“Wake up, Pablo.” I hear those words echo in my dreams. “Wake up and take a different path.”
I struggle to wake up again. I can only get one eye open at a time. The benefit of Sunday is that it keeps me away from work. Sunday breaks up the routine. Unfortunately, it is the only day of the week I manage to keep the alarm off. The buzzing noise feels unnatural as it interrupts me midsleep. I have let the alarm conquer my mornings over the last few years. Sunday is a brief reminder of my college years, when I avoided any class that started before 10:00 a.m.
I manage to get both eyes functioning in time for our weekend rituals—groceries, dry cleaner, gasoline. Then my wife, Julieta, and I catch a portion of the current sporting event. This is followed by the latest episode of the current cable television show. The smell of onions being caramelized draws my attention away from the television. Julieta knows the right time to cook. I hit Pause on the DVR and divert my full attention to the rich smells emanating from the kitchen.
I raise the wine glass, almost as if I am trying to understand some revealed truth through the light piercing the refreshing red. These moments of inspiration remind me of my childhood, when I wanted to keep it raw. The moment in my life when I was obliviously honest. The times where the concerns of money did not cloud my judgment. I do not know exactly how I lost myself. I did not grow up with money. My basic needs were met, blinding me to the truth of my family’s circumstances. The sacrifice was evident on what remained of my parents’ physical beings. I was a fool. The base of support they provided was the root of my success. I had mistakenly thought the embarrassment I felt about their appearances had fueled my success.
I heard this saying about parenting once before: good parents are the ones who can delay the pain of reality for their children without compromising their independence. Even if my parents wanted to be my crutches, I would not have let them. My stomach twisted at the thought that they would sacrifice for me, only to lock me into some promise—the promise to sacrifice my young adulthood during their old age. A saintly man would know, or at least learn, how to forgive his parents for this perceived burden. If it was my parents’ intent to raise me only to support them in old age, I’m glad I left. I was too selfish, too proud, to give back. But I cannot help feeling that my own bloated sense of self-worth made me misjudge my parents.
The thoughts in my mind swish back and forth. The wine tastes really good for the price. Being drunk is not so bad. Sure, it would be a problem if I were driving around town, but I am sitting in the comfort of my own home, on the comfortable couch I bought. I am sipping on value wine. I am drunk and it is not so bad.
The definition of being rich would be drinking a finely crafted Pinot Noir at a restaurant, sitting right across from the woman I love, the woman I would eventually marry. But no, this is both before and after that fact. A simple wine for a simple yet unfulfilled life. I have another taste, and I know the wine is close. For the price it should not have beaten the odds, yet somehow it did. The music in the background lets me know that simply beating the odds is not enough. Survival would never be enough. At a different time, at a different place, maybe even in a different skin, I would not be a rebel. I would be a fucking genius.
I have always managed to stall; stalling is always the problem. Momentum to change is fueled by that gripping hope. Yet somehow I have always failed to act. I have failed to truly push forward, to beat the confines of my mind. I want true artistic inspiration. My hesitation in this case has been a curse. The curse is a block. It refuses to be simple. The taste of inspiration always lets me get close to freedom before it pulls me back into the routines of life.
Tonight is different. Tonight is not another iteration of the same frames I keep reliving. Tonight is a night to choose sides. Tonight I break free. Tonight I cease to be afraid. Tonight, looking at her, I can confidently say I am here.
I remember reading an opinion piece that viewed marriage as a way to tame. Marriage is a way to limit the havoc. This view contradicts a cliché I have recited in my mind. That cliché repeated once again: behind every great man is a great woman. She is never behind me. She is sometimes ahead, multiple steps ahead. My love for her does not envy the power she has over me. I am impressed that she has won my love. Love is impressed that no matter how often she may submit, how often she may play the role, she always manages to surpass me. She leaves me standing corrected. It almost makes me shy, being so capable and yet so foolish. The world is a game.
The world is a game that I have managed to survive. I have managed to survive even during the times when I was completely outgunned. Maybe it was heart that got me ahead. Maybe it was stubbornness. Add a bit of luck and simply showing up can make all the difference. No matter how many game pieces come my way, she is never one of them.
I am surrounded by a shroud of deception. These people have no clue how lucky they have been up to this point. They think it is all due to their individual skills. There is no skill in what we do, only the smoothness of our language. Our language allows us to play the same magic trick, trade after trade.
A perversion exists in the trade. The perversion lets them continue to shift. The perversion allows them to adapt and survive. It feels reptilian. Do not question the market too hard—it could be the very reason why I am here. Deities and chaos combine to reveal the market price on my head. Am I here because they let me be? I am a cannibal. Why should they continue to get their hands dirty when I so valiantly defend the market’s reason and cause? They let me only because I have been educated. I know the models. I know the equations. I feel so isolated.
The real world outside the markets is full of life. Real life is full of interaction. It does not bend. It does not fit models. Market models are broken clocks that are right twice a day. Sure, history may repeat—it may even harmonize. I refuse to be a model. The beauty lies in my imperfection. Imperfection is crucial and lovable. The right imperfections are all evolution needed to move forward. Imperfection can lead to our full destruction or it can empower the generations.
Yet I am just another analyst in a cubicle—the perfect citizen. Oh, I wear polo shirts and jeans on Fridays, but no matter the color or shade, I am still one of them. We are the blind market loyalists. The market will let us get away with our minor imperfections, but we still work for it. The market still signs and delivers our paychecks.
We are not alone. I know who the others are inside the building’s walls. The others are very capable individuals who gave up on some noble task for the pursuit of money. Many fallen potential heroes who sacrificed true knowledge for money. I often ask myself who is worse: those who blindly follow or those who willingly let themselves be led astray.
This sad tale continues to repeat only because we collectively allow it. We are too afraid to change. People will always just sit there and talk. People will talk about what is wrong and what needs to change. They usually fail to act; that is, until that one individual decides to stop and walk in the opposite direction.
I admire the unapologetic artist. I crave to be the revolution.
This is the week I finally leave the bank. After thinking it over for the hundredth time, I have finally convinced myself to walk away. I do not know what awaits for us after this week. I feel a sense of confidence, staring at Julieta, watching her sleep next to me on the couch. This is different from the shallow, confident rush of a trade. The confidence of letting go and letting randomness consume me. This is the confidence of knowing without confirmation.
I am finding my way back to a higher truth.
I take the last sip of the night. I really need to change my routine. Staying up late watching the latest music on public television is not going to improve my career. There is still plenty of capital that needs to be allocated. Get back into character and get some rest. Tomorrow will be another big day.
Monday
I am American. I had to keep fighting. It is the only natural way to respond after a big loss. I find it funny how much context matters. The body seems to recognize the difference between coffee with a friend sipped slowly and the quick sips during the commute right before that Monday meeting.
Park the car. Go up the elevator. Find the office. Dial the conference call number.
“Pablo! What the fuck, man? You’ve been up millions over the last two years. How can you barely be breaking even now?” Those words would probably mean more coming in person, behind closed doors. At that moment, on the conference call, all that matters is survival.
“Well, you know how crazy those foreign markets can be.” Keep my voice calm; it’s the only way they will know I am still sane. “How was I supposed to know their own goddamn central bank wouldn’t support their own members?” Exhale, focus, now slowly breathe in.
“Ah, I’m just busting your balls, man.” That is Chase for you. Good, old Chase Sachs. Always willing to be different. Different in the sense that he did not consider himself a complete asshole. He thinks joking around is more civilized. He is an asshole with a personality. “Well, as long as it doesn’t completely blow up in your face, your bonus is still safe. You better hope the boys in government suits push the National Bank to intervene sooner rather than later.”
No matter what the formulas say, it is still a poker game. The opposing player’s hand and personality still matter. Sure, many foreign bonds are oversold, but that does not mean they will not go lower. A 15 percent discount sounds cheap until you realize there is a 25 percent sale the next day. I believed the hype and thought all signs would eventually point to a bailout. Until the bailout didn’t happen.
“Don’t worry, Chase. The National Bank is all talk. They’ll eventually come to their senses. They’ll realize that real change isn’t going to happen until they facilitate it by intervening. Monetary disintegration doesn’t serve anyone. There aren’t enough shorts in the world that would come to his defense. While the mortician may serve an important role, nobody is ever happy to see him.”
“Well, you better keep hoping you and all the other optimist are right, otherwise it’s your ass,” replies Chase.
Of course all the optimists will be right. I have a purpose. There is no way a person could grow up where I did, come from where I came from, reach the heights I have reached, and not be optimistic. Knowledge builds upon knowledge, hard work leads to rewards. I have done everything right; of course I will be okay. That is what I used to believe. These are the thoughts I allow to fill my mind. The words are self-medication to boost my confidence.
Life does not follow the little rules we make up in our little minds. Randomness dictates no purpose, therefore we must seize a purpose for ourselves.
Many things had gone the right way the moment I was accepted to college. It was so easy to believe the pattern would continue. It made sense to think that things in life happen for a reason. I had a predefined purpose; I was so sure of it.
Expressing those feelings now is part of the act. I need to keep up the performance to protect whatever little bonus is left. The best insult would have been to have never gotten involved with the bank. I would have loved to look at them, made a different living, and freely admit not needing them. Unfortunately, I chose the expected path. Walking away during the bank’s time of need is the only insult I have left. No matter how much confidence my words give the other traders, it is too late. We will all have to pay.
End the call. Exit the room. The markets play. The markets are closed.
“I need a refill. Hey, Andrew, you want to come along for another coffee run?” I usually need at least fifteen minutes at my desk after the close before another refill.
“Sure, I’ll walk down with you.” Andrew, my loyal employee. I almost feel guilty. “So what’s going on, man? I hear shit is getting serious.” That’s why we hired him. Andrew always has a keen sense of what is going on around him. He may not understand all of it, but he knows when something is up.
“Ah, you know, the usual. Chase just giving everyone hell for losing money in the markets he wanted us to play in.”
Why is this line always so long? It is not like they do not have enough of these shops all over the damn place. “I should’ve bought the stock three years ago when it was still fairly valued. As much coffee as I drink, I probably would have paid myself by now.” Assuming the collapsing foreign bond market does not take the American market as collateral damage.
“Are you doing okay? I mean, really, I don’t mind grabbing coffee for you. I feel like it’s part of paying my dues.”
“Damn it, Andrew, don’t sell yourself short. Stop pretending you like getting my coffee. Besides, it won’t help increase your bonus.”
“Then this must mean things will be okay, right? I mean, you wouldn’t leave your desk unless…”
“Actually, no, things are not okay. I think this time we’re actually fucked. They know something is wrong, they just don’t know how bad yet. It’s the first microseconds of an explosion, which means it’s too late.” The look on Andrew’s face surprises me. How could he still be so innocent?
Andrew epitomizes “the right fit” when recruiting for new, young employees. Four years of doing everything right. He selected the right university, the right major, the right clubs, the right friends, and even the right girls. Two summer internships, hustling through the long days and making the right contacts, eventually meeting me. Yet from the unfamiliar look on his face, none of that has prepared him for the unexpected. None of it ever made him consider how he would feel and react once his boss stopped caring.
“Come on, man, lighten up. You know why I hired you in the first place?” He still looks a bit perplexed. “Because you reminded me of myself. I needed someone else to play with, to help reshape this place.” That is, until I realized I didn’t want to end up like Chase. “Don’t stay here too long, otherwise you may end up winning a game you realize you probably didn’t want to play in the first place.” His perplexed look turns to slight worry. “Just drink your coffee. We have a long week ahead of us.”
Tuesday
I owe him so much more, but breakfast once a week is all I can do. This goes beyond biting the hand that fed me. I made sure his job got sold right out from under his feet—the very place that helped pay our way—just so I wouldn’t have to be embarrassed anymore.
“I enjoy our talks, mijo. Sometimes you don’t say much, but it’s always good to see you. How are things at the bank? Any chance you’ll make more this year?”
I wonder if this is what Mary Shelley had in mind. If this is the final vision that would result if Goya had one last dark stroke left.
“Things are fine, Dad. In fact, they’re changing for the better.” I think having breakfast with him is all I allow myself to do. If I did more, I’m afraid I would exhaust the repayment. He’d be lucky to see me once every three months at that point.
“That’s good, mijo, that’s really good. As hard as they make you work, you deserve every penny. I’m just glad you can take care of yourself now. Without the parking lot, I can hardly take care of myself, let alone you and your brother.”
“I’ve been taking care of myself for a while now. And why do you care about that parking lot so much? Why haven’t you been able to forget it?”
“How can I? It paid for your school, and it’s probably still paying for my breakfast now.”
He had no idea. “The scholarship paid for school, and it’s Social Security that pays for your half of the breakfast.” I feel frustrated again. “What time is it? I’m running late.”
Time is one of the last things I still have on my side. Between work and him it is starting to feel like that is slipping away too. But I am holding on tight. After all, I have to repay my father somehow.
“Okay. Drive safe. You don’t want to wreck that car of yours.”
“See you next week.” Did I say it or just think it? Doesn’t matter—I’m inside my car with a sense of freedom. Sometimes the right song can be more effective than coffee. Today I will probably need both.
The latest results will start coming in, and it is not going to be pretty. That is a fact. How bad is the real question. As long as I manage to break even, I can still manage to get something of a bonus. I wonder if this is how junkies feel as they hunt for that last hit before rehab.
Damn these traffic lights—I thought they synced them. Maybe if I had followed that bus instead…but then I would probably have gotten stuck behind it. I miss the beginning of the song, rewind. The first few lines of “Dime Jaguar” by Jaguares always strikes me. The tingling sensation runs from my arm to the back of my neck. I am inspired with images of rebirth after reading the articles about the lead singer. He resurged after his previous band broke up, and he battled some medical issues. I need a cleanse.
The idea of leaving the bank has been like a series of traffic lights: stop and go, stop and go. It seems so organized, almost inevitable, that a destination will be reached. Yet for a long time it felt like an endless loop. We are all running in circles.
I get a nice high when the stereo setting is on random and I hear the first few notes of my favorite songs. I could search for the right song, but that would ruin the surprise. Unpredictability is my new high.
Oh shit! How long have I been staring at that green light? Why did the guy behind me not honk? It is a woman; perhaps the nicest woman in the city? Nah, she was just looking down, busy texting.
The giant hole in the ground sits there. I have seen that empty lot every day, coming and going from work. The parking lot is now a hole, the scar of past dreams. I read recently that the buildings next to it are starting to lease again. Perhaps a hopeful sign of the recovery? They are a long way from building a skyscraper in that hole, since the surrounding buildings are only half full. There would be no point to refilling the hole if the owners do not have the demand for the extra parking space. Even less demand for parking once the new subway extension opens.
When I was growing up, that parking lot was a lifesaver. The parking lot was also the greatest source of my shame. Some people think children are always innocent. That may be true. Ironically, that same innocence can lead to stark revelations. I was poor.
I had a roof over my head, and Dad made sure all the bills were paid. We even had a decent television and a basic cell phone. That didn’t matter in the playground. My clothes provided no illusions of luxuries. The other kids made sure everyone knew about it. My innocence was shattered. Every whisper from the playground, every smirk and giggle felt like small cuts from tiny shards of glass.
The brutal realization of my social status hurt the first time, and I did cry. I was embarrassed. As I look back at it now, my hurt feelings probably had more to do with the realization of where I stood in the pyramid—right smack in the lower floor, a worker bee. It was also the last time I let it affect me that way.
Is the art piece masochistic or sadistic? I never quite get why they allowed such horrendous art at the train station. A giant, cartoonish bee greets every person as they leave the boarding area of the station.
Many years ago it was exciting commuting on the train to my first job. That is probably why I was initially indifferent to the giant bee. Riding the train during rush hour had all the drawbacks you would expect. There was limited seating, breakdowns, and other delays. I felt I was doing my part to help the traffic situation. The truth is that the train ride was really all I could afford.
I remember I began to notice the bee more every day. I noticed it more after the novelty of the job wore off. Was the artist wealthy and successful, mocking our lack of progress? Or was the artist simply submitting and ensuring we all recognized our places in the east side of town?
I continue to drive with my stop-and-go thoughts.
I reach the office parking lot. The parking lot attendant is greeting me again. I’m glad that I can manage a soft wave now and not a fake smile. In the past my smile would be hiding my simmering intentions. He would have found another job if he knew how quickly, had I been given the chance, I would have organized another investment group to buy this second lot.
That does not matter now.
I like the view from this side of the building. I wonder if the architect was standing on this very spot? It amazes me that there is such a great view from this parking lot. Looking east over the freeway, I can see either the sixth or eighth floor at eye level from where I am standing.
The sun sneaks through the spaces between the multiple skyscrapers as though it were a scarce resource. The buildings absorb more than their fair share. I then look back at the freeway. The great divide—my own personal Rubicon. Staring down at the foundation and walls, I slowly raise my head to get a full view of the building, feeling it tower over me. I slow down my breathing.
This week will feature the final struggle, yet I will no longer be fighting. I am willingly becoming another bystander. I will be waiting for the final market signal before announcing my exit.
Andrew would always ask why I didn’t park in the building anymore, ushering in Tuesday mornings. To save money is an honest answer, but the walk from the lot across the freeway always helps. The coffee, the music, the momentum—I need it all to get through the day. Saving money would imply personal budget problems to the other bankers, or it would give them the first clue of my eventual exit.
I am doing okay financially. I was a big spender but had, almost subconsciously, started cutting back over the last couple years. As if my own mind had known the party would eventually end. A person can make money last with a little bit of care. Ten to fifteen percent a year may not sound like much at first, but over the course of a few years, the savings begin to add up. The annual pay increases and bonuses definitely help.
Maybe I am saving more because the responsibility of marriage is weighing heaviest on my subconscious. I can fool myself into thinking I am responsible for all my decisions. My thoughts move deeper into the subject, reminding me of the subtle influences I do not want to think about.
I hate my desk. We are management’s personal little zoo.
Headlines and numbers, headlines and numbers—that has been my life for too many years now. It is like small ants of digital information that crawl all over me. The rush of information has helped make time melt away. The rush of caffeine, the constant stimuli from the computer screen, it all makes time blur. I live for it. I love it.
I remember the feelings so well. Those feelings created a constant memory that I had not only survived poverty, I had actually made it. Those feelings are gone now. The weight of financial glory has made a hole so large it is almost impossible to fill it.
I was distraught. I needed to find a new fix. The threats of shame and embarrassment I would invite from drug use or prostitutes were enough to keep me clean. The thought of the headline “Young Financial Star from the Ghetto Found Unconscious with Streetwalker” made my stomach turn. The emptiness was mine to keep. I would never trade it away.
Then she came along.
I remember our first date as being one of the best dates I had had in a long time. Internet dating had just started taking off. We met in person after a few weeks of emailing each other. There were no signs of emotional baggage, no sense of desperation or disappointment. We were just two people getting to know each other and having fun. My time with her just flowed effortlessly.
Thankfully, I had developed enough of a personality in poverty. My personality still had quirks. I feared that money was going to magnify all the wrong ones and cloud everything. Luckily, spending time with her made me forget about money. The other, more colorful parts of my personality began to come out of hibernation.
The relationship started with the typical weekend plans and the rush back to work on Monday morning. Normally, the workweek also included bragging sessions with the other bankers and traders. We would share sordid details of our conquests and earn high fives from the team. This time it was different.
Maybe I had already given them enough stories, or perhaps it was respect for the woman I found. Maybe it was just my desire to cultivate silent envy. In either case I was proud when I defiantly declared, “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”
“You’re fucked!” they replied, followed by boisterous laughter. It was probably the only time I had believed the sincerity of their comments. The bankers and traders were merciless in their teasing. They made me realize I was falling in love. It did not matter if they were honest or not. I used those extra feelings to protect her. I would be greedy with my new possession.
The weekends began to move too fast; the weekends were not enough. Yet the moments when we just laid there, staring at each other during those blue mornings…those moments almost made time freeze. The world didn’t matter anymore, just her warm body and soft lips. The sensation she sent up my back to the base of my skull was a silent vibration that only revealed itself at the end of my breath.
The importance of work slowly began to fade away. The conflict between the time we spent together and the job began to grow and become unbearable. Work made our weekends possible, but it was a continual interruption. I was a fool to think that the quality of our time together alone would make me happy. I wanted more time in the safety of her gaze, but the security of my profession was a needy and selfish spouse.
I was always under the impression that the average person knew how to balance both work and homelife. However, I thought I was too important to the world. I was not average. I didn’t have the luxury of balance. My only focus should have been work.
Lunch
Scraps. That is how the pigeons survive. They are too busy picking up the crumbs around them. Survival mode has overloaded their senses. They cannot be bothered to pause, to look up, to question. The birds’ immediate senses tell them they will lose out if they pause. Even when they fly up and scatter, they still look down to the ground. The crumbs captivate the pigeons.
Would the pigeons pause and wonder where the crumbs came from if they were more aware? What if this fight and sense of desperation is not their fault? Perhaps it is too complicated to discern the source of their subsistence. Maybe they are confused. They put in the effort to scout and fly with the flock; they put in the effort to pick up the scraps as quickly as they can. I have seen the smaller pigeons struggle to lift big crumbs and scamper away, flapping their wings in futility. The larger pigeons fight for the bigger crumbs. This act alone usually breaks up their prize into smaller crumbs. While others are busy picking away, the larger birds bully the one with the big piece. One eventually walks away. Then the whole cycle starts again, day in and day out.
Am I witnessing the invisible hand play out for the birds? Or is it a fist? Regardless, I have never seen a pigeon starve. Through ability, luck, or fight, they find a way to eat. Then again, what if I have simply never bothered to search for the dead ones? Who stops long enough to mourn the passing of another bird?
A few years ago I would have tried to apply reason to these daily occurrences. While it may not have been the most efficient way to feed all the birds, fighting for the crumbs somehow ensures that everyone gets fed. Since every pigeon that puts in the work manages to grab a piece, any piece, the natural process should not be altered. This is nature demonstrating trickle-down economics. The activity of all these pigeons is a clever way to keep the unseen starving pigeons within the shadows. Use any type of reason to support your narrow vision of limited truths.
Patterns always emerge from my interactions with the outside world, like the daily charts that fill my days. That is the constant conflict I face. I study various activities and occurrences, as if looking to place a bet. It is so easy to find purpose and reason within the madness. Is it a trick? If you spill salt on the floor, will you find purpose written within the crystal lines? There is always one person who helps me settle the madness—the one I love. Julieta accepts me without an inflated sense of purpose. She takes full advantage of that rare, random opportunity to meet someone and build a beautiful life together.
Desk
I am amazed I have actually arrived. I have made myself a successful banker. Usually I would feel some shame after noticing my sarcastic smirk, but not now. The numbers are coming in for the year. After all these years of hard work, building a reputation, I have officially made the bank zero profit. Actually, it is not as bad as I thought. For a moment I thought I lost the bank money—or been the only one. Making zero profit would be extremely embarrassing if everyone else had made money. No matter which banker I pick out of the lineup on any of the various floors, they all lost money.
After all these years of work, I have arrived at a point where I do not care. The bankers will turn against me because I am unable to pretend my role has any meaning. They will disown me because I will finally stop pretending to care. Am I the snitch inside the mob?
Luckily, they are too distracted to care at this point of the business cycle. Ever wonder how the zoo would look if all the animals escaped at once? That is the scene I left behind at work.
My phone is having an anxiety attack as it continues to buzz with all the meeting requests being sent out from the office. As I make my way back uphill toward my car, I can feel the weight of Wednesday meetings trying to pull me back down. The depth of their panic is trying to drag me back into the chaos. I refuse to give in. I refuse to listen.
They all knew this day was coming. We had known for weeks that the market had turned against us. Now they could no longer deny it.
Tuesday Night
“Pablo Colmena! Did you forget to take out the trash last night?” I can feel my blank stare as I look at her. My eyes open wide, raising my brow, revealing my guilt. I recognize the small sense of worry mixed with alertness in my stomach.
“You know how bad this place starts to smell with the fish packaging still in the trash.”
My sheepish grin and raised shoulders elicit her hawkish stare as she zeroes in on her target. I raise my arms, elbows tucked in, palms out, trying to form some kind of display of defense. It is too late—she has moved in for the kill. Her warm hands clasp my face. Then her soft lips meet mine. All my defenses collapse. Another whiff of her perfume and I am totally enthralled by her onslaught.
At the right moment, just as I have completely submitted, she bites my lower lip. Not enough to hurt me, but with the right amount of force to get my attention. She wraps her arms around me before I can pull away. She playfully threatens me with her nails hovering above my skin, ready to dig in should I show any additional signs of resistance.
“The next time you forget, I will not be this nice. Now be a good husband and throw out the trash.”
I smile and nod. Just before walking out the door, I try pressing my luck. “So you waited with that smell for a whole hour and a half until I came home, just so you could teach me a lesson?”
“It worked, didn’t it?” she replies.
“I guess we’ll find out over the next few weeks how well it worked, you know, if the trash begins to pile up again,” I say, trying to rile her up.
“No. You’ll just agree to never, ever forget if you know what’s good for you. You hear me? Never forget again,” she says with a half-serious face as she tries to hide her smile.
I flee out the door as quickly as I can, laughing. She always knows how to brighten my evenings. I walk through and sling the bag over into the bin. Bang!
Damn! There I go again, startling myself. I have the habit of just throwing the trash bag into the bin. I forget that Tuesdays are trash day.
“Is that you, Mr. Colmena?” I glance up and notice Mr. B. M. looking over his balcony. The gleam from his glasses as he turns his head always conveys a strong sense of self.
“Hey, B. M.,” I reply. “Reading another book?”
“Yes. You know the routine by now—math and coffee in the morning, music in the afternoon, and reading in the evening.”
My lip movement matches his. I know his reply by heart, but I always enjoy hearing him repeat it. If only the rest of the world were as fortunate as I am to have a neighbor like him. I smile. “The world does not deserve you. I don’t think they’ll ever fully appreciate what you continue to give them.”
“Don’t worry. I learned long ago to stop seeking the world’s approval. It doesn’t matter to me. I’ve defined my purpose on this planet as a simple parental guide of sorts. I only offer advice when asked and with no expectations that people will follow it. Staying out of the world’s way helps me enjoy the rest it has to offer.”
I admire Mr. B. M. It is a rare gift to be in the presence of a true intellectual—even more remarkable to find that capacity mixed with the humility of a peasant farmer. When Julieta and I first moved into these apartments, I noticed that Mr. B. M. swept the apartments every morning. I finally found the courage to ask him why after a few months. “It helps me think” was his reply.
What could an old retired man possibly have to think about, other than enjoying his last remaining years? As we began to talk more often, we became friends. I learned that Mr. B. M.—I like to call him by his initials—liked working on complex math problems in the morning. He never did it without a cup of coffee. Sweeping and music helps him clear his mind after his morning exercise.
“What news do you have from the bank?” he asks with a hint of feigned curiosity. Mr. B. M. is one of the original quants—the genius mathematicians behind the formulas that initially breathed new life into the markets. He made good money really fast, but he also grew quite bored. He says he was lucky enough to have left before everyone else realized the formulas affected financial markets like steroids on teenage athletes. He is too humble to admit that he foresaw the madness; he simply says he lost interest and went to pursue other more interesting problems.
“Things are getting really crazy. I think we’re in for another ride. It looks ugly, but probably nothing we—I mean you—haven’t seen before. To be truthful, it’s the same story, only I’m afraid it’s more severe this time,” I reply with a strange sense of regret.
“The patterns seem to be changing. The peaks and valleys seem to be getting more extreme. Many people won’t be the same after this iteration. However, nothing surprising if you understand the mathematics. Even easier to understand when you consider human history. The planet has been around longer than one hundred years. Much longer than the last ten thousand years. But I trust you’ll be okay. Any idea when you’ll break the cycle?”
Mr. B. M. is so intuitive. He can read me and has probably already determined that I am getting ready to leave the bank. “Soon, very soon.” We give each other a nod and a smile, and we both make our ways back into the world.
As I walk back into the apartment, I expect to find Julieta in the living room but realize she is not there. I proceed into the restroom and begin washing my hands.
“Julieta? Julieta, honey? Dónde estás? Don’t play games with me, Dr. Julieta Sol.” I can hear her laughing in the bedroom.
“You know where to find me—no eres tonto, o si?” Her warm voice welcomes me.
“You’re correct, I’m no fool. Why do you think I married you?” I reply as I walk into the bedroom and almost simultaneously sense my jaw drop.
“Oh, just shut up and dim the lights.”
Dr. Sol, my guide through the darkness.
Wednesday
“Does anyone have any questions?” Chase blurts out.
I would normally have one prepared, but I’m no longer part of the act. There is no need for further questions.
“Listen, I know times are tough. But this too shall pass. All everyone in this room needs to do is keep their head in the game. No matter what’s going on out there in the world, there are still clients out there who need to be sold.”
You are allowed to sell, at least until you get fired. I really want to blurt that out. In the past I would have been concerned that the reaction on my face would reveal how much of his bullshit I could see through. I did not want to provide any reason to make them doubt I was part of team. It is different this time. I want Chase to recognize I know he is scared. That underneath his rah-rah speech he is shitting his pants.
“Pablo—is there anything you would like to add?”
Is he trying to deflect my stare, or is he struggling? I have never been less inclined than I am today to help him, or the bank, out.
“No,” I reply casually. My reputation is a weapon. I am known as Mr. Cool, Calm, and Collected. It is now part of my trick, my veil. I am no longer concealing the stress. It is no longer an internal panic smothered by mental toughness. I do not care any longer. It is one step closer to freedom.
“We’re all professionals. I think we all have a clear understanding of what’s at risk. We’ve been through this before. We know the plan. The important thing is to make sure we execute.”
Execute. What an ironic use of the word.
“Yes! Thank you, Pablo. I just want to piggyback on and echo those exact sentiments. This isn’t anything new, folks. There’s nothing new under the sun. Now let’s go out there and seize the moment. Carpet dime!” Chase Sachs, what a rube. He just proves that some bankers do not know much more than banking. They are too focused on their vacation homes, their lake houses, and their country clubs. The clients’ interests only matter if it helps support their lifestyles.
All the young bankers have a look of panic in their eyes. They are like starving children, sucking on the teat of a malnourished mother, trying to cling to their manager’s every last word. All the young bankers have that air of despair, except Andrew. I turn my head to look at him across the table and match his stare. He is not mad. There is no sense of betrayal from within him. He has worked hard for the job. He understands that nobody owes him anything. I do not know when he realized the markets had turned. Did his realization occur yesterday or during this meeting? He has realized his time is up. By the time I turn to look him in the eye, he has already come to terms with the inevitable. He is losing his job, and he is prepared. Or so I think.
“Let’s make it happen,” I say to him.
“Let’s…” That is Andrew’s reply, along with a single confident nod. That is why I hired him. I never have to worry about him.
Thursday
Nothing gets bankers into a bigger frenzy than bonus day. I remember Julieta describing how her graduate students sometimes came across as naive and in desperate need of validation from their professors. The bankers would have made fun of the graduate students if they had known of Julieta’s experiences with these untested future professionals. They would have done this without recognizing that they behaved the same way in front of a bonus check.
I remember being almost afraid to look at the saddened soul in the cube whose bonus check came up short. I was afraid of contagion. In this case the bankers who felt stiffed were worse, much worse, than idealistic graduate students. I have heard from academics that professors can be just as brutal in their rivalry. Graduate students may behave better, but bankers and professors can have comparably petty rivalries. At least bankers have some money to make up for these status symbols.
Money is money. It is perhaps the most money any of the bankers have seen in a single pay stub, but that does not matter if it is less than their number. The pain is sharpest if they realize it is less than their favorite rival in the bank.
The disappointed bankers are never smart enough to play it off, to remember their poker faces. Bruising a banker’s ego with the edge of a bonus check is a manager’s way of dishing out punishment. The hierarchy is maintained and supported by pieces of paper with zeros printed next to a signature.
Thursday Night or Friday Morning
I dream about Earth slowly being pulled into a black hole. Earth is being stripped away like a ringed, whole orange peel. It is a perfect, smooth spiral until the peel runs out. Everything feels so sudden at the crest of the chaotic curve. Looking back I can see the straight line that precedes the eventual curve. I could have been more prepared had I bothered to think about the eventual change of events at a deeper level. I am no different from everyone else facing the collapse because I have been charmed by its recent history. It all looks linear when you zoom into the curve. You have to remember to pull back.
The orange peel reminds me of my father. He would cut fruit for me when I was younger. His artistic grip and knife swivel, pleasing the curiosity and sense of security in my young mind. I never learned his clean technique. I opted instead for the raw, ugly power of my fingers digging into the orange’s flesh, tearing it piece by piece. I mistakenly thought I was paying homage to a purer state of raw survival. The competitive feeling of overcoming nature’s shell. My father had found a more elegant, noble way. Almost as if he were celebrating our evolutionary tool-making past and honoring the beauty of the orange. He spent all that time perfecting this simple and elegant technique so we could enjoy the fruit. He would only have a taste. Perhaps my father found more satisfaction in watching us enjoy that which he was able to provide.
Friday
I get up from my desk and start heading over to the elevators right before Andrew stops me.
“Where you going, boss?” Asking as if he already knows the answer.
“I am off to see our boss, Old Joe,” I say openly and with a sense of clarity.
“Oh shit! Really? Are you in trouble?” replies Andrew as he overcomes his fleeting second of shock.
“Aren’t we all?” I state rhetorically.
The look of discomfort on his face reminds me of how much experience he still needs to build. I calmly make my way to the elevator, watching my fingernail light up with a temporary hint of blue as I press the elevator button.
The look on Andrew’s face makes me think that perhaps he did not know our time is up. Perhaps he thought this was his opportunity to shine. Maybe we read each other wrong. Had he recognized the lack of optimism in my voice?
I had not been fully honest with Andrew. While I am making my way to see Old Joe, I am going to stop by and see Chase first. Waiting by the elevators just before any big presentation, I would be rehearsing my lines. I would be focusing on my main points. I would be making sure my story line was in order. Checking that my reasoning made sense. There is no need to rehearse this time. This moment has been building for the last ten years. My grandparents may even argue that it started building well before that.
“Hey there! How’s it going, Pablo, old buddy boy?” says Chase in his conventional sales-pitch voice.
“I’m done. Today is my final day with the bank,” I say almost stoically.
He pauses with the confused look of someone who has just come upon a familiar stranger. Then his sales training begins to take over his panic. Feigning confidence is the first counterattack to an increasing heart rate when one feels a sale is at risk. The really good salespeople simply learn to be confident from the beginning. Chase can never afford to be confident; he is overleveraged because of some crazed pursuit for wealth and status. I never thought it possible to be a millionaire and still live paycheck to paycheck, yet Chase is clear proof that this is possible.
“Who are they, and what are they offering you?” Chase states in a manner that reflects the need to gain as much inside information as he can before a sale walks away. Always try to learn what the competition is offering, especially if you are losing the sale.
He has no idea that I have moved beyond these tactics. I am not cashing in on my next career move before the collapse. I am not moving to a safer bank. I am done with this part of my life.
“I’m done, Chase. I’m out. In fact, I’m going up to speak with Old Joe right now.” I can see the change in his face. His own twisted sense of emotional preservation is beginning to take over. The mental signals begin shifting his impulse from the perceived power of ownership to the sudden disinterest in sour grapes.
I can read him clearly. His ego selects the reasoning that best fits his needs. The thought of losing a solid producer, someone who could be relied upon to hit the numbers and fatten the bonuses, quickly gives way to the solace of one less rival. I will be one less person to compete against if there are going to be layoffs.
“Well, I guess you must be serious, then. Who am I to get in the way of a man and his chosen path?” Chase states smugly.
“Indeed, who are you?” is my final thought about Chase. The question is no longer necessary to pursue. I walk out.
My sense of empowerment grows with every level the elevator ascends.
Old Joe is an old-school banker with a very strong sense of rewarding merit. He grew up on a soybean farm in Texas. He played some college baseball before landing his first job in banking. I wonder if that work ethic is what his sales team fed on to create loyalty. He plays office politics and has a very long memory. He can be a very demanding manager. People find it hard to stomach when a promotion doesn’t go their way because of office politics. Old Joe knows who deserves it, but he is careful about pushing. That’s where the other banking veterans on Old Joe’s team are crucial in helping people keep their cool. They help you think about the long game. When the wrong people on other teams get promoted, they eventually blow up. That’s when Old Joe steps in and makes sure the next person to get the promotion deserves it. I think he enjoys having those “I told you so” moments. It also helps that he keeps the bonuses nice and fat along the way—Old Joe’s way of saying thank you and reminding people he has not forgotten.
My conversation with Old Joe is brief. He does not ask many questions. He demonstrates no deep sense of wonder. He knows why I am leaving. It seems to make him feel proud—proud that he has had a hand in my path. He has no control, and all he can do is stand back and witness the events as they unfold. He had only been able to get this far during his lifetime, defying some expectations. He finds peace and satisfaction in witnessing my escape.
Old Joe had once considered a different job, a different life, but he was too practical. He was too comfortable. He was a man with great insight but who somehow forgot to question. He forgot to aspire beyond the expected. He forgot how to rebel. I have discovered for both of us that sometimes just walking away is enough of a battle cry.
Saturday
I wake up with a strange sense of comfort. Both of my eyes gaze at the ceiling. I feel as though I have been introduced to a new friend—the unknown. There are no plans today. The usual drain from the electronic screens is missing. Julieta is lying next to me as usual, but it feels oddly new. The moment feels significant enough that I pull my journal out of the nightstand and begin writing about it. There are still plenty of pages left in this journal, but I have the urge to start a new journal. Maybe this will be my last entry in this journal.
The smell of fresh coffee brewing in the nearby kitchen makes me smile. I always prepare the coffeemaker the night before so it is ready as I rush out the door to work every morning. I get up to stare at it. The crackle of the water boiling, the rising steam, and the dark drip collecting in the glass carafe makes me think about what else I may have missed.
I step out into my car after breakfast. This is the first step in a new direction. I am not certain about what the intermittent steps will bring, but I know what the ending should reveal. I could never decipher if my father knew that it was me pushing the deal that would sell his parking lot. That I pulled out his sense of purpose, his job, to end my own shame. I step out and greet my father.
Trying to end my shame backfires. I could not find the courage to approach my father earlier. I thought I was the alpha. Not only did I fail to care for my own, but I could not even look him in the eye as I stuck the knife into his livelihood. I pushed to sell the parking lot, ensuring his old job went away with it. The strange fact is that after some time, a part of me began to feel he already knew. Maybe he did not mind me putting him out of his misery. Maybe he was proud that his own son benefited from this regime change. There I go again, letting my ego get in the way of my reasoning.
This is just a continuum of his sacrifice. I realize that when I lock eyes with him, he is not seeking my approval. He does not need me to forgive him for the contrast he presents to my current lifestyle. He wants me to understand that he is okay with the sacrifice I made for him. He does not want me to apologize. Life called his number, and when his time came, his own flesh and blood had come out ahead. He played the game long enough for one of his own to win. He knew that he would never see himself victorious. Victory could come through his children.
Now I am off to find new ground. To run to others and tell them the hero my father is and how he almost lost. The success he wanted so badly for himself was transplanted into his son. The appeal of success is so strong it almost pushed me away from him. The seemingly linear progression to achieve wealth almost made me forget about others. Breaking through the battle line with wine and love made me realize that the top cannot stand without the weight that those below them carry. The people are below only in the sense of status or wealth, never in heroism or fortitude. Imagine how thick a person’s spine has to be to move the rest forward. Now we are moving to support a different structure. I want a renewed life for our future family. My tears on his shoulder are the first waves toward a new path.