10-19-2010, 10:59 AM
(This story is one of my first--so I'm sure there's a lot to work on in it. It was written to a prompt and I made it a light homage to "Liars Poker" by Michael Lewis)
Last Friday, This January
There was an unnatural quiet on the 53rd floor, like the moment before a car crash. You spill coffee on your slacks, or glance down to change the radio station, and look up to find that you’re slamming into a 1992 Toyota Camry that decided to cut into your lane—to shave fifteen seconds off its commute. It was just like that moment, minus the squeal of brakes. Jake looked at the other tense faces in the trading room; it was bonus day—the validation of their work this past year. Every phone remained in its cradle, and every trader waited for the conference room door to open to see the results of the latest victim.
Milton Jensen, a corporate bond salesman on fifty-two, exited the conference room walking purposefully back to the bullpen. Jake always thought that Milton looked like the human equivalent of a praying mantis: all angles and teeth. It was hard to get a read on his slick predatory features, though the right side of his mouth looked like it might be turning up into a slight smile. Was that good? If Milton got money, were they being generous this year? Or was there less to go around? Milton caught Jake’s gaze and made a slight fist-pump with his right hand. Shit! He was screwed.
Fourteen people later, Jake was sitting at one side of a long table illuminated by pale fluorescent lighting. Dick Reynolds, one of the partners, a mid-60ish Wilford Brimley type with all the grand fatherliness of a mafia hit man, sat on the other side of the table. He had a folder open in front of him—presumably with a list of Jake’s wins and losses from the last year. Dick picked up a brown bowl-shaped coffee mug sitting next to a half eaten cherry danish and took a drink--inclining his head toward the Styrofoam cups and carafe on the mahogany side table. Jake smiled and shook his head. Dick put down the mug and stared at Jake with the flat expression of a recently caught fish. He was not smiling.
Last January
Jake’s first day on the trading floor reminded him of a prison movie: standing in his orange coveralls, carrying his state-issued prison blanket, wondering if the other inmates would hear him cry out during the night. They might as well have been chanting, “New meat!” as he was directed to his desk and handed a call list.
Calling customers wasn’t something learned with an economics degree, the very thought of it caused Jake’s stomach muscles to tighten. He was actually happy to get voicemail so he could give a practiced response and not have to improvise. After one particularly bad call, he started banging his head on top of his metal desk.
“It gets better after a few hundred calls,” a voice said from behind. Jake turned to see a man stretching over the front of his desk extending his hand, “Barry Swenson.”
Jake returned the handshake, “Jake Sloan.”
Barry chuckled slightly, “How are you surviving Hell Week?”
“It’s awful,” Jake groaned, “those turds over In the Mortgage Department changed my dry cleaning ticket to heavy starch and had all of my slacks hemmed two inches. “
“Bill and Irwin?” asked Barry, noting Jake’s grimace, “It’s a good idea not to use company services until you’ve had a chance to blend in more.”
“I’m learning that,” Jake gave him a lopsided smile.
Last March
The Brass Monkey was the latest in a long line of pubs servicing the financial district. Its latest draw was a weekly dart throwing contest with the winner walking away with a paid bar tab. It was a nice arrangement for the bar. This group of twenty-something brokers enjoyed risk and showing one another up. The players boasted and drank even more, hoping to be drinking on the house, and it didn’t hurt that the house had a ringer. Ed, the owner/bartender had appropriately brought in a Chimpanzee affectionately named Gordon by the Wall Street crowd after the Michael Douglas character, Gordon Gekko. Gordon drank steins of Michelob Ultra from the tap and threw darts. For the three weeks the contest had been going on, Gordon hadn’t lost. With the frenzied betting accompanying each game, the Brass Monkey had the feel of a Vegas craps table.
One particular Wednesday, Jake was up fifteen hundred dollars on side bets. Mike Long, an equity trader from Goldman, was leading by seventeen points. During the last two rounds, Mike’s friends proposed a drinking game, a shot every time Mike got a better score than Gordon. Long had done so many shots of drambuie, it was amazing he could see the board at all. None of the players liked losing to a chimp, so it wasn’t long before the trash talking started.
