Crossing Allenby Bridge

by Michael Looft

  It was as if she didn’t hear me at all. “There are more phrases; some are attributed to you, and some to your leadership team. Shall I read them?”

  “Sure, indulge me.”

  “OK… getting one’s panties in a bunch, being thrown over a barrel, who do I need to screw to get a cup of coffee around here…”

  “Well, I don’t drink coffee,” I mumbled, but she continued as though I said nothing.

  “Then there are the complaints about the Credit Manager engaging in sexual misconduct with a few of the tellers. I’m afraid this all points to an unhealthy boys’ club culture that is opening us up to some serious lawsuits.” She glanced at Don with a frown, refusing to even look at me until she sensed that Don was on her side.

  “Don, what is this shit? You know I run a tight ship and my guys are kicking ass. So much so that we’re an attractive buy right now.”

  “You’re right, Harry. We are an attractive buy. In fact, I’m looking at a deal with an Asian bank right now that just may do that. So, we can’t afford to have any lawsuits on our hands. No one’s going to want to buy us if we’ve got internal problems, lawsuits. You know that!”

  I’ve only heard Don raise his voice a handful of times since I’ve known him, and I could sense the stress in his last sentence. He stopped, took a breath, and then glanced at both of us, inviting Kitty to leave the room. Once she shut the door, I thought of trying to defend myself, but I knew him well enough that sometimes it’s better to just sit there and listen. He stood up and put his back to me, pouring two glasses of scotch. It was nine o’clock in the morning and I was in no mood for a scotch, and neither was he. I guessed he didn’t know what else to do and needed a few seconds to gather himself. He handed a glass to me, and I stood up to take it and then sat back down again, holding the glass as though it could slip from my hand at any moment. He downed his own and then gave me a steely look.

  “Harry, you and I go back a long way. We were at the Academy together.”

  “Yeah, and I used to cover your duty shift for you when you were out banging townies back in Annapolis. Remember?”

  He stifled a half-laugh, but then his face fell ashen and his eyes filled with tears. “You were one of the first I brought on here when I started this bank. We got this place off the ground.”

  “Those were the days, weren’t they?” I said, slipping into a conciliatory tone. “You know how grateful I am for that. I’ve worked very hard all these years.”

  “Yes, you have. You’ve made us all a lot of money, including yourself. I’m grateful for all that, but Harry, times have changed. It’s a different world than when we started. You know that. I’m not sure if I’m going to sell to these Asian guys or what. I’m not sure what’s going to happen. What I am sure of is that your time is up here. It’s been up for a while and deep down you may know that too. At least I hope you do. Harry, I need someone who can manage people in a way that steers us into the twenty-first century, and frankly, it’s not you.” Don’s words struggled for a landing, but bounced off me in the shock of the moment. He looked at me, his eyes glazed with tears, but not crying.

  “What am I going to do?” I heard myself asking in a low childlike voice, looking down, my world spiraling down a drain. Don said nothing. All he could manage was a look of deep pity as I crumpled in front of him, my heart breaking in two. I did my best to keep my composure, and I remember hearing a booming voice inside commanding me to keep a stiff upper lip. The Academy had taught me to bounce back from anything, and that I did. I collected myself, stood up and shook Don’s hand. It was strange, but after I stepped out of the building and as I walked up Sansome Street, stunned and reeling in distress, I remember stopping and taking a deep breath. I looked all around me at the buildings, some new and some over a hundred years old. I looked up into the blue sky wondering if there was a God up there. I wasn’t sure of that any more than I am now ten years later. I do recall feeling a rush of energy through my body lifting me up and leaving me light on my feet–empty and refreshed. Then it hit me. A single word came into my mind: surrender. I laughed at that, thinking of Agatha’s old face less than two months earlier, and the image of Elena’s profile with the red cables of the Golden Gate Bridge and the setting sun behind her. That moment on Sansome Street was the clearest I’d been since as far back as my days at the Academy, sailing on the Chesapeake on cool afternoons in late autumn.

