Breathe In, Cash Out Page 7

  * * *

  “Morning, Tripp,” I greet him.

  “Whatever,” he says.

  “How’d you sleep?” I ask.

  “You mean the one hour I lay in my bed and wanted to kill myself?” he asks.

  “Yeah, that one,” I say.

  “It was shitty,” he says.

  Skylar’s instructions arrive by text. Her iMessage maxes out the space allotted for a preview on my home screen. Guess I need more than four rows of help. My phone buzzes again with part two as I log into my desktop. The abrupt vibrations make her texts sound like defibrillator shocks trying to save me: Clear. Clear.

  I read her long column of advice. She writes that meditating in lotus pose is optional, thank God, so no. Hopefully I can do this at my desk without suggesting I’m having a mental breakdown. “Get comfortable,” she writes. “Relax your face and soften your shoulders. Breathe deeply, let your eyelids rest gently, and surrender to the now. For the next ten minutes, stay open. Let your deepest desire float from the bottom of your heart to the top of your mind. It will all become clear in the stillness. What does your heart say?”

  Tripp’s computer chimes, sending a whiplash shock down my spine. He tilts his monitor toward me so that I can see the email.

  From: Mark Swift

  To: Vivienne Wood, Tripp Thompson, Allegra Cobb

  Fri 10 Nov 9:12 a.m.

  Tx. Cut pages after macro and print 2 copies

  —MS

  Awesome. He wants a two-slide deck, and we basically gave him a novel. Almost at the exact same time, Tripp gets another alert, which we watch hit him in real time. It’s Jason asking him to “swing by.”

  “This is oppressive,” Tripp says. “I’m going to rebel.”

  “Do it,” I urge.

  “I will,” he says. “I’m going to pee in the fucking corner.”

  Tripp leaves.

  Okay, calm down. What do I want more than anything else?

  I try to be as still as possible while the office warms up into daytime attack mode around me. It’s not ideal, but there’s no such thing as perfect. As I wait, what comes to mind is: Mark’s last email. There was nothing special in there. In fact, it was so standard that a template for it could have come right out of an MD starter pack: Skip the hello, abbreviate shit, and request or delete a massive amount of work.

  Fuck. He knew where to touch me. Before Mark, the last person I had sex with was a pear-shaped man named Hillary—Hillary—two months ago. We met on Hinge. Hillary wore a sweatshirt covered in dog hair to meet me, and he asked to borrow a scrunchie for his man bun, but I was like, whatever, this will still work. Meanwhile, Mark towers over me at six foot three, broad and sculpted down to the tendon under a power suit. I linger on thoughts of him. I’m getting aroused.

  “Are you napping?” Tripp asks.

  I jolt. “No,” I say.

  “I forgot my bitch book,” he says.

  Tripp leaves again with his dream journal. I text Skylar.

  Me: Thank you . I am trying.

  Me: And see you tonight!!

  Great. This is already a disaster. I hang my head. Someone asks me to think of my heartfelt desire, and I daydream about my boss. Am I that lusty? Or lonely? The final thought feels true. Yep, lonely. Last week, someone wrong-number texted me, and I texted back. We had a conversation. Come on. Other than that new contact—Lisa—the list of names in my most recent Messages history are VERIZON MSG You’re out of data, Bldg Super, Dad, and an automated reminder to schedule a doctor’s appointment.

  I don’t really want to savor the taste of failure, so I try again. “Take some time to refocus on you. Relax your face and soften your shoulders. Breathe deeply. . . . Stay open. . . . What does your heart say?” My thoughts keep drifting back to Mark. Okay, so my heartfelt desire is Mark. Awesome. I try to relax. Noises fade. A bit of stillness does emerge. My thoughts congeal, and what feels truer than wanting Mark is a pull to have something real with another human being.

  Tripp collapses into his desk chair.

  “What did Jason give you?” I ask.

  “Death row,” he mutters.

  My phone buzzes. It’s Skylar with instructions for the so hum meditation, which entails I repeat so on the inhale and hum on the exhale. So hum means “I am that,” and it’s a way to ask yourself who you are. I am explaining to Skylar that I will try my best, thank you again—and hopefully she can feel I’m sincere—when Outlook flashes a calendar alert on my left screen. A Team Titan meeting has just been scheduled to take place in Mark’s office in two minutes. Vivienne stands beside me without warning or noise. She is the Ghost of Meetings Now.