“Double nineteen, how’s that feel you stupid monkey? Oooh oooh ah ahhh.” Mike started beating his chest to his friends’ laughter. He glared at Gordon.
“Technically, Long, he’s an ape. As in, get your hands off me you damn dirty ape,” Jake said, collecting another twenty dollar bet.
“Screw you Sloan!” Turning his attention back to Gordon, Mike slurred, “There’s a new king in town, Kong.” He started to laugh.
Mike was at that point of drunk where he thought everything he said was funny. He hadn’t reached the stages of irresistibility to the opposite sex, dancing in public, or invisibility yet.
It was time for the final throw. Gordon’s lip extended up over his teeth in a laughing sneer. He gave three quick huffs leaping from the bar stool to the black electrical tape serving as the throwing line. He must have drunk ten pints already tonight, but his movement was steady his gaze fixed on the board. Holding a black feathered dart by its tip, Gordon’s wrist flick was a blur sending the dart into its target with a loud thunk. Triple-twenty! The room exploded in a mixture of profanity and cheers. Leaping up Gordon grasped an overhanging chandelier and began swinging from it by his feet shrieking and hooting. He was as competitive as the next guy it seemed.
“Time to go back to your day job, Long,” someone in the crowd yelled over the din.
Mike’s co-worker, who had been helping a beaten Long back to their table, turned toward the voice “Hell! Gordon’d probably kick his ass there too. You remember those articles that used to run in the Journal about the dart-throwing monkey picking stocks?”
Mike spun around overbalancing, “Fuc…the words were swallowed up by the sounds of retching. Mike was sick—very sick—to the disgust and amusement of the crowd. Not willing to let the joke die, one of the patrons used four of the darts to stick the financial pages over the board.
Nothing breaks up a party quite like vomit. With the excitement dying down the crowd began to drift—moving on presumably to other bars or clubs with much different late night entertainment. “So, what’s my take Jake?” Ed called out from behind the bar.
“Surprisingly pretty good,” Jake counted out a small pile of hundreds and twenties. “You’d think people would learn not to bet against Gordon, but Mike nearly pulled it off.” Jake narrowed his eyes, “You really are giving him Michelob aren’t you? That isn’t O’Doul’s?”
“No, of course not! Here,” Ed went to the monkey’s tap and filled a frothy mug placing it in front of Jake. “on the house, I’m shocked that you think I’d have Gordon here play under speed. I’m not a hustler.” He raised his arms imploringly.
Jake took a pull of his drink, swished it around in his mouth as if judging its authenticity, and then deliberately swallowed. “I just better not hear that our chimp friend is shooting pool next week.”
“Nope, just darts see.” Ed placed three darts in front of him on the bar and made a clicking noise with his tongue. Gordon vaulted from the chandelier to the bar, grabbed the darts with his right foot, making a loping pirouette back toward the throwing line, followed by three quick precise throws, the scores obscured by the newspaper. Jake stared at the board for a few seconds afterward a slight smile forming on his lips. Finishing his beer, he nodded goodnight to Ed, walked to the dart board, carefully removed and scanned the paper, then left with it folded under his arm.
Last May
“I don’t think you get what a prank is Jake. You’ve actually made those guys a lot of money,” Barry tsked, “if you’re not careful Irwin and Bill are going to want to start hanging out with you.”
Jake rolled his eyes, “I’m telling you a chimp made those stock picks.”
“Could you ask him to make some for me then?” said Barry earnestly, “They don’t pay me enough here.” He spoke over Jake’s laughter. “I’m serious. Techlogic alone is up 50 pts.”
“The chimp didn’t know there’d be favorable telecom legislation. He’s not right on every pick.” Seeing Barry’s look he added, “okay, he’s eighty-percent right.”
“You have managing directors coming to you for investment advice. I hear they’re giving you larger accounts to work with.”
