Damaged Goods, page 20
Brendan bit his lip as glass crunched beneath his black tassel loafers when he entered Sarah’s office. She droned on about the weak market performance, the bank, and the fixed-income department. To him, it was white noise. He only cared about one thing—his number. Sarah didn’t share tales of woe when she distributed hefty bonuses. The more she spoke, the lower his expectations sank. Before she revealed his number, he made one last-ditch effort (he knew it would be futile) to spare himself from despair. “Look, Sarah, I get why you’re cutting back. I won’t claim I single-handedly saved us from bankruptcy, but I played a significant role. I hope you’ve been able to look beyond my John Smart snafu last fall to see that if it weren’t for my funding plan, the chair you’re sitting on would be in a dank warehouse, ready to be sold in a bankruptcy auction.”
“Thank you for saving my chair,” she said sarcastically. “That was noble of you.” She broke her pencil in half and hurled the pieces across the room into a wastebasket. “You call what you said to Smart a snafu. I call it disloyalty.”
“I was trying to be loyal to the the bank in the throes of an existential crisis,” he pleaded. He loathed himself for pleading.
“Loyal to the bank?” she said. “People are loyal to people, not to things. I can’t believe you’ve lasted this long on Wall Street if you don’t understand that.”
“I’m loyal to principles, honesty, and integrity,” Brendan said. He had once believed in those words, but now they felt outdated, more appropriate for a bygone era. “Do you want me to pledge fealty to you?”
“That would be a start,” she said.
“Is this about my leaving work early on Mondays and Thursdays for family counseling sessions?” He, Laura, and Shannon had been in family therapy since Shannon had dropped out of Painter. On Wall Street, no one gave a shit if your family life fell apart. Most guys were on their second or third marriages. But admitting that your troubled family life affected your performance at work contradicted the Wall Street credo. It showed weakness, and weakness was an unpardonable sin.
“Leaving early hasn’t helped your cause,” she said.
“I’m trying to do what’s right for my family.”
“Making money to provide for them is what’s right for your family,” she said. “Don’t forget who pays you the money that allows you to be you.” Sarah pointed her thumb at herself.
“Sarah, you don’t have any kids, do you?”
“What does that mean?” she said.
“It means exactly what you think it means.”
She handed him an envelope, then leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s a quarter of what you earned a year ago, better than some other traders around here. And it’s deferred for two years. You get zero if you quit before the two years are up or are fired for cause.” She formed a circle with her thumb and forefinger. “Zero.”
“This is wrong, Sarah,” he attempted to shout, but it came out as a whisper. “I’ve given my heart and soul to this place.”
“Spare me, Brendan, and get back to work. There are others out there waiting to get theirs.”
* * *
Brendan reflected on Sarah’s harsh words as he went home that night: “the money that allows you to be you.” She was right. He had chosen this career to support his family, but somewhere along the way, he had sacrificed them at the altar of Mammon. His pursuit of money was destroying him.
When he got home, he handed the envelope to Laura. She opened it and threw it to the floor. “How the hell did we end up here?” she exclaimed. “After all you’ve given to that godforsaken bank, how can they treat you so poorly?”
“My days are numbered. It’s only a matter of time before they put a bullet in my head,” he said.
“Maybe you should quit, Bren,” Laura said.
He could only sigh at the suggestion. Leaving money on the table meant the bank had won. He couldn’t bear to walk out the door without all the money he had earned. As long as he was unwilling to leave money behind, he would never quit. The price of freedom was simply too high.
Brendan
March 2009
“Don’t tell me those fuckers missed another margin call?” Brendan shouted at an operations clerk in the money wire room, a twenty-two-year-old kid fresh out of City College.
“Please don’t shoot the messenger, Mr. O’Shay.”
Brendan mumbled “Sorry” and then called his attorney, Bill. “Come over to my trading desk as soon as you can. We have another problem with WTF.”
They spoke on the phone with Trey Williamson and Tom Gallagher. When he heard Tom’s deep, raspy voice, he was eager to learn the status of the eggs, but it wasn’t the right time or place, and, as their written agreement specified, he couldn’t even ask.
“WTF needs more than two business days to resolve this situation,” Tom explained. “There simply isn’t enough market liquidity to sell our collateral at a favorable price. I assure you, liquidating them in this market is the worst course of action you can take.”
“You’ll drive us to bankruptcy,” Williamson shouted. He wasn’t bragging about his tennis game or commenting on Sarah’s athletic thighs this morning. “We’ll take legal action against you for misconduct.”
“You bankrupted yourself,” Brendan said. “We’re selling your collateral. I’ll update you on the results when we’re finished.” He hung up on WTF and handed a list of collateral to the new head of mortgage trading who had replaced Gus shortly after bonus day. Rumor had it that Gus was pissed off about his five-million-dollar bonus, so he left for a bigger job at a rival bank and was pulling in ten-million a year. The new mortgage trading head sold WTF’s collateral for $100 million less than the money Brendan had lent to them. WTF was gone, and so was Brendan’s chance of earning a bonus next year. He felt sick to his stomach, knowing he had worked so hard, endured so much stress, and prioritized work over family with nothing to show for it—again.
