aside after having fired the last one—“the next one has to work out. You know? Your guys need even support.”
Hiring was a royal pain in the ass, however. Last year when he was promoted to desk head, he’d had no idea how much administrative crap came with the position. Somehow, when he was just one of the brokers, he’d been oblivious to what Owen, the prior desk head, had been doing. They used to call Owen “PT” for part-time, because he was often working from home (his gorgeous wife could not drop a teabag in boiling water, not to mention watch over their twin boys). Owen was promoted when Kevin was promoted, and he was now living in Hong Kong with a large household staff for his family. Kevin had been a phenomenal broker—one of the best institutional salesmen in the country—but as the desk head, he’d been forced to give up his biggest accounts to his guys to attend an endless cycle of management meetings. As far as he could see, these meetings made no dough for the company. He’d gone from running his own profit center to becoming a giant cost center. Instead of making his clients happy, he was now having to focus on budgets, shadow books, and safeguarding his ass from the great whites in the upper management pool.
“So, what are you doing here, exactly?” His green eyes flashed without warmth. “You really want to be a sales assistant?”
“A girl’s gotta eat.” Casey raised her eyebrows and smiled halfway.
She’d taken a risk. Kevin was amused, but he didn’t show it. “Yeah, but a girl with your grades and degree can work anywhere. ”
“But I want to work here.”
He stared her down. Without saying a word, he was asking her why.
“I’m an econ major. This would be good experience for B school.” Casey found herself lying with greater ease ever since she’d been thrown out of her parents’ house—hardship being the mother of imagination.
“B school, huh?” Kevin frowned and glanced at his computer monitor again.
Seeing his disapproval, she replied, “Maybe.”
“You know what B stands for in B school?” he asked loudly, mainly for Walter’s benefit. Without giving her a chance to reply, he proclaimed, “Bullshit.”
“Terribly original,” said the man seated opposite Kevin. His hair was mahogany colored.
Hugh Underhill, the senior salesman on the desk, winked at Casey like an ally. She blinked in surprise. In a club or a restaurant, she might have stared right back at him. He looked familiar to her. Then she realized that his coloring and features were nearly the same as those of Jay’s brother, Ethan, but this man was far more handsome—irritatingly so. Casey routinely ignored men like this, feeling in a curious way that they should not be given too much attention for their beauty.
Walter smiled at Kevin. His eyes disappeared into his gentle moon face. “Maybe Kevin should eat something. He gets so crabby when he’s hungry. Did Mom pack your
lunch today?”
Walter turned to Casey. “The quality and experience of your interview will improve markedly in a few minutes. I promise.”
Kevin smirked hearing this. Walter wasn’t wrong, and Kevin checked the conference room doors, which remained shut.
Again, Casey felt grateful to Walter. He seemed so gracious and thoughtful. Whatever she’d heard about B school or HBS or the hasty opinions she’d formed from knowing Ted were challenged by Walter, who seemed so considerate and modest in contrast. His humor had disarmed Kevin effectively. Casey was rarely if ever defended by anyone, and Walter’s care made a big impression on her.
Casey wished she could find him attractive, however. When she thought about love and sex, she wanted a kind of cartoonish yellow thunderbolt to strike her—shazam!—to tell her that he was the one. For good or for bad, that almost never happened. As odd as this was, most of the boys she’d dated or slept with had wanted her more than she had wanted them, and their desire alone had been enough to cover her lack. Enough desire could induce her to feel enchanted for a while. With Jay, there had been a singular kind of thrill, a kind of lightning knowing. There was no wedding ring on Walter’s ring finger (he was maybe thirty—old enough to be married) and no framed girlfriend’s picture on his desk. Ted had told her that Walter was Chinese, but Casey couldn’t always tell the difference between Chinese and Koreans just by looking. Walter was tall like Kevin—taller than Ted—and had a pudgy boyish face in a perpetually bemused state. His two-button suit in a rich gray wool was cut conservatively, and unlike the others nearby, he’d kept his jacket on. His shirt looked custom-made, each cuff buttoned thrice, a small notch found at the edge.
“You see, Casey”—Walter arched his right eyebrow for emphasis—“in a few minutes, there will be a stampede to that conference room”—he pointed to the room that Kevin had glanced at previously—“and Kevin Jennings, master of free lunches, will fill his plate, then be a tad kinder to humanity, including prospective assistants.” In stereo, Hugh and Walter made loud seagull sounds. Caw-caw-caw filled the air. Hugh pretended to flap his wings and narrowed his eyes searchingly, looking like a scavenger. Walter acted as if he were throwing bread crumbs at Hugh. They were working hard to make her laugh, and Casey tried not to crack up.