“They’re giving me the pension fund for Baxter labs,” admitted Jake.
Barry let out a low whistle. “You better start visiting that monkey more than once a week. Baxter’s a top five account.”
Last August
It didn’t feel like investment anymore. It felt like gambling. Jake smiled. Maybe he should put a picture of a roulette wheel up on that dartboard and take a long weekend to Vegas or Atlantic City. Barry was right though, Jake had had to visit Gordon three to four times a week to build a portfolio for Baxter Labs. Though, he couldn’t complain with the results. He’d started investing his own money months ago.
He now had enough extra money coming in that he could finally buy some toys—like the car. The car was impractical. The car was impractical and got eight miles to the gallon. The car was impractical and got eight miles to the gallon and was metallic red. The car was impractical and got eight miles to the gallon and was metallic red and cost Jake more than his parents earned in the last five years. Others could drive their Mercedes or their BMW, but Jake’s heart would only belong to the Audi R10—not that he could really drive it in Manhattan, but that isn’t why you buy a car like this. You buy it because you’re successful, and everyone should know it—Jake shrugged, everyone did know it.
It was a quiet night at The Brass Monkey as he pulled up to the valet. He gave Jimmy his keys and a standard hundred dollar tip. He would still check the odometer, but he’d done this so many times it felt safe enough.
“That’s a fine ride Sloan.” Mike Long stepped from the doorway, tossed his cigarette to the ground, and stamped it out with his shoe.
“It gets me where I need to go,” said Jake with a slight smile.
“I’m sure it does,” Long smirked, “to what do we owe the honor?”
Jake walked through the door with Long following behind, “Oh, just,” he hesitated, “playing a prank on some coworkers.” He crossed quickly to the bar. Ed handed him the paper’s financial section.
“I had Gordon make the throws an hour ago,” he explained.
Turning to Long, Jake said, “I tell the guys that these are hot stock tips. They don’t know a chimp made them.” He nodded to Ed, “Well, gotta go, thanks.”
Long watched him leave almost as quickly as he came, “That was fast. How long’s he been coming in here like that?”
“About five or six months,” Ed began wiping the bar with a rag.
Last November
Jake was too young to remember when Kennedy was shot. He did however remember the significant dates in his lifetime: The day Sheila broke off the engagement (March 12th), of course, 9/11, and Thursday November 19th at The Brass Monkey.
Ed was at the bar, but there was no newspaper waiting for him. “Hey,” Jake said.
“Hey yourself, how ya doing Jake?” Ed’s back was to him.
“Good,” Jake looked around, “where’s Gordon?”
Ed still was facing away, “I gave him away.”
“You what! How could you? Who…?” Jake felt light headed.
Ed turned then. His eyes were red. Had he been drinking? Crying? “Man! Gordon was like family, but after that health inspector notice, and the guys said he’d be in a habitat. I mean it’s a good thing right?”
Jake’s mind was spinning, “The health department took him?”
“No, these guys did.” Ed handed him a glossy brochure. Wilderness Relocations: Putting Nurture Back into Nature. “He’s in a nature preserve upstate now.”
The brochure looked real. Jake punched the phone number into his cell phone. “It’s legit”, he told Ed, “I got an answering machine.” He hung up without leaving a message.
The next morning, Jake called the number from his desk. Yes, they relocated wild animals to protected habitats. But no, they did not collect a chimpanzee from a bar in New York. They had no record of Gordon, or The Brass Monkey. Gordon had been stolen, and so it seemed had Jake’s confidence. He took the rest of the day off telling his boss he’d eaten some bad shellfish.
Last Friday, This January
Dick Reynolds started tapping his pen on the desk never breaking eye contact. After what seemed like ten minutes but was probably ten seconds, he said, “Interesting first year you’ve had.”
“Yeah” Jake’s voice sounded reedy he couldn’t take in enough air to make his lungs expand. He coughed. “Yes, it has been…interesting.”
Apparently agreement was the wrong response, Dick scowled. “Baxter Labs certainly found your performance interesting—enough to pull their account and go to Goldman Sachs!”
