by Carter Blake
Those three are in their early twenties, and they nervously look over at me for a second as I walk in.
They’re all new hires—interns, most likely.
There’s another lady, a couple years older, sitting by herself at the conference table. She’s eating a large, plain naan—and nothing else—and her hair is dyed bright blue.
Why does she look so familiar?
The group of suited kids look relieved when I ignore them, and they go back to whispering anxiously at each other.
I sit down in the seat next to the blue-haired lady. She’s wearing a frilly black dress with a leopard-print trim. It might be the most casual thing anyone’s ever worn in this office.
“Good morning,” I greet her.
She turns to me with a mouthful of naan, so I keep talking.
“Are you one of our new interns?”
“No, I’m a financial analyst,” she mumbles with her mouth still full.
“I can get you some water if you’d like, and we have coffee out in the hallway...”
“No, I’m fine,” she responds after swallowing. “I just didn’t want you to think I’m an intern.”
I glance over at the interns huddled away from the table.
“I see. I’m Ethan Barrett, if you didn’t know.”
“I did know. I’m Kallie…Kallie.”
Kallie picks up her naan and takes a big bite. I guess that’s all the introduction we need.
“I just wanted to say, Kallie, I admire your fashion choices.”
Kallie thankfully puts her naan down before responding.
“Really?”
“Yeah, the hair especially. That’s quite a color.”
“Well, thank you. I appreciate that. I put a lot of work into it.”
Where do I know her from? I don’t want to ask, because she might misinterpret that and see that as inappropriate.
The interns all leave abruptly, dropping their plates and plastic forks into the trash can set up by the door.
“Friends of yours?” I ask.
“What?” Kallie responds, picking up her naan and putting it back down. “Of course they’re not. Why would they be?”
“Why wouldn’t they be?” I’m trying not to sound too outraged, but seriously. What the fuck?
“I’m just pointing out the assumption you made, Mister Barrett. That’s all.”
Mister Barrett. That’s someone’s thing, but it’s not Kallie’s.
“You can call me Ethan. Please.”
“Okay, Ethan.” Kallie pushes her plate with the naan away from her, and I get a physical sense of relief. “I didn’t skip that part of my career. I’ve put in my time at several lesser firms. I’ve interned.”
“Lesser?”
“I’ve worked right on Wall Street. My first job was with RF Lafferty...”
“Then why didn’t you stay on Wall Street?” I hear the apprehension in my own interrupting voice.
“Because there’s only one Ethan Barrett in this neighborhood, and he’s not on Wall Street. I wanted to work with the best, so I walked down the block, and here I am.”
I’ve seen plenty of analysts come and go, but Kallie has a rare talent for making me feel uneasy.
Kallie stands up with a confident smirk. Her expression stays in place while she looks down at me.
“Who hired you, Kallie?”
“I’ve met all the senior partners, but the offer came from Mister Rosen last Friday.”
“Rosen,” I repeat quietly, looking at Kallie’s unfinished naan.
“You okay?” Kallie’s voice sounds like it’s coming from the ceiling, and it has an edge of derisive laughter.
I force myself to look back up at Kallie’s smirking face and meet her gaze.
“I’ll see you around the office, then,” I state in a monotone voice.
Kallie’s smirk drops, and she nods. I feel a bit of remorse as Kallie leaves the room.
She’s still young and still at the start of her career. She’s probably trying to project confidence and use flattery, but she’s struggling with it.
Kallie’s leftover naan is sitting awkwardly on the table. The greasy, empty bag from the 24-hour Indian place on Chambers Street is settling on top of the wood a couple feet away.
Who set up this whole event anyway?
It could’ve been one new of the interns, walking up from the subway and stopping at the first restaurant they could find on their way here.
I doubt they brought their own welcome banner, though.
I don’t know what’s happening in this office.
I stand up and start cleaning the goddamn table. No matter how well things are working, no matter how smoothly things are going, shit just changes over time.
There’s no fucking way to avoid it. Even if I holed myself up in my apartment and worked from home for the next few decades through retirement, I couldn’t steer clear of the merciless winds of change.
I pull the welcome banner down with a tug. My first instinct is to crumple it and throw it in the trash, but I end up folding it neatly and placing it on the table.
Even if I retired now, I couldn’t get away from it.
I could get out of the game. I could sell my condo and put everything in a low-risk index fund.
I could buy a cottage in the Berkshires and live out the rest of my life there. I’d never even have to leave.
But shit would still change. I would change, whether I wanted to or not.
And I’d still have to adapt.
So, I may as well stay in this increasingly weird fucking office and let the chips fall wherever.
I drop the plate and all the empty packaging into the trash can before carrying the can out of the room with me.
The cleaning staff here is, naturally, overburdened and underpaid, so I don’t mind pitching in whenever I can.
The hallway is abuzz with weird energy the moment I step outside. Not that jittery, nervous ambiance that Maddie inspires; this is the feeling of new people coming into the fold.
Interns, analysts—they’re all throwing themselves into the craziness and bringing their own craziness along for the ride.
That’s all alright with me.