  “Now,” she says.

  “Absolutely,” Tripp says.

  I hold up a one second finger, which Vivienne regards with as much horror as if it were the middle finger. She walks off, and Tripp follows in her wake with a notebook. I finish my text to Skylar and proofread it as Tripp and Vivienne turn the corner. Their absence is an amplifying demand to join them.

  Skylar: All is well

  Skylar: Do what you can with what you have, where you are

  Thank you, Skylar.

  I grab my Titan notebook and speed-walk into Mark’s office, where the team waits. Tripp’s sleeves are rolled up to reveal grizzly, Viking-thick arm hair. Vivienne sits straight in a black pencil dress. Her dark bun of hair is pulled tighter than usual. The lights on the table’s conference phone flash green to signal that someone—Mark—is on the line.

  “Allegra, where were you?” Vivienne demands.

  “I was—” I start.

  “This is a fifty-billion-dollar client,” she says. “This takes priority.”

  Tripp snaps his pen, which he’s twirling in a circle with his index finger and thumb. I sit to Vivienne’s right, straight across from him. Through the glass wall, I have a good view of Jason, who is doing absolutely fucking nothing at his desk.

  “Is everyone here now?” Mark’s voice asks.

  Vivienne leans toward the speakerphone.

  “Yes,” she says.

  “So I spoke to Dan”—the CFO—“and apparently they have been talking to Sierra regarding a potential merger,” Mark says. He talks fast. “The CEOs got together, and they estimated billions in synergies. They want to introduce the idea to the board at the meeting next week.”

  Impossible.

  Tripp stops twirling his pen. Sierra is another managed care company worth about $30 billion. The fees due to Anderson if this deal went through would be enormous. Senior people are paid in accord with group performance. An MD like Mark, making 5 percent of the group’s revenue each year, could make $5 million from this deal alone. This just became my most important team.

  “Dan wants a merger analysis with Sierra for the board meeting next week,” Mark says. “Their meeting will take place over two days in Arizona. I’d like to be able to brief and prep Dan in advance. I leave Monday, so I’ll need the materials by Monday morning. I hope none of you had weekend plans.”

  “Of course,” Vivienne says. “We’ll start right away.”

  I almost roll my eyes at her use of the word we.

  “Anything from the junior team?” Mark asks.

  Is Mark talking to me? Tripp clears his throat and falls silent. His throat-clearing segued to nothing.

  “Just excited to be a part of the team,” I say.

  “We’re happy to have you, Amanda,” Mark says.

  “It’s Allegra.”

  Did he actually forget? Or is he teasing me?

  “Right,” he says. “Have a great weekend, team.”

  * * *

  Jason starts to circle the floor at 8:30 p.m. Most seats are still full. Because it’s Friday, he looks everyone in the eye and asks when they plan to go home. He points his finger and chides us in a sort-of-serious, sort-of-kidding tone to obey Safe Saturdays.

  This rule is one of the lifestyle initiatives that Anderson rolled out in order to keep fewer analysts from quitting. The
rule means analysts and associates are banned from the headquarters from 9 p.m. on Friday until 6 a.m. on Sunday. In theory, this makes our weekends more predictable and allows us to make plans with other human beings. In practice, this means working from home. You are allowed in the office if you get a “pass,” or written permission from the head of the group. Tonight, Team Titan has a pass, but somehow I will make time to see Skylar.

  Tripp and I have been doing shit for Vivienne all afternoon. Instead of the so hum, I worked on a megamerger so Vivienne and Mark can buy bigger houses in the Hamptons. The more Tripp and I get into it, the more I see that this deal could be fucking enormous.

  This isn’t cherry-picking data for unrequested discussion materials at Vivienne’s command. This is league tables. This is WSJ. People like Mark will give serious shits about it. This will take over everything.

  So I was right to be scared by Vivienne’s check-in. She summoned me with a two-word email (“my office”)—what?—and invited me to sit at her round table with an index finger so straight I realized she may not have knuckles. From her office chair, she proceeded to call me “Analyst” instead of Allegra and demanded that this team be my first priority. Behind her, the broad spine of a dictionary of usage stuck out on her bookshelf. The thing was weathered, as if it had fallen into a bathtub, or she took it to the beach, or she’d read it a thousand fucking times.