“I hadn’t heard.” Jake stammered.
“No, you’re no longer on that account. No reason you should have heard.” Dick’s expression was cold.
“You moved the account?” Jake felt like he was drowning.
“After your recent performance, that surprises you?” not waiting for an answer Dick continued, “Actually we didn’t move the account, we’re moving you.” He paused to let his words sink in. “I’m going to need your badge and laptop. If you have any personal effects, they will be collected for you.”
Today
“So, did you have any questions about the employment packet?” Hearing none the woman went down her check list: benefits, non-disclosure, HR handbook. “We’ll you’re ready to go. Mike’s outside he’ll introduce you to the group.”
“Sloan,” Mike Long shook his hand, “nice to see you at Goldman. How’s the car?”
Jake flinched, the car had been repossessed. “Traded it in. It was nice, just a little too flashy.”
Mike shrugged, “Well, let me take you to the boss, and then I’ll let the rest of the group meet you. Your experience with Baxter should really help us get a handle on the account.” Mike maneuvered Jake around a group of desks indicating which one would be his with a head nod, and then stopped in front of one of the corner offices. He lightly knocked on the door and ushered Jake inside. Sitting behind the desk smiling with his upper lip pulled over his teeth was a small chimpanzee. He was dressed in business attire.
“Gordon?” Jake was stunned. “Goldman is Wilderness Relocations?”
Mike shrugged, “No, that was me; six months seemed like too long for a prank.”
Jake continued to stare at the chimp. The suit looked bespoke. He had red suspenders on. There was an open Wall Street Journal on his desk riddled with holes. He started to say something then flung himself to the side as a dart passed within inches of his face burying itself in the wall missing the dart board by more than a foot. “I’ve never seen Gordon miss like that,” said Jake shakily.
Mike put his hand on Jake’s shoulder, “He didn’t miss. He just gets temperamental when we don’t bring him his latte.”
~~~~~
Primate Poker
Last Friday, This January
There was an unnatural quiet on the 53rd floor, like the moment before a car crash. You spill coffee on your slacks, or glance down to change the radio station, and look up to find that you’re slamming into a 1992 Toyota Camry that decided to cut into your lane—to shave fifteen seconds off its commute. It was just like that moment, minus the squeal of brakes. Jake looked at the other tense faces in the trading room; it was bonus day—the validation of their work this past year. Every phone remained in its cradle, and every trader waited for the conference room door to open to see the results of the latest victim.
Milton Jensen, a corporate bond salesman on fifty-two, exited the conference room walking purposefully back to the bullpen. Jake always thought that Milton looked like the human equivalent of a praying mantis: all angles and teeth. It was hard to get a read on his slick predatory features, though the right side of his mouth looked like it might be turning up into a slight smile. Was that good? If Milton got money, were they being generous this year? Or was there less to go around? Milton caught Jake’s gaze and made a slight fist-pump with his right hand. Shit! He was screwed.
Fourteen people later, Jake was sitting at one side of a long table illuminated by pale fluorescent lighting. Dick Reynolds, one of the partners, a mid-60ish Wilford Brimley type with all the grand fatherliness of a mafia hit man, sat on the other side of the table. He had a folder open in front of him—presumably with a list of Jake’s wins and losses from the last year. Dick picked up a brown bowl-shaped coffee mug sitting next to a half eaten cherry danish and took a drink--inclining his head toward the Styrofoam cups and carafe on the mahogany side table. Jake smiled and shook his head. Dick put down the mug and stared at Jake with the flat expression of a recently caught fish. He was not smiling.
Last January
Jake’s first day on the trading floor reminded him of a prison movie: standing in his orange coveralls, carrying his state-issued prison blanket, wondering if the other inmates would hear him cry out during the night. They might as well have been chanting, “New meat!” as he was directed to his desk and handed a call list.
Calling customers wasn’t something learned with an economics degree, the very thought of it caused Jake’s stomach muscles to tighten. He was actually happy to get voicemail so he could give a practiced response and not have to improvise. After one particularly bad call, he started banging his head on top of his metal desk.
