by Gage Grayson
I glimpse at my wristwatch for no reason.
“My schedule? Yes, that can be a problem, sometimes.”
“I know, Ethan. So, here’s what I’m going to do.” Madeline reaches into a side pocket I didn’t even know was there and pulls out an off-white business card.
Fuck, I said her name. Has she even introduced herself in the office?
She hands me her card, and it appears legitimate enough. Her name is printed there, first and last.
If there was ever a time or a place to deny it, it’s not here, and it’s not now.
Another break in routine today: I go home shortly after five in the afternoon. It’s still light outside when I get home.
Ethan
The only time I’m used to seeing sunlight through my windows is during those early morning hours before—or after—work, or if I wake up on a weekend morning and decide to go for a run across the Brooklyn Bridge to clear my mind.
Some mornings, there are the beginnings of soft sunlight when I’m doing what I do best. I think I’m decent at hedge fund management, even if some of my colleagues lay on the praise a little thick.
But I’m even better showing my partner—whoever she happens to be on a given evening—some of the greatest pleasure that life has to offer.
If it now sounds like I’m the one laying on the praise too thick, all I can say is that it’s something I give my all to and pride myself in. I also really enjoy it.
The sun of the late afternoon is a novel sight here in my home, on the fifty-second floor of the Barclay Tower.
There’s a nice glint to the uptown-facing view, with the Empire State Building still taking precedence over the ugly, new colossal residential towers going up around it.
I’m still looking out of the window of the apartment I’ve lived in for five years, debating whether to take a picture out of my own fucking window since I don’t know when I’ll see this light again, as I walk over to my living room bar.
The bar is mostly for show. I didn’t intend it that way, but I hardly ever find myself using it.
The scotch-filled crystal decanters do match the sparse décor of the room well enough. Even though they’re unlabeled, I have the contents of the decanters memorized: Johnnie Walker Blue Label, Glenfiddich, and the fifteen-year-old Macallan—that’s the one I go for this time.
I pour myself some scotch whiskey and add a few drops of filtered water from the fridge door dispenser. Not very glamorous, I know, but who gives a fuck?
As a rule, I ace every fucking test my career throws at me—without breaking a sweat. The only time I ever stop to take stock in any of it is when I realize how goddamn easy it is for me. That can be disconcerting, on occasion, but I don’t think about it often.
What’s giving me some pause now is that this doesn’t feel easy. It feels out-and-out ineffable, like an ‘I don’t even know where to begin’ type of feeling.
I’m going to need to quit complaining when shit seems too easy because I’ll take easy any day over this.
I hold up the glass of whiskey at eye level. The water’s making the spirit look hazy, diluted, unattractive, but when I take my first taste of it, standing right in front of my gleaming silver refrigerator, it’s immediately outstanding, the water having done its job of expanding complexities to the surface.
With intricate flavors still telling their insistent stories, I almost fall over walking to the leather recliner facing the window.
The sunset’s quickly giving way to the night over New Jersey, and they’re turning on the floodlights at the top of the Empire State Building, bathing the few stories in a fierce red glow.
I’m still wearing my goddamn suit jacket, and, as I reach for it, I find Maddie’s card in the chest pocket.
Okay, I’ve found a place to start with this current test: Stop calling her that.
I pull out Madeline’s card.
The paper industry’s glad these things still exist, for sure. I don’t have anywhere to store it, though, but I’m not keeping it in my wallet.
I hold the card in front of the window, the skyline illuminated in the background.
There’s Madeline’s name in Helvetica or some similar font, her position underneath it in all caps: SECURITIES COMPLIANCE EXAMINER.
Below that is SECURITIES EXCHANGE COMMISSION in a smaller typeface, right next to the commission’s address on Vesey Street, literally just around the corner from where I’m sitting.
How long have I been living so close to her? Does she live in this fucking building? Not likely on that salary—maybe in a smaller studio, but I probably would’ve seen her.
She must live in New York, though, or really close. The SEC’s local office address is on her card after all.
I need to stop thinking about where she lives. The presence of her card is not doing me any good. I was doing just fine before I got it, even after Madeline waltzed back into my life.
I should toss the card in a recycling bin—but not before saving her number. I’m responsible for dealing with the investigation after all.
Okay, next phase, saving Madeline as a contact—by calling her. If the thought makes me uncomfortable, which it does, then I’m probably onto something.
Besides, it’s not even fucking six yet. I should still be working.
It’s time to get on the horn with Madeline. A bit of comfort comes flooding back as I realize I’m still working. Just sitting at home doing nothing is terrible for my health.
I cross the room to the kitchen counter where my two phones are charging and put my scotch down. Time to get back to work.
I mechanically reach for my large-screen business phone, which I use a lot. It has a massive list of contacts and astronomical usage stats each month.
But before I can reach it, I stop. If I put Maddie—sorry, Madeline—on my business phone, I’ll have to see her name come up all the time again, her incoming calls, missed calls, and texts.
The last time that happened...
My slightly smaller personal phone sees less use. My contact list is shorter, and, if it becomes necessary, I can just ignore Madeline. Figuratively.