He reported the WTF loss to Sarah. “I hate to say I told you so,” Brendan said, “but I knew we made a huge mistake lending money to WTF.”
“They’ll rise from the ashes,” Sarah said.
“All the jerks do,” Brendan added. “And speaking of jerks, have you heard from Gus?”
“Fuck Gus,” Sarah said.
“Finally, something we can agree on,” Brendan said.
During his train ride home, Brendan received a call from Tom Gallagher. “That was a monumental mistake, Brendan. You overreacted today. I can’t believe you did that to my client after everything we’ve been through.”
“A wise man once advised me to compartmentalize my work and personal lives. Have a nice evening, Tom.” A smile crossed Brendan’s face. He couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled.
Brendan got out of his car and heard a thumping sound coming from behind the garage. He went to check it out and saw Shannon under a floodlight, bouncing a lacrosse ball off the wooden rebound wall Brendan had built for him years ago. He smiled for the second time that day; maybe things were improving. Thump. Thump. He went into the garage and came out with an old lacrosse stick. Thump. Thump. He stood on the edge of the floodlight’s glow.
“Do you want to play catch?” Brendan called out.
“Not really, Dad,” Shannon replied. “I’m working through some issues.” Thump. Thump.
“Are you considering playing lacrosse when you return to Painter?” Brendan asked. “You could make the team as a walk-on.”
“Dad, it’s only been three months since I—”
“Quit,” Brendan said, completing Shannon’s sentence. “You can’t be a quitter forever.”
Thump. Shannon caught the ball off the rebound and, in one smooth motion, fired it at Brendan, grazing his ear.
Brendan fell to the ground and watched the ball roll all the way to the end of the yard into Long Island Sound. He thought of Cassie; she would have fired the ball at him too.
“I thought you wanted to play catch?” Shannon said, mocking his father.
Brendan stopped himself from retaliating and went inside, where he found Laura working at her desk in the study, her tortoiseshell Ben Franklin reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She glanced at him over her neatly organized stacks of paper.
“You have your look of shame. What did you do now?”
“I called Shannon a quitter for refusing to return to Painter,” he confessed.
“After all the work we’ve put into family counseling, you regressed to that mindset?”
“Shannon fired a lacrosse ball at my head. He nearly killed me.”
“If he wanted to hit you,” she said, “you’d still be on the ground. He’s reaching out to you. He’s trying to break through your tough, demanding exterior. He wants you to open up to him on his terms, not yours. He doesn’t want to go back to Painter. Get that fantasy out of your mind. He’s been talking about seeing the country. Why don’t you go on a road trip with him? You can satisfy your inner Jack Kerouac. It might be good for both of you.”
When Brendan was Shannon’s age, he read On the Road and dreamt about traveling across America on a motorcycle. But school turned into work, and almost thirty years later, he found himself trapped in a version of the American Dream that had turned into a nightmare. He pictured himself with Shannon behind the wheel of an Airstream RV, driving through the American Southwest, mountain biking on desert trails in Moab, Sedona, and Zion. Cold mountain waterfalls. Campfires. Cowboy coffee. Genuine conversations with his son. Had he ever actually listened to what his son was saying without formulating a counterargument to impose his parental will upon him?
“Shannon would never agree to that,” Brendan said, frowning. “Plus, I’m overwhelmed with so much work that I’ll never find a way out.”
“You won’t be getting a bonus next year, and they’re threatening to fire you. We have money in the bank. Maybe it’s time to think about resigning,” Laura said.
“That’s a major decision,” Brendan said. “I want to leave, but can you manage having me around the house?”
“I love my new job, Bren. You should love yours too. We don’t need this house or this lifestyle. We can downsize and still be happy. Change would be good for us.”
It felt as though a thousand-pound weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Would he have the courage to quit in the middle of his career? If not now, when? “Let’s sit with this idea,” Brendan said. “If we still feel the same way in a month, I’ll quit.”
“I’ve already made my decision,” Laura said. “But take your time until you feel ready. In the meantime, I’ll try to persuade Shannon to take a road trip with you.”
Brendan
April 2009
“I’ve spent my entire career at this bank,” Brendan said, sitting on the couch in Sarah’s office. “When my wife went into labor, I worked until the very last moment and barely made it to the hospital to witness the birth of my only child.”
Sarah glanced at her watch.
“I’m resigning,” he said.
“Resigning? We’re in the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression, Brendan. Man up! You can’t bail now. Did you get another job offer? From whom? We’ll match it.”
“I’m not leaving for another job. I’m just leaving. You ask for too much—my heart, my soul, my entire being. I’ve sacrificed too much for this bank at the expense of my family.”
“For unto whomsoever much is given, of him much shall be required,” Sarah said.
“I know my catechism,” Brendan said. “But enough is enough.”
“Take the day off,” she said. “Reconsider what you’re about to do. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
“I’ve thought and thought and thought,” he said. “I won’t reconsider. I hope you have the decency to pay me my deferred compensation on my way out. I deserve to get what I’ve earned.”
“Is that what we’re talking about here—your deferred comp?” she asked.