“It gets better after a few hundred calls,” a voice said from behind. Jake turned to see a man stretching over the front of his desk extending his hand, “Barry Swenson.”
Jake returned the handshake, “Jake Sloan.”
Barry chuckled slightly, “How are you surviving Hell Week?”
“It’s awful,” Jake groaned, “those turds over In the Mortgage Department changed my dry cleaning ticket to heavy starch and had all of my slacks hemmed two inches. “
“Bill and Irwin?” asked Barry, noting Jake’s grimace, “It’s a good idea not to use company services until you’ve had a chance to blend in more.”
“I’m learning that,” Jake gave him a lopsided smile.
Last March
The Brass Monkey was the latest in a long line of pubs servicing the financial district. Its latest draw was a weekly dart throwing contest with the winner walking away with a paid bar tab. It was a nice arrangement for the bar. This group of twenty-something brokers enjoyed risk and showing one another up. The players boasted and drank even more, hoping to be drinking on the house, and it didn’t hurt that the house had a ringer. Ed, the owner/bartender had appropriately brought in a Chimpanzee affectionately named Gordon by the Wall Street crowd after the Michael Douglas character, Gordon Gekko. Gordon drank steins of Michelob Ultra from the tap and threw darts. For the three weeks the contest had been going on, Gordon hadn’t lost. With the frenzied betting accompanying each game, the Brass Monkey had the feel of a Vegas craps table.
One particular Wednesday, Jake was up fifteen hundred dollars on side bets. Mike Long, an equity trader from Goldman, was leading by seventeen points. During the last two rounds, Mike’s friends proposed a drinking game, a shot every time Mike got a better score than Gordon. Long had done so many shots of drambuie, it was amazing he could see the board at all. None of the players liked losing to a chimp, so it wasn’t long before the trash talking started.
“Double nineteen, how’s that feel you stupid monkey? Oooh oooh ah ahhh.” Mike started beating his chest to his friends’ laughter. He glared at Gordon.
“Technically, Long, he’s an ape. As in, get your hands off me you damn dirty ape,” Jake said, collecting another twenty dollar bet.
“Screw you Sloan!” Turning his attention back to Gordon, Mike slurred, “There’s a new king in town, Kong.” He started to laugh.
Mike was at that point of drunk where he thought everything he said was funny. He hadn’t reached the stages of irresistibility to the opposite sex, dancing in public, or invisibility yet.
It was time for the final throw. Gordon’s lip extended up over his teeth in a laughing sneer. He gave three quick huffs leaping from the bar stool to the black electrical tape serving as the throwing line. He must have drunk ten pints already tonight, but his movement was steady his gaze fixed on the board. Holding a black feathered dart by its tip, Gordon’s wrist flick was a blur sending the dart into its target with a loud thunk. Triple-twenty! The room exploded in a mixture of profanity and cheers. Leaping up Gordon grasped an overhanging chandelier and began swinging from it by his feet shrieking and hooting. He was as competitive as the next guy it seemed.
“Time to go back to your day job, Long,” someone in the crowd yelled over the din.
Mike’s co-worker, who had been helping a beaten Long back to their table, turned toward the voice “Hell! Gordon’d probably kick his ass there too. You remember those articles that used to run in the Journal about the dart-throwing monkey picking stocks?”
Mike spun around overbalancing, “Fuc…the words were swallowed up by the sounds of retching. Mike was sick—very sick—to the disgust and amusement of the crowd. Not willing to let the joke die, one of the patrons used four of the darts to stick the financial pages over the board.
Nothing breaks up a party quite like vomit. With the excitement dying down the crowd began to drift—moving on presumably to other bars or clubs with much different late night entertainment. “So, what’s my take Jake?” Ed called out from behind the bar.
“Surprisingly pretty good,” Jake counted out a small pile of hundreds and twenties. “You’d think people would learn not to bet against Gordon, but Mike nearly pulled it off.” Jake narrowed his eyes, “You really are giving him Michelob aren’t you? That isn’t O’Doul’s?”