Don’t get me wrong, this is business. I owe it to my firm to figure out what this is about.
No more fucking thinking; it’s time for action. I unplug my personal phone, bring up the keypad, and dial Madeline’s number, copying from the card.
I ignore that residual anxiousness from my fucking office earlier and hit the call button.
I hear her voice after two rings.
“Hello, Mister Barrett—or Ethan, I should say.”
Fuck, my personal phone number’s still the same as it was five years ago, but she has a different phone, right? Okay, time to stop it and just fucking talk.
“Hey, Madeline, do you have a minute?”
I never say ‘hey,’ and that’s too informal anyway, but at least I called her Madeline. Okay, just let it happen.
“Of course, Ethan. I was hoping to hear from you today. Again, the sooner we start, the better. Are you still at your office?”
“No, for once.”
“Ha! Tell me about it. I’d love to be at home before it’s dark someday. Oh, well.”
“Yeah. I’ve got a short commute, at least. I don’t know about you...anyway, is there a chance we could meet in person? I don’t like speaking on the phone too long.”
“Pet peeve, huh? I can fit a meeting into my schedule, if you can suggest a good venue.”
“Okay, I don’t want to go back to the office, and I need to talk to my colleagues personally before more speculation arises.”
“Hmm...okay.”
Fuck, am I making this worse?
“How quickly can you get to Avenue A?”
“Fairly quickly. Why? What’s there? Let’s discuss that, first.”
“Do you know Lush Republic?”
Yeah, I have no fucking clue why I’m doing this. Well, I already asked. Might as well roll with it.
“I’ve heard o
f it. If that’s where you’d like to meet, I’m okay with it. I just want to get this moving along, already. I think we both do.”
“Are you at the SEC now? I’m around the corner if you want to share a taxi. You know, to save some money, be more environment-friendly.”
“Thanks for the offer. I hope you’re not offended, but I don’t think that’d be appropriate at this juncture, Eth.”
Well, she called me Eth before I called her Maddie. I better still not fucking call her Maddie, though.
“Of course. No offense taken...so, SEC, huh? I bet that’s a good gig.”
“Uh, yeah. We take pride in what we do, sir.”
“I see. So, Lush Republic, Avenue A between 7th and 8th. Is an hour doable for you?”
I hear what sounds like a heavy sigh, but I do my best to ignore it—or at least avoid reading into it.
“I can fit that in...two hours. Is that okay?”
“I’ll see you there.”
Ethan
It’s just another meeting for work. This one’s scheduled for a couple hours from now, an hour and fifty-seven minutes to be precise.
This meeting is not with an investor, not with a trader, not with a partner at the firm or a potential hire.
I’m almost done with my scotch, with plenty of time to spare. This meeting’s with an SEC examiner—not usual, but nothing extraordinary for what I do, even if it is my first time.
I down the last of the whisky, numbed to the flavors by now.
I still have a crazy excess of time before I need to be at Lush Republic. In my normal working mindset, I shouldn’t even be thinking about it yet. I should be zealously checking market trends, running my own ongoing mental analysis, and updating everything in real time.
I should be planning out what to say and when, predicting which questions will arise at the firm over the next couple days and the most effective way to address them.
Instead, I finish my scotch and get ready for my next meeting. As much time as I feel like I have, it may not be enough to shower, change, get rid of any emergent five o’clock shadow, and get to Alphabet City my standard way—on foot. A taxi would probably be faster, but rush hour will still be going strong past seven.
What was I thinking?
Poor planning, but I can make up for it by getting myself back into work shape starting right now. I strip while walking down the hall, holding all my worn clothes, to be distributed swiftly yet awkwardly where they need to go: in my bedroom on the way to the master bath.
I run inside the walk-in shower and try to be as quick and thorough as possible. Normally, I focus more on the thorough part, but I try not to be late for meetings, especially with the SEC.
Whether I like it or not, this is an important business meeting, despite the low lighting and natural food and aroma of Lush Republic, which all suggest otherwise. I don’t know why I didn’t plan this out better, why I didn’t think to sharpen my straight razor earlier even though it’s been fucking weeks and now I don’t have enough time to do it properly. I mean, I knew this was coming.
I can’t be too hard on myself for being sort of in denial about this whole thing. I have a personal connection to it—as much as I need to let that go, already—plus it’s the SEC, which I’ve been fortunate enough to never have to deal with this intimately. Until now.
But fortunes change, as I keep fucking telling myself. All I can do now is give myself the closest shave possible with my dulling razor, dose myself lightly with the best aftershave I have, and brush and floss out the scotch.
I don’t think about my outfit for a moment; I just throw on the suit I was planning to wear tomorrow. It’s a good thing I plan for contingencies like this one with my suit rotation.
I need a fresh pair of shoes, too. I almost go for my Allen Edmonds cap toe Oxfords, but instead, I decide on a pair of Brooks Brothers penny loafers, maybe inspired by Madeline’s suit from earlier.
And it’s still Lush Republic. I can’t go too fucking formal.