“It’s everything,” he said. “It’s about money. It’s about dignity. It’s about respect. It’s about who I was, who I am, and who I want to be. I’ve never quit anything in my life—not junior high football, not a paper route, not school, not a team, not a job, not anything—even when I’ve wanted to. This is a difficult moment for me.”
“I don’t deal in sympathy, Brendan,” she said. “It’s not who I am.”
“For unto whomsoever much is given, of her much shall be required,” he said.
“Touché,” Sarah said. She called John Smart and explained the situation.
“Sorry, Brendan. Loyalty has its rewards, and once again, you’re being disloyal. We’ll use your deferred comp to pay the people who aren’t abandoning us. But if it’s any consolation, I did try. You have an hour to pack your things and get out of the building. Have a good life.”
Brendan knew his request would be dead on arrival, and it crossed his mind to threaten to sue the bank, but that would just prolong his agony. Instead he reached out his hand toward Sarah.
“I won’t shake the hand of Judas,” she said. “Leave my office now.”
On his way back to his desk, Brendan brushed shoulders with his assistant manager, who was heading to Sarah’s office. Out with the old, in with the new. He called Laura but got her voicemail. “It’s done,” he said. “They’re not giving me my deferred compensation, but I’m free.” He gathered his belongings in a small cardboard box—a photo of his wife holding their infant son, a paperweight celebrating his promotion to managing director, a worn-out black squeeze ball, and a couple of old neckties that he kept in his bottom drawer—tucked the box under his arm, and shook hands one last time with the people in his department. Then he walked out of the building for the final time. Twenty years. Gone.
Laura
Early May 2009
Laura sat on Shannon’s bed, holding his sketchbook of the students at FirstStep. Randy Bauer had offered to show Shannon’s artwork to his friend on the board at the Savannah College of Art and Design. She flipped to the first image, showing students gathered around a whiteboard filled with mathematical equations. The second depicted a teacher leaning over a girl’s shoulder as she wrote an essay. The third captured students playing mixed doubles tennis on the playground. She wondered where her son had gotten his talent. She and Bren couldn’t draw a stick figure.
As she turned the page, she was struck with the idea to use Shannon’s sketches to promote FirstStep and persuade donors to become marquee sponsors of the upcoming fundraising campaign.
She started opening desk drawers to see if Shannon had stored more sketchbooks in his room. They weren’t in his desk drawers, so she checked the bottom drawer of his dresser. Isn’t that where we hide things? she thought, but it was stuffed with old sweatshirts. The next drawer up was stacked with blue polo shirts and khaki pants, Westport Academy’s student uniform in the spring. She stuck her hands under the shirts and struck something solid, pulling out a porcelain pipe and a plastic vial of marijuana buds. Damn! He hadn’t stopped smoking. She closed the drawer and paused before moving up to the next one. Was she breaking one of the unwritten commandments between a mother and son—thou shalt not snoop? No, she rationalized. It was for his own good. His sketchbooks might be his ticket into SCAD.
The next drawer up held his athletic clothing. She lifted up a stack of gym shorts and out fell a pink yoga top, white leggings, and—oh, shit—a pair of black, sheer bikini panties. She pinched the panties between thumb and index finger and held them up, wondering how a woman—had she just called Ines a woman?—could fit into these tiny things. She sighed deeply and laughed out loud. They were in college. Of course they were having sex. She rummaged around some more. Ah, there it was, wrapped in Ines’s Wellesley College T-shirt. Laura carried it to Shannon’s bed and opened it.
The first page was a portrait of Ines, her brooding eyes, sculpted nose, full lips, and pointed chin framed by long curls cascading off the bottom of the page. How was Shannon able to capture the hue of her light brown skin with just a charcoal pencil? Ines seemed almost alive.
The next page showed Ines’s hands—perfectly rendered tendons, knuckle creases, and a half-bitten nail on her ring finger, adorned with her grandmother’s silver wedding band. Next page. The nape of Ines’s neck with a yin-yang tattoo in the hollow between her shoulder blades. Next page. The curvature of her lifted breasts, dark nipples, and a barbell nipple ring. Is it real or artistic liberty? she wondered. Next page. Ines’s flat belly with protruding hip bones tapering down toward her pubis. Next page. The sketch puzzled Laura. She turned it sideways. It portrayed Ines’s leg from mid-thigh down, drifting at a peculiar angle, accentuating the bump of her kneecap and the flex of her calf. Her foot pointed skyward with slender toes spread wide. A tiny pair of bikini panties—the same pair I’m holding? she wondered—dangled from Ines’s big toe. Next page. Laura nearly dropped the sketchbook onto the floor. Oh, boy. It resembled one of Georgia O’Keeffe’s flower paintings, but it wasn’t. The tufted flower trailed into muscular quadriceps that undulated like the foothills near Ghost Ranch outside Santa Fe.
Laura sighed loudly again. She found what she’d been looking for, a sketchbook with examples of Shannon’s prodigious talent, but what could she do with it other than dress it back in Ines’s T-shirt and, like a guilty thief, put it back in the drawer exactly how she had found it.