  “I completely understand,” I said.

  “If you don’t, I will make a note of it,” she threatened. I don’t even know what that means, but I basically shit myself. “People don’t forget a first impression, and I will remember this.” It wasn’t until I was back at my desk that I realized today was the second time I’d met her and she doesn’t give a shit about me. Analyst. Fucking horrifying.

  I was never a problem child, so this was new territory. My senior superlative in the high school yearbook was “Most Likely to Have Actually Done the Homework.” I got the lead in the sixth-grade musical, not because I was talented, but because I was the only kid they could count on to memorize all of the lines.

  After Vivienne released me, I felt so shitty about myself that I actually did email that Princeton High School girl back. I wrote that Princeton did not feel small and she should email me with any other questions. Five hours later, the girl hasn’t said thank you. I dignified her terror of going to the wrong Ivy League school, and she can’t even say tx.

  “Hey, Allie, can I use your charger?” Tripp asks me.

  “No, Vivienne,” I say. “Get your own.”

  “Vivienne still has mine.”

  “She didn’t return it?” I ask.

  “No, she’s using it to strangle puppies,” Tripp says.

  “Very funny,” Chloe says, her tone soaking in haughty morality. She is sticking up for Vivienne at every turn, halfway to leading a Lean In circle.

  “Vivienne did this on purpose,” Tripp says. “She wants to isolate me socially so that I have no distractions from her comments.”

  “Sucks,” I say.

  “Can I please use it?” he asks.

  Jason stands at the pod next to ours. He tells Kim Jee to head home. Kim keeps a straight face as he packs his leather Tumi briefcase.

  “Tell you what,” I say. “You, charger. Me, dinner?”

  “Do not insanity plea out of Titan,” he says slowly.

  “Ugh,” I say. “I will let you use my phone charger if you let me take a break for dinner. I really need this.” Taking a break for dinner is like missing a day of work at another firm. People demand, Seriously, WTF? Where were you?

  Tripp side-eyes me. “First you flip off Vivienne . . .” he says.

  “Oh my God,” I say.

  “Now you’re skipping out?” he asks. He shakes his head. His tone is light, but there’s a kernel of seriousness in there. “If you are trying to make me do everything on this team, no fucking dice.”

  “One hour?” I beg, knowing it will probably take longer.

  “Fine,” he says, visibly annoyed. He shoos me away.

  “Okay, see you later,” I say.

  “Ten p.m., and I mean it,” he says.

  “Okay, be back soon,” I say.

  I wave goodbye to the pod.

  “And then there were three,” Tripp mutters melodramatically.

  I head for the exits a little woozy from lack of sleep, but I channel my inner Dad. Get your shit together, he says in my head. I add, Sack up for yoga.

  chapter 8

  On my way to meet Skylar, in a subway car packed like a sardine tin, I realize this is my equivalent of “getting fresh air.” The woman gripping the metal pole next to me applies deodorant with her free arm. As we whir around a bend, I’m pushed into her parka, which gives way beneath my weight. In more than one way, I am headed to a better place.

  Meanwhile, I lose and gain service over an interval short enough that my phone stays warm. Tripp emails me that he feels “used and abruised,” and I draft a reply picking up on his rhyme—“lose the bluessss”—but I delete it, because I actually do feel bad about leaving him.

  Tripp belongs at cocktail parties finger-gunning with CEOs, not crunching numbers. Abandoning him at work is not like skipping out on a numbers guy who will seek out antisocial jobs, amass fuck-you money, and vote Republican but pro-abortion for the rest of his life because he hates people and people hate him. Tripp loves people. And I am Tripp’s main social outlet for most of the day every day, so leaving him at the pod feels almost as heartless as staying in banking.

  There’s a selfishness to it, too. After two years of banking together, Tripp and I have passively become attached. When something funny happens to me outside of work, sometimes, my head jerks right, as if I’m about to tell him about it. Other times, I hear his voice in my head respond to things that are happening only to me. As I thought about the so hum prompt I am this afternoon, I heard Tripp finish: I am . . . dope. I am . . . the man. If we’re having a hard time with this “dinner break,” then my goodbye email is going to be a sucker punch to both of us.

  * * *

  Mats hang from the rafters of the trendy yoga studio known as Yoga Mala. Lights are dim, and the sound of chanting permeates the air like anesthesia. A couple of women waiting to check in massage their own shoulders. Another lounges by the wall and practices deep breathing with her eyes closed. Tonight, everyone’s yoga clothes look like fucking pajamas. This is sleep porn.

  “I know you probably don’t,” I say to the desk attendant, “but do you by any chance have any coffee?”

  “No,” she says, smiling elegantly.

  “Yeah, I figured,” I say. “What about, like, organic coffee?”

  She laughs, and I pass it off as a joke.

  “We have water for sale,” she says.

  “Fantastic,” I lie.

  I survey the display of snacks for anything with cacao, which has traces of caffeine. Nothing. They only sell seaweed crisps and peanut butter bars, a mix of foods that are essentially non-caloric or extremely calorie-dense. Yin and yang.

  During new-banker training, one of the Training the Street instructors gave us tips on how to stay awake for long stretches of time. He told us, eat. When it’s the middle of the night and you have to work: eat. “Have you ever fallen asleep while eating?” he asked. “Of course not. Have an apple.” So, cacao or no cacao, just the act of consuming food might keep me up. I buy one of the bars and sit on the sofa next to the check-in desk. The couch sinks deeply beneath my weight like a leaky air mattress. Mattress . . . The word relaxes me. My field of vision halves as my eyelids droop softly. No. I pinch my thigh and watch an haute yogi recoil at my self-harm.

  I crinkle back the wrapper on my bar and shove a couple of bites into my mouth. Eat. Look at shit. Stay awake. Despite the fifty-dollar-per-class overhead, Yoga Mala is tiny and decorated like an Indian tenement. Each studio has its own niche, and Mala’s may be to offer the most expensive experience of poverty in the city. The walls are made of unvarnished, sp
lintering wood. Random holes reveal exposed pipes. I’ve been here once before, so I know the only bathroom has a single toilet without a seat. And yet, it feels exclusive.

  Frankly, this isn’t my vibe. Mala—high price tag, stuffy atmosphere—is very different from the yoga studio in Princeton and from the kind of place I want to end up in. I’d prefer more warmth, less austerity, but Skylar must have her reasons. Maybe all profits go to charity, who fucking knows. On the bright side, I’ll see her soon and practice, like, in the middle of a workday.

  My phone chirps at me.

  From: Tripp Thompson

  To: Allegra Cobb

  Fri 10 Nov 8:57 p.m.

  Viv here. I told her you went to the bathroom. She asked if you do that a lot.

  I smirk. My loud phone earns another hmph from the same chicly casual yogi. Classroom doors open, and women rise to file inside. A few of them might be models and walk on legs that look like long arms. I manage to stand up. I’ve had five cups of coffee today, and I don’t know if that’s too few and I’m withdrawing, or too many and I’m dehydrated.

  “Allegra!” Skylar beams.

  “Oh, hi!” I say.

  She waves to the check-in girl and then to a beautiful, olive-skinned student wearing a tasteful white diamond necklace. Both wave back energetically—OMG hi!!—breaking Mala’s norm of understatement.

  Skylar hugs me and rubs my back. She pulls back to hold me at arm’s length, one hand on each of my shoulders. We are the same height, five foot four. At least, that’s how tall I was when I started this job. But Erg Guy said my lifestyle was causing daily compression of my spinal discs, so I get shorter every fucking day. Skylar wears a cropped hoodie exposing her core—abs—and pastel-blue leggings. Her rolled mat hangs diagonally on her back like a quiver, secured by a glittering silver strap across her chest.

  “You look so cute!” she says.

  I’m wearing a white tee and black spandex shorts.

  “Thanks,” I say, flattered.

  Skylar tucks a strand of my hair behind one of my ears.

  “It’s so good to see you,” she says, smiling. She hugs me again. Today aside, I can’t remember the last time I hugged anyone. Human contact. “I just reread your journal on the way over.” She shakes her head. “But we are here now.” She rubs my upper arm. “We can practice and talk after class?”