I end up having to wait a solid twenty seconds for the elevator on my way out, and getting out onto Barclay, I jog over to Church Street so I can get a taxi going the right direction. Luckily, there’s a free cab just as I get to the corner, and six minutes later, I’m walking into Lush Republic.
And I’m still almost an hour early.
It’s a good thing Madeline’s apparently not here yet. It’s not that I would expect her to be, but who knows? It’s not like I ever got to know things about her, like how punctual she is.
Our meetings were always just happenstance, both of us floating around Maui like uncaring and unhurried sea breezes.
Those weren’t even meetings, though. Maybe in a literal sense, but not in the all-business sense of this early evening in Manhattan.
Even an Alphabet City bar can’t escape the commercial soul of the city. The wait staff are bustling, preparing for the upcoming rush hour each evening brings.
But right now, Lush Republic is a in a very easy-going state, just after six in the middle of the week. The bouncer’s not even on duty, and there are only a few stray regulars adrift throughout the floor and at the bar, leaving plenty of tables open.
I sit down, unnoticed, at one of several booths, which is the only logical spot for a meeting like this.
Logic’s just catching up with me now: I’ve still got forty-five minutes of sitting here, waiting for an important meeting that I decided to have at a bar—one that I frequent for decidedly non-business reasons all the damn time. Who knows what Maddie must be thinking.
Madeline, I mean. Whatever.
I take the side of the table facing the entrance, watching it for the moment Madeline walks in, whenever that’ll happen. It could be in fifteen minutes, it could be over an hour if she’s late.
Clearly, I didn’t handle the planning the best I could, but all I can do is watch, wait, order a drink maybe, and avoid looking through the mess that is my personal phone.
I’m tempted to take a peak at the phone, just to see if I missed a call from Madeline, when I see Stacia marching towards the table.
Stacia’s a waitress at Lush Republic, originally from Poland, and a staunch stayer from the old Café Kiev days.
“Yes, Ethan,” she greets me in a resigned way that is just magical, “what’ll it be to start?”
“To start,” I respond, picking up on her intuitive dialog, “I’ll have two dry martinis.”
They serve martinis in actual glasses here, and it seems like the most business-appropriate alcoholic beverage I can think of right now.
Stacia writes down the simple order, which makes me like her even more, but I’m shaken and stirred out of pondering corporate crapulence by a bolt of emerald lightning from across the room.
Maddie’s here early, but still not as early as me. I can’t articulate why, but seeing the glowing intensity of her eyes, the casual gracefulness of her walk, the way she nonchalantly notices me and starts her way over so smoothly—it’s really difficult to have to witness it all from my booth.
If only I were half an hour early instead of almost a whole fucking hour, I wouldn’t have had to put myself through any of this shit.
On the other hand, I don’t know how easy it would be for either one of us if she just showed up at a strange bar before me and didn’t even know what the hell to do.
It doesn’t get any less taxing as I see the unreal sight of Madeline sliding into the spot across the table.
“Mister Barrett,” she begins with a workplace-appropriate enthusiasm, “we meet outside your office at last.”
Madeline’s smile is slight, but it carries so much reassurance somehow. She’s acknowledging that we both know we’ve done much more than met outside my firm’s offices, but that’s nothing to worry about right now—just let it be mildly amusing, if you’d like, but don’t let it trouble you on any level—all in a blink of an expression that’s over now, changed something calm, open, and serious.
“Thanks for coming a
ll the way up here.”
Madeline shrugs hammily and looks off at nothing to her left side. “It’s a start, I figured, until your office during business hours becomes routine.”
I don’t know how flexible she’s trying to be, but she’s trying to get me to take it more seriously.
“What is this all about?” I begin earnestly. “Can we start there?”
“Eager to get right down to brass tacks, I see. Well, we can work with that.”
She’s matching, then besting, every bit of confidence I put out there. I’m remembering why there’s no one else in the world like Maddie.
Stacia materializes suddenly with our two martini glasses, complete with olives.
“Oh,” Maddie comments, amused, “a couple more of these and it’ll be a true business lunch. Or dinner.”
“Yes,” states Stacia flatly before leaving.
“Did you want dinner?” I ask. “They have an extensive menu here...”
“We’ve been looking over your registration documents,” Maddie starts, wasting no time. “There are some omissions. Nothing too out of the ordinary, but it can become the start of something I can’t ignore.”
Madeline’s talking about some clerical errors, but her words are meaning something else to me.
“What’s the type of thing you’d usually ignore?”
Madeline looks down at her glass as if she’s trying not to look at it. There’s no chance of her drinking from it any time soon.
“Ethan, I know you’re not asking me about what’s acceptable. You should know by now; you’re a...an established hedge fund manager.”
“Hearing it from you, Maddie, that solidifies it. I’m an established hedge fund manager. All my boyhood dreams really have become true.”
“I don’t have the documents with me, but from what I’ve seen, none of your personal info is deficient.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“However, some of the partners at your firm, I’m not so sure about.”
“Just some of them?”
Madeline glances off to nowhere again. She’s not enjoying this, I don’t think.