  Before I had left Don’s office he requested I take a few days off to decide whether I was up to coming back for a month to ensure a smooth transition. The choice was mine. It was gracious of him since the usual practice in the industry was to give people the boot without ceremony as though they never existed–have security escort them off the premises. We had too much history and goodwill for that. So, I considered this and a moment later put it out of my mind as I trudged up to my apartment and changed into hiking clothes. I wasted no time renting a car and heading up to my favorite hiking trail just north of Bolinas. The trail started as a cliff side coastal trail and like an uncoiled snake wound its way down into the forest to a small lake.

  Still upset over the firing and trying to make sense of it all, I considered leaping off the cliff, feeling a hidden force rise within, urging me to do it–even pulling me to the edge. I shrugged it off and stopped myself for two reasons. The first was that even though it was December, the sun was shining so bright it made up for the cold breeze and it just felt great to be out there on a day like that. The second reason, and no doubt the one that won me over, was that I wasn’t certain if the ten-story drop from the cliff’s edge to the rocks and sprays below would be enough to do me in. With my dumb luck, I might wind up in a wheelchair after some miserable Good Samaritan climbed down to save me. I saw no one else out there that day, but it was a possibility, and a risk I didn’t want to take.

  I went back to the bank on Wednesday, hours before my flight to Grand Cayman. I kept my upper lip stiff while working with Don and Kitty to lay the groundwork for a smooth succession. Finding a replacement was not a problem with so many qualified candidates in the city. Three weeks later and we had someone in the chair. Two weeks after that I was gone. It took skill and fortitude to steer the departure conversations over positive waters, and I had enough gray hairs to make the case for early retirement. Those closest to me, particularly staff who’d worked under me for several years, went through their own stages of grief–or at least that’s what they showed me. I told them that a year later they will have forgotten all about me. That seemed to make things worse. So, for the most part I just did the best I could to go out on a high note. I had to chuckle at the card my staff presented to me at the going away party. It was a hand-drawn woman wearing a kimono, with two flaps that when opened revealed signatures of best wishes, etc. from everyone on my team. I knew the officer who’d created it–the one person in the office with enough creative talent for that. If only she’d known how close to home it hit. I loved that card!

  Some of my old friends advised me to file a lawsuit, or at the very least tell Don to go to hell–I didn’t owe him or the bank anything. Vindictiveness did not flow through my blood, and besides, they were wrong. I did owe him and the bank something. They’d both given me decades of a professional life and promising financial security for the rest of it. Years later, I would feel deep gratitude for Kitty and Don setting me on a new path, even if they were unaware of it. At the time, I felt no anger towards either of them, only sadness knowing the hand I played in my own fate. I’d been on the other side of this several times. So, I accepted being driven off the mound like an old lion. It was bound to happen sooner or later. I just wished I’d been given some heads up earlier that it was coming.

  I found strong support from Elena. She became my rock. Of course, she took no time in pointing out that this was all part of the Tower crumbling away and giving me the chance at a new life, and as she put it, learning that I’m defined by the Universe and my connection to it and not some job or station in life. Aft
er I returned from my scuba vacation and finished out January at the bank, I spent most of my afternoons throughout February and March cuddled up on her couch that overlooked the ocean. My apartment was too close to the bank, and after my last day there I didn’t even want to be on that side of the city during the day.

  Turning my mid-life crisis into a cliché, I bought an old black Triumph motorcycle. I used it to zip over to her place in the mornings and catch the 8:00 a.m. yoga class. Then I would stick around until she kicked me out sometime after dinner. I didn’t do much else during that time aside from the occasional long run on the beach on days when it didn’t rain. I was growing more used to Elena’s place with her warm tea mugs and Bohemian couch of fantastic colors, gazing out over the ocean. The contrast between our apartments became a source of amusement for both of us. Whereas my furniture and décor bore a resemblance to a sparkling new espresso machine, hers felt like a hippie shrine filled with Buddha statues, vases of peacock feathers and other strange flowers, and colorful knickknacks. A comfortable mess where I alternated between feeling deep relaxation and wanting to haul a garbage can in there and toss everything into it and start over again. On the rare occasion that she made it over to my place, she giggled at how bare and clean to the point of obsession it was. “You really don’t need to fold your socks and underwear, you know.”

  While our relationship developed like a tiny plant struggling to unfurl leaves, six months in and I still hadn’t had sex with her. No blossoming flower. Her rebuffs were gentle at first, and then we had the big talk. Seems she saw something deeper in me and had it in her head that big love did not thrive on sex. In fact, I still remember her shouting it to me across the couch while I felt torn in two. Harry the man, the virile man, demanded she capitulate to my basic human carnal needs. As she put it, she needed to sidestep that brute and make direct appeals to my so-called Higher Self to break free from trite relationship patterns reinforced by Hollywood. As she put it, we needed to take a chance on a relationship built on friendship. I had no clue what a healthy one resembled, and a side of me wanted no part of that. So, I remained skeptical and kept one foot outside the door while the other stood holding visions of her, burgeoning memories of our moments together: my hand on her cheek and nose buried in the other, the crackle of tofu in an iron skillet and wishing it were a steak, slapping cards down during a cribbage game on a rainy day, listening to her voice singing on the veranda, bearing my soul by accident.

  Once, when I tried to stare her into sexual submission her eyes squinted, and she flung an obscure quote from Goethe my way: “That is the witchcraft you poor deluded fool. Each man sees in her the sweetheart of his soul.” Perhaps a man in love does in fact project spiced-up reality onto a woman. What’s the harm in that? “However ‘natural’ it might be,” she retorted, “we must not turn our loved ones into gods and goddesses. It only slights the real ones and gives them cause to betray us.”

  “Where do you come up with this stuff?” I hurled at her. As much as I railed against her lofty appeals to my Higher Self, part of me appreciated the intellectual rigor it required to keep up with her, not to mention invoking classical imagery that fed my imagination. She didn’t fall for my usual charm and tricks and other ways of winning a woman over that had worked so well in the past, including on my ex-wife, who never quite lived up to the promise of Aphrodite, who I tried my best to fashion her into with poor results. No, she was a different sort and demanded a real connection. As strong as I am, I felt myself seduced by her promise of eventual lovemaking separate from, but on a par with the gods.

  CHAPTER 7 | HIgh art

  In late March I received an email from Mark just after I’d woken up.

  Dear Harry,

  Greetings from Ulaanbaatar (UB for the locals)! I hope you get this message because I tried your bank email, but it bounced back for some reason. I found this one online.

  As you can see from the attached picture, I didn’t take your advice and some days wish I went to Fiji after all. I never knew cold until I moved here. Things haven’t really gone as planned, but do they ever? I left SF just after the holidays and landed here, not knowing a soul. I wandered around UB a few days and found the expat crowd at the Mongolian barbecue of all places. It’s not a real Mongolian thing–some American guys came over here and opened one up to cater to expats–a weird concept if you ask me, but the food is great!

  Anyway, through someone I met there I found a place to live and a job selling felt covers to the nomads to put over their ger tents (outsiders call them “yurts”, but if you want to sound like a local, you need to call them “gers”). These covers reduce heat loss, so they don’t need to burn as much fuel in the wintertime to stay warm. I’m also selling clean cook-stoves and other things to fight pollution. Did I tell you how cold it is here?? Most days it doesn’t get above zero Fahrenheit and isn’t light out for all that many hours. It’s also super smoggy because people burn their trash to stay warm. My coat is covered in a layer of soot just going to the corner store and like everyone else I have to wear something over my mouth if I want to go outside! Old London has nothing on this place!

  Anyway, I’m reading a lot (and drinking lots of vodka to keep warm). I’m writing to see if you can send me a few books to read since I’ve devoured everything I could get my hands on here and the bookstores don’t carry many English translations. I would really appreciate it. Feel free to come for a visit if you’d like. It’s not Fiji, but it has its charms!

  All the best and I hope you are enjoying life as usual.

  Mark

  I closed the email and printed out his attached picture. He was standing in front of one of those gers with a big pile of furs draped around him. He was smiling and the whole scene looked comical. I felt tears trying to flood my eyes, unsure why they were coming. I guess he didn’t know I’d been fired from the bank. Resourceful guy, though. I grabbed my leather jacket and headed over to Elena’s place. After yoga, I was sitting on her couch gazing out over the ocean while I could hear her making tea over in the kitchen.

  “You know that guy Mark I told you about?”

  “Yeah, I remember you telling me about him.” She responded, sitting next to me with a tray of Kava tea. It was my favorite tea as it reminded me of Fiji.

  “I received an email from him this morning.” I yawned, taking my usual cup–a cheerful monk etched into the side of it–before she set the tray down next to her.

  “Interesting.”

  “I think I told you he set off for Mongolia just after the holidays.”

  “That’s right. To go find himself. After reading that Maugham book.”

  “Good memory, sister!”

  “Well, I like that one too, so it stuck out in my mind. Anyone who appreciates that book has a little substance. As I recall, you took a liking to him.”

  “Sure, nice kid.” I slid the printout of the photo he sent me from my pocket and handed it to her. She unfolded it and studied the picture for several seconds.

  “Gentle soul. He has the face of a seeker,” she said with resolute authority.

  “He asked me to send him some books. Said I should come for a visit too, but it’s still winter over there, and it will probably last a few more months.”

  “Yeah, I had a friend who served over there in the Peace Corps. She said it’s a bit like New York with just two seasons: winter and construction.”

  That made me laugh and I pulled her on to my lap, burying my head in her neck. We sat there motionless for several minutes.

  “You could send him some books, but why don’t you bring them out to him?” I heard her say, feeling the vibrations in her chest. I lifted my head and scanned her eyes to gauge her seriousness.

  “Mongolia? You kidding me? It’s a frozen wasteland of… well, mongrels.”

  “I think you mean Mongols.” She shook her head as if I were a small child. “Ever since you left the bank you’ve been moping around here in the rain. Maybe it’d do you good to see a li
ttle bit of the world beyond Europe and tropical islands.”

  “And freeze to death? No thank you. Besides, I’m still trying to convince you to come to Fiji with me.”

  “Maybe in a few months. We’re still getting to know each other, and I’m not ready to take that next step with you yet. That’s too much.”

  “Too much? What’s it been, six months… sort of? All I’m talking about is parking ourselves on a beach and doing some occasional snorkeling.”

  “Well, as I told you before, a lot happens in the slowness, and as much as I love getting to know you, going anywhere like that right now is just too fast for me.” She stood up and moved to the end of the couch, easing herself down as if she were entering a hot bath.

  “I thought you New-Agey chicks were all about free love and such.”

  “Yeah, well, you missed me by twenty years. Sorry. These days I’m seeking a higher connection, and that takes time and patience. Are you still up for that?”

  “I suppose I have to be up for it since you’re holding my heart hostage.”

  “I wish you didn’t see it that way. I wish you saw it from a spiritual perspective.”

  “It’s not my fault I was born lusty and I appreciate the finer things in life, sex being one of them.”

  “Evolved men are sexy.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Besides, I’m only hanging in there because your cooking is so damned good–and this tea isn’t too bad either.”

  She snorted into her oversized cup and scrunched her eyes–a sure sign of deciding whether to be amused or offended. She set the cup down on the tray, casting one of those searching looks as though trying to locate the spot on my head that would allow her to peel off a layer. Her adeptness at nudging me in the right places made it work between us, though most days I considered dumping her–until I would catch sight of those legs or the way her shoulders twisted during one of her sideways glances. One glance into her eyes and I felt the same way I do when stretched out on a hammock on a warm day, a cool breeze on my face and sparrows singing in the trees above. No, I couldn’t leave her then even if I tried. “Based on what you told me of Mark, I think you should bring him some Hermann Hesse books. My intuition is telling me that’s what he needs right now.”