Carrying the garbage all the way to the refuge room and emptying into the chute myself is also alright with me.
Who am I kidding? It’s the highlight of my fucking day.
The weird energy is already dying down when I walk back through the reception area carrying the empty trash can. Most everyone is squirreled away in their respective offices as usual.
I toss the trash can back into the empty boardroom; it lands right side up in the perfect spot.
I start walking back to my office at the end of the hall. Back to the old routine.
I wouldn’t mind a routine rest of the day, or a routine rest of the week. I’ll admit that sounds pretty fucking comforting.
There’s something askew in the usual corridor of closed doors.
There’s only one door open, but it’s a door that’s never open.
I don’t remember the last time I was in Barrister’s office.
John Barrister and Leroy Rosen are as close to the upper echelons of NYC finance as anyone in this firm, or this building.
Barrister and Rosen, with their gray hair, suit vests, and general air of having been around for-fucking-ever, are like a classic cartoon of old executives.
Like if Mr.Dithers from the “Blondie” comic strips came to life, and he had a twin brother.
They’re cartoony, but they’re also pretty intimidating, especially for rookies at the office.
Right now, Barrister’s office door is open, and I can hear his brandy and cigar–seasoned laugh.
Now I hear Rosen laughing too. Uproariously.
I don’t know what the fuck’s going on in there, but now I have to see it.
Literally—the door’s open, and I have to walk past whatever crazy fucking scene is happening to get to my office.
I keep pace
walking by Barrister’s office, moving my head only slightly to get a look inside.
There’s Barrister and Rosen, alright, both of them standing by Barrister’s desk and guffawing up a storm.
I feel like I must’ve stepped through a time warp back to the fifties or sixties, because I see three glasses of brandy sitting on the desk as well.
Not two. Three glasses.
One for Rosen, one for Barrister and one for Kallie—the only one of the trio who spots me as I walk by.
Kallie and I make brief eye contact. I nod at her; she turns back to the two executives.
Walking into my office, I hear Kallie saying something.
I can’t make out a word of it, but it sends the two partners into more hysterics.
I should’ve given Kallie more credit. She weirded me the fuck out earlier, but apparently she’s got schmoozing skills like I’ve never fucking seen.
Shit’s getting weird today, but maybe tomorrow can be nice and boring.
Oh well, time to get to work.
Ethan
This is all I needed right now. Just this one cup of coffee from the deli, as massive as this fucking thing is, is delivering the perfect degree of comfort, heat, and caffeine.
The copious amounts of raw sugar and half and half are completing this wonderful salve for my tired-ass soul.
It’s a sunny Thursday morning. The grid of streets and sidewalks I can see though my window is glistening, buzzing, and pulsating with the life of a new day.
There’s plenty of energy to go around. Yeah, I only got two hours of sleep, but that’s plenty.
My laptop, tablet, and business phone are all glowing on my desk. They are powered up, powered on, and ready to power through another long, quiet day of work.
That’s right. Plain, run-of-the-mill, boring old fucking routine is winning out over the weird David Lynchian shit that keeps threatening to overtake this whole office.
Like yesterday, I’m in market analysis mode today.
I know it sounds thrilling.
But fucking seriously, after spending almost an entire day and night delving deep into global market analysis and weighing investment options, I am honestly thrilled to spend the rest of the week like this.
Eventually, people are going to want to talk. Partners, analysts, investors—they all want to make certain that I’m earning my four percent.
But I don’t want to talk to anyone today, and no one wants to talk business on fucking Friday, so to repeat myself, I’m goddamn thrilled to wait until Monday for any of that shit.
I close my eyes for just a moment, resting them, before getting back to work.
I’m standing by the window, but I feel my whole body relax. I let my mind slip into blankness for a few seconds, focusing on nothing but the faint sound of a phone ringing in the distance.
I open my eyes, completely refreshed. Who needs regular, time-consuming sleep anyway?
Fuck, I dropped my coffee on the fucking floor, though.
I close my eyes for a few more seconds, hearing indistinct conversation somewhere in the hallway.
I open my eyes again.
The tan ocean of coffee, cream, and sugar is slowly expanding and seeping into the carpet by my feet. Time to get to work on that shit so I can get to work for real.
I jog out into the hallway. It’s especially loud and crowded all of a sudden.
It’s almost nine o’clock, and everybody’s showing up to work, finally.
We must have paper towels around here somewhere. Where the fuck are they?
Feeling fearless, I tap John Barrister on the arm as he passes me, trying to get his attention.
Barrister stops, looks down at his arm, then looks at me with shock and bewilderment.
“Say, you wouldn’t know where I could find some paper towels, would ya?”
Barrister’s brow furrows in slow motion.
“What do I look like, a goddamn building custodian?”
I barely hold in a laugh. Barrister sees right through me. His jowls are turning cherry red.
“What’s so goddamn funny, Barrett?” he barks.
“I’ve never heard anyone say the word custodian so angrily before. To be frank, I thought it was fantastic. But seriously, do you any idea where...”
Barrister’s already hobbling away, muttering. I can’t make out most of what he’s saying, but I’m pretty sure he calls me a beatnik at one point.
“Just get a receptionist to call a janitor.”
I actually jump at the sound of Rosen’s voice behind me, but I play it cool and nonchalantly swivel around to respond.
“A janitor for what?”
“For the cheap, dime-store coffee splattered all over your office floor.”
Rosen’s arms are crossed grumpily as he looks up at me. He’s clutching his Homburg hat in one hand.
“You were in—”
“That’s right. I graced your office with my very own presence, if you can believe such a thing. Only I didn’t find you there. I found only the evidence of your rubbishy taste and your carelessness.”
“I think it’s good coff—”
“But not to worry. I sent an intern to clean it. I need to drill in your head that you are not to waste your talents, nor part of a costly business day, on janitorial work. It’s absurd.”
“Uh-huh. Why were you in my office?”
Rosen’s arms uncross, but he keeps his hat up by his chest, close to his heart.
“Did someone die?”
“Is that your attempt at humor, Barrett?”
“No.”
“Everyone at the firm is still very much alive, but so is this blasted investigation.”
My accumulated fatigue rams into me with the weight of a truck. Luckily, it doesn’t last long, and I’m back in lucid work mode before I can conk out on the floor.
“Right. I guess we just need to let them do their jobs, right? If we’ve got nothing to hide...”
“What are you on about, Barrett?” Rosen crosses his arms again. “We need you in the meeting at five. But until then, please don’t say a word about it!”
I swear that Rosen makes a literal huff noise when he spins around and strides away from me.
The unfortunate intern tasked with cleaning the coffee from my office did a fine job. When I walk back in, the carpet is pristine and the cup is gone.
My manic enthusiasm for working is also gone.
There’s another meeting with the SEC in just a few hours. I sit down on the small burgundy love seat by the window.
I feel charged with excitement, but not the kind of excitement that’ll help me focus. I lie down to rest my eyes for a few more seconds.
I open my eyes to see my office awash in auburn sunlight. That’s better; all I need is a few seconds at a time, or a few...
What fucking time is it?
I leap off my love seat and make it all the way to my desk in one bound. I grab my phone and fuck, of course it’s fucking five-twenty already.
Is Madeline even still here?
I’ve been doing such a good job of not thinking about when Maddie will show up next, of letting things happen in their own time, that I may just fucking miss her entirely.
I use the front camera on my phone to quickly check my hair, then I tear out of my office like Usain Bolt rushing to make a tight connection at LaGuardia.
It takes about twenty seconds to walk from my office to the boardroom at a leisurely pace. Fortunately, I’m traveling much faster than that.
I see a quick blur of the gothic hallway and hear a split second of what sounds like somebody laughing, and I’m already opening the door to the boardroom and seeing Kallie giving a presentation.
Wait.
What?
The fuck?
Kallie’s wearing her bright-blue hair down today, and it’s falling almost to her shoulders. She’s wearing a very similar dress to the one she had yesterday, only this one is dark gray instead of black.
She’s
pointing to something on the wall, and just as I walk in, a gale of laughter bursts from the conference table.
I have no idea what Kallie said, but she got a huge laugh from the firm’s upper management, and now she’s smiling at me as if she expected me to walk in.
I take a few more steps in, trying not to look too fucking tentative. Maddie is sitting at my usual spot at the far end of the table. She’s wearing a pleasant expression, but she doesn’t have the same amused, shit-eating grin the partners and execs are all displaying.
“Thank you, Ms. Fern.” Barrister is standing up, slowly, and he’s using his kindliest voice. “That’s a wonderful demonstration of modern securities practices, and I’m sure an illuminating view of how we do things for Ms...”
“Madeline,” Maddie says, also standing up. “I appreciate all your effort, Ms. Fern, but I’m quite familiar with industry machinations.”
That word instantly sucks the air from the room.
“Machinations?” Rosen’s voice asks accusingly.
“Excuse me, I mean your methods, your procedures, your way of functioning...”
“That’s not what it sounded like to me.” Rosen spins in his seat to face me. “What did it sound like to you, Mr. Barrett, now that we’re almost half an hour into this important meeting?”
“It sounded like an innocent mistake,” I answer. “An imprecise word choice.”
There are crumpled plastic bags from the office supply store at Kallie’s feet. It looks like she’s mounted a whiteboard to the wall and left a pile of various colored markers on the floor beneath it.
“That’s very interesting.” Rosen’s voice is becoming his infamous snarl. “I’m so glad our time is valuable enough for you to show up at all!”
Holy fucking shit. I don’t usually hear him yell that intensely.
“Alright, Leroy. I know this is tense for all of us.” Barrister’s using his best soothing tone as he glares at Rosen and sits back down.
“Please, proceed,” Rosen says hoarsely.
Madeline walks around the side of the table, getting closer to the whiteboard, and to me.
She’s wearing a black-and-white pleated dress, and her hair is done up in sort of a loose bun.
I forgot how Maddie looks fucking amazing with her hair up, letting her features stand out on their own.