“No, of course not! Here,” Ed went to the monkey’s tap and filled a frothy mug placing it in front of Jake. “on the house, I’m shocked that you think I’d have Gordon here play under speed. I’m not a hustler.” He raised his arms imploringly.
Jake took a pull of his drink, swished it around in his mouth as if judging its authenticity, and then deliberately swallowed. “I just better not hear that our chimp friend is shooting pool next week.”
“Nope, just darts see.” Ed placed three darts in front of him on the bar and made a clicking noise with his tongue. Gordon vaulted from the chandelier to the bar, grabbed the darts with his right foot, making a loping pirouette back toward the throwing line, followed by three quick precise throws, the scores obscured by the newspaper. Jake stared at the board for a few seconds afterward a slight smile forming on his lips. Finishing his beer, he nodded goodnight to Ed, walked to the dart board, carefully removed and scanned the paper, then left with it folded under his arm.
Last May
“I don’t think you get what a prank is Jake. You’ve actually made those guys a lot of money,” Barry tsked, “if you’re not careful Irwin and Bill are going to want to start hanging out with you.”
Jake rolled his eyes, “I’m telling you a chimp made those stock picks.”
“Could you ask him to make some for me then?” said Barry earnestly, “They don’t pay me enough here.” He spoke over Jake’s laughter. “I’m serious. Techlogic alone is up 50 pts.”
“The chimp didn’t know there’d be favorable telecom legislation. He’s not right on every pick.” Seeing Barry’s look he added, “okay, he’s eighty-percent right.”
“You have managing directors coming to you for investment advice. I hear they’re giving you larger accounts to work with.”
“They’re giving me the pension fund for Baxter labs,” admitted Jake.
Barry let out a low whistle. “You better start visiting that monkey more than once a week. Baxter’s a top five account.”
Last August
It didn’t feel like investment anymore. It felt like gambling. Jake smiled. Maybe he should put a picture of a roulette wheel up on that dartboard and take a long weekend to Vegas or Atlantic City. Barry was right though, Jake had had to visit Gordon three to four times a week to build a portfolio for Baxter Labs. Though, he couldn’t complain with the results. He’d started investing his own money months ago.
He now had enough extra money coming in that he could finally buy some toys—like the car. The car was impractical. The car was impractical and got eight miles to the gallon. The car was impractical and got eight miles to the gallon and was metallic red. The car was impractical and got eight miles to the gallon and was metallic red and cost Jake more than his parents earned in the last five years. Others could drive their Mercedes or their BMW, but Jake’s heart would only belong to the Audi R10—not that he could really drive it in Manhattan, but that isn’t why you buy a car like this. You buy it because you’re successful, and everyone should know it—Jake shrugged, everyone did know it.
It was a quiet night at The Brass Monkey as he pulled up to the valet. He gave Jimmy his keys and a standard hundred dollar tip. He would still check the odometer, but he’d done this so many times it felt safe enough.
“That’s a fine ride Sloan.” Mike Long stepped from the doorway, tossed his cigarette to the ground, and stamped it out with his shoe.
“It gets me where I need to go,” said Jake with a slight smile.
“I’m sure it does,” Long smirked, “to what do we owe the honor?”
Jake walked through the door with Long following behind, “Oh, just,” he hesitated, “playing a prank on some coworkers.” He crossed quickly to the bar. Ed handed him the paper’s financial section.
“I had Gordon make the throws an hour ago,” he explained.
Turning to Long, Jake said, “I tell the guys that these are hot stock tips. They don’t know a chimp made them.” He nodded to Ed, “Well, gotta go, thanks.”
Long watched him leave almost as quickly as he came, “That was fast. How long’s he been coming in here like that?”
“About five or six months,” Ed began wiping the bar with a rag.
Last November
Jake was too young to remember when Kennedy was shot. He did however remember the significant dates in his lifetime: The day Sheