Breathe In, Cash Out Page 12

  Yep. An MD making conversation.

  Skylar: How are you?

  Me: I’m okay! Thank you so much for asking.

  Skylar: OMG I know you better than that!

  Skylar: How are you really?

  Fair. I am still revising the final presentation for Adam and feel extremely shitty after a daylong series of mistakes. Adam won’t be happy with my revisions. Most of them are sloppy—e.g., three-line-long chart titles—because my mind is slippery and my vision randomly blurry. So, this is the best I can do. Plus, Adam’s one of the good associates, so I know he’ll actually check my work and fix shit.

  As anticipated, it’s the caffeine withdrawal that’s been fucking me. Other bankers have proven you don’t need food to do this job. Last year, Anderson’s Technology, Media, and Telecom (TMT) group had a weight-loss contest. What began as a funny what-if-we pod daydream escalated to become the “TMT Hunger Games.” The banker in last place, who lost the least amount of weight, had to pay $1K for a group party or walk around the office all day with his shirt off. It got out of hand. The final week before weigh-in, TMT guys were in Anderson’s gym working out in trash bags to lose water weight. They were sucking on Jolly Ranchers all day long and spitting out their saliva into a cup, apparently another strategy to lose excess water. The previously normal-weight winner lost sixteen pounds in the last two days and forty pounds in a month. The guy who came in last did not pay up or take his shirt off. Point being: they worked without food.

  If I’ve had a fast-induced epiphany so far, it’s that I don’t like screwing people over. I’m not a complete asshole. But that’s what I’ve done all day. It’s been more than mildly unpleasant.

  Me: Fair. I am shit.

  Me: Feel like*

  Me: Both

  Skylar: Come sleep over tonight!

  Skylar: It makes me sad to think of you alone in this state. And I’ve got plenty of space.

  Oh my God, can I? I would love to see her. I glance at the clock. Leaving at 11 p.m. on a weeknight is almost asking-for-it early. Almost. Luckily, Tripp is already gone, sleeping off Tao. I am tired.

  Me: Where do you live?

  Me: I could probably leave soon.

  Me: Thank you so, so much.

  Her East Village address flashes on my screen like a lighthouse beacon. I decide that I’m done revising the presentation and send it to Adam. Please don’t hate me! Before heading out, I activate call-forwarding from my landline to my cell phone so my colleagues can reach me. My survival reflex kicks in—Don’t leave! Stay here!—but I have too much momentum headed out the door to fight it now.

  I walk to the elevators, to the lobby, outside. I pass the long line of black town cars waiting, engines running, at the entrance and wave to the head attendant. Bankers working past 10 p.m. are entitled to a free ride home, wherever home may be. I cross the street, where a familiar homeless man sleeps beside the pretzel stand. His shopping cart of trash-bagged possessions is parked next to the glowing pretzel hub. This hobo is known for refusing donations. Tripp’s offered him leftover food a couple of times, and apparently the homeless man asks what’s inside before accepting a doggy bag. He doesn’t like pizza.

  “Pretzel?” the cart man asks.

  Yes. I’ve never bought anything from him before, given his notoriously bad attitude and all the free food at Anderson. But tonight, I just want to hold one. I take the warm dough and touch it to my nose to savor the sweet smell of bread.

  “One dollar,” he says, his palm faceup and waiting. I extend my debit card.

  “Lady,” he says. “Cash only.”

  “Oh.” I only have credit and subway cards in the wallet slit stuck to the back of my phone.

  “Lady, you owe me a dollar,” he says.

  “I don’t have any cash,” I say.

  “No cash, Anderson Shaw?” he asks.

  “No, I’m so sorry,” I say. Who even carries cash? People are paying for driverless cars with their watches. “Can I pay you back next time?”

  “You better, Anderson Shaw,” he says.

  He points at me with the most threatening finger I have ever seen. I get it. You hate Anderson. This is why the HG heads told our group not to wear our AS ID cards in public. People hate us, so hide your affiliation to avoid negative attention. The anecdote they gave was: One guy wore his AS ID on the subway, didn’t donate to a beggar in the car, and it became a thing. People singled him out and ridiculed him: “This Anderson guy doesn’t give a shit about poor people,” and “Anderson hates the homeless.”

  But the pretzel guy’s cart faces our headquarters. His customers are likely all AS. If he hates Anderson, why is he here and what is his endgame? I wonder if he too is bound by a contract to stay, and if he is reluctantly sticking it out until it expires and releases him. In any case, he definitely thinks I’m trying to rip him off. In an intentional display of non-asshole-ness, I rest the pretzel in the picky homeless man’s collection box.

  “Lady, I am not a charity!” the pretzel guy says. “Fuckin’ A.”

  He shifts his weight from his left foot to his right. He removes his backward cap and puts it on again, still backward. The homeless man stirs awake, bites the pretzel, and spits his mouthful out onto the sidewalk. Worse than pizza.

  “Look, I will be back,” I say.

  “Fuckin’ Robin Hood,” he says. “I know where you work. Fuckin’ A.”

  * * *

  “Welcome!” Skylar sings as she opens her door.

  She wears gray sweatpants low on her hips and a white tee cropped at her ribs. Her doorway frames her sinking expression. She covers her mouth with one hand and hugs herself across her abs—cut like a two-by-four table of cells in Excel—with the other.

  “Oh dear,” she says.

  “Hi,” I croak.

  “You look awful.”

  “I’m actually really happy to be here.”

  She laughs, and we hug.

  Skylar gestures Follow me and pays me close attention. We walk through the wide hallway hung with framed pictures from her Instagram on both sides. Each is the size of a standard movie poster, the kind on display in front of a theater. I feel like I’m on a Hollywood set. I stop to admire one where she holds goddess pose—knees bent at right angles, her legs spread apart—in beige spandex alone in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. The earth below her is carpeted with pink cherry blossoms. Cherry tree branches bloom overhead with more pink flowers. The scene is rich with early morning light.

  “This is incredible,” I say.

  “I love that one,” Skylar says.

  I notice how far ahead of me she stands.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say.

  “Take your time,” she says. “You look fragile.”

  I hurry past her kitchen, which is large and pristine. The transparent cabinets are filled with stick-straight stacks of plates and bowls. Even her ceramics are centered. Skylar waits for me beside a white marble dining table for four. Her manicured hand rests on the surface next to a Canon camera and laptop open to iPhoto, where the gallery shows a series of new shots with Rosie. The dining area opens to another large room. It occurs to me that this may be a pinnacle of material wealth for a yogi.

  When I reach Skylar, I see at last her famous living room. Oh my God! It’s as magnificent as I always imagined and feels even warmer than I expected. Seventy-six degrees, maybe? I can’t believe I’m here, inside the videos I’ve watched for years. I recognize the light-yellow walls, the beige sofa with thick blankets over the arms, and the full bookcases. There is the wicker basket of rolled yoga mats tucked away in the corner. Her tripod faces an accent wall, where she must have held wheel pose for her most recent photo.

  “Wow,” I say. “This is so cool.”

  “You’re the sweetest,” she says.

  I inhale deeply and smell cinnamon. Fuck. I suddenly notice the handful of white scented candles around the apartment. I am basically surrounded by lattes. The sooner I get to sleep, the less I will be te
mpted, or tortured. My head starts to hurt again.

  Keys rattle in Skylar’s front door, and I recognize the smell before I recognize the person. Pizza. The door opens to reveal Skylar’s sister, Rosie, carrying a steaming hot cardboard box. I sit in one of the four dining chairs.

  “Rosie!” Skylar says. “Come meet my student.”

  Rosie waves meekly, flopping her fingers twice over her palm like a collapsing dorsal fin. She locks the door slowly with her non-pizza hand before meandering toward us with her eyes downcast. She looks exhausted. The brightest thing about her at the moment is her Skylar-blond hair. She sets her pizza down on the table and takes the seat across from me. She spins the laptop around to face her and starts toggling keys.

  “Hi,” I say. “I’m Allegra.”

  Rosie clearly has no interest in me or anything else except her laptop. I don’t know if she’s shy with new people, or if my zero-calorie goggles are distorting this scene, or what. She must be in a mood. Had a bad day, Rosie? Because then we can fucking talk.

  “Rosie,” Skylar prompts.

  Rosie looks up.

  “Oh, do you want pizza?” she asks.

  Her voice is childish. She opens the box and offers Skylar and me some.

  “No, thank you,” I say.

  “It’s vegan,” Rosie clarifies.

  “No,” I say. “Thank you.”

  Skylar shakes her head to refuse. Rosie sets the box down.

  “Rosie,” Skylar prompts. “Introduce yourself.”

  “Oh, I’m Rosie,” she says.

  She extends her hand, and I shake it.

  “Right,” I say. “I recognize you from Skylar’s Instagram.”

  Rosie smiles for a moment before she resumes typing.

  “I’m almost done, Skye,” she says.

  “What are you working on?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Rosie,” Skylar says. The girl perks up.

  “Oh, I thought she meant you,” Rosie says. “I’m just going through the photos Skylar and I took today. I’m picking the best shots to edit.”

  “Rosie and I took some amazing photos together,” Skylar explains. She squeezes her sister’s shoulder affectionately, as if she is trying to pump this girl up. You’re gonna need to squeeze harder, Skylar. “Rosie, you look so good in that one.” Skylar points at the screen and then shifts her gaze to me. “Anyway, I asked you over to check on you. How are you?”

  “Fading,” I say.

  Rosie looks up suddenly, as if she is concerned.

  “Any realizations?” Skylar asks. “How did it go?”

  The smell of cinnamon mixes with the wafting hot pizza steam to suggest a cheesy churro turning golden brown in a nearby oven. I don’t even know if cheesy churros are a thing but I want one so bad. I imagine its buttery crust flaking.

  “Is it okay if we debrief tomorrow?” I ask. I shut my eyes to focus on my sentences. “I had a rough time at work and actually can’t remember the last time I felt this bad. Or out of control. I just sent in the worst presentation of my analyst career, and I don’t have the brain power left to tax rate. I mean, think straight.” I open my eyes. “See?”

  Rosie looks even more fearful.

  “Tomorrow, of course,” Skylar says. “You need rest.”

  Skylar stands and waves, This way.

  “Night, Rosie,” I say, standing.

  She flops her fingers again to wave goodbye. I follow Skylar through the living room and into a cozy bedroom with a canopy twin bed, where a blue pajama set waits folded on the quilt. It is the cutest thing I have seen all day and orders of magnitude nicer than my place would have been. Fix the fucking sewage problem, Allegra. Skylar enters with me and shuts the door.

  “Thank you so much,” I say.

  I sit on the bed and sink slightly.

  “My pleasure!” Skylar smiles. “Anything else?”

  I pause.

  “Well,” I whisper. “Is Rosie okay?”

  Skylar glances at the door, which is closed.

  “She’s great!” Skylar whispers. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh,” I say.

  We wait in silence. Skylar eventually takes a seat next to me.

  “I mean, it’s family stuff, really. But I guess I could tell you a little bit.”

  “Sure,” I say. “I don’t want to pry. Whatever you think is best.”

  I’m so ecstatic that Skylar is pulling me closer, into her inner circle, that I almost forget about my tortured physical state.

  “She’s just having a little bit of a tough time right now,” Skylar says softly. “The attention I get can be hard on her. A lot of her friends at school follow me, talk about me. So I try to involve Rosie in what I’m doing, practice with her, and give her space in my posts. She has so much fun when we’re shooting. I tag her in the pictures. And she gets excited when she’s featured, but she doesn’t have many followers.”

  She throws her palms up.

  “Oh, I see,” I say.

  “I don’t know what else I could do to help her,” Skylar says. “It just weighs on her.” She looks stumped. “Maybe you have some ideas?”

  “Wow,” I say. “That’s tough.”

  “I know,” Skylar agrees.

  “I honestly don’t have any answers,” I say. “It sounds like you’re trying the best you can. But you can’t force other people to be happy.”

  “Mm.”

  “I think you just have to be yourself,” I say. “It took you a while to find your niche, and it took me a while, too. I mean, I’m definitely not there yet. Look at me. I think Rosie will find her place. It will just take time.”

  Skylar tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear.

  “You are wise!” she says, standing. “Okay. Time for bed.”

  She waves good night before turning out the light and shutting the door.

  Alone, I blink hard. My room is still almost as bright as it just was. The neon sign of a bar across the street—SHOWSTOPPER—glows through my window like a second sun. There are no blinds. I stare at the sign from my bed and resign myself to the reality that my room comes with unstoppable artificial daylight.

  chapter 13

  My phone alarm jolts me awake like a taser. I gasp. My throat is a desert. I slap my phone on the bedside table until it’s silent.

  Good morning, Showstopper.

  Not only is my mouth dry, but my head pounds. I’m nauseous. I dress in yesterday’s clothes and check my phone. Buried deep in a stack of blasts is Adam’s 2 a.m. email to the MD, revised PDF attached. He shortened all of my three-line chart titles and reformatted my graphs. Fuck, he’s nice. A separate email asks that I register a new project code for a potential deal. Each code is a randomly generated series of characters used to name the electronic folder of deal materials. We used to be able to name deal folders ourselves, but apparently, we abused this privilege with inappropriate humor. Now, creativity on codes is forbidden.

  I put my hand over my empty stomach. How many more hours? Twelve?

  Skylar sits at the marble table, her phone in hand. She wears a skintight black tank and leggings that lace crisscross up the sides. She looks rested as fuck. When she sees me, she lowers her mug and phone to the table. Her blue eyes widen.

  “Did you sleep at all?” she asks.

  “I must have,” I say.

  The cinnamon candles are already lit. Fuck.

  “Okay, I gotta run,” I manage.

  “Have an amazing day,” Skylar says.

  She walks me to her apartment’s threshold and hugs me goodbye.

  “You, too,” I croak. “See you tonight.”

  * * *

  I open the glass door to HG at 9:02 a.m. The floor looks exactly the same, except no one is here. I freeze and listen intently but hear nothing, not even the gurgle of my own digestion. No one is fucking here?

  I didn’t want to draw attention to myself on the floor today—in a Showstopper daze, the same outfit as yesterday
, with a nausea that makes the idea of talking to anyone unpleasant—but this is too much. This is a prime example of getting what you wish for and having it turn out to be seriously fucking different from what you wanted. I look for signs of life until Trixie stops me in the hallway.

  “Your hair is getting pretty long, isn’t it?” She touches my hair.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Shorter hair is more professional, don’t you think?”

  Wow, and how about stripper names? Are stripper names as first names professional, “Trixie”? I return to my desk. Great. There has been a banking apocalypse, and the only other person who has survived is Trixie. Fucking self-appointed MD of the assistants, Trixie.

  I start up my computer. Our pod is littered with candy wrappers, mostly around Puja’s desk. The floor is still heaped with extra candy that the MDs brought in after Halloween, even though it was weeks ago. Either they overbought, or they took all of their kids’ candy after trick-or-treating in some lesson about the harshness of the world. See, kids? Life isn’t fair, just like we’ve always told you.

  I can still sort of see Trixie. Both of her desktop monitors are covered by screen protectors. These thin, black, and highly perforated rectangles obscure the content behind them unless you are extremely close. It’s something a lot of assistants do, because most of the time, they’re online shopping. Behind Trixie’s monitors hangs a bulletin board covered in pictures of MDs’ kids. Not her kids, MDs’ kids from past Christmas cards. Most of these are professionally shot photos posed in front of suburban homes.

  My phone rings. Caller ID: Trixie.

  Oh my God, do I work for you?

  “Hi, Trixie.”

  “Aren’t you going to the meeting?” she asks.

  My heart catches in my throat.

  “What meeting?” I ask.

  My computer finishes logging on, and the reminder flashes. Today, HG has one of its semi-regular, global group meetings. The subject is professional responsibility, and Mark is on the list of presenters. I am ten minutes late.

  “Oh, right,” I say. “Headed down.”

  “You’re late,” she reminds me.

  I grab a notebook and head to the conference room mezzanine on the tenth floor. At the meeting room, people are still settling in. Fast walks suggest the thought bubbles Is this really necessary? and Do you even know how busy I am? People creak back and forth in folding chairs, and jittery mannerisms spin the air into one hot heap of early a.m. annoyance. The whole floor has attended in person. HG bankers elsewhere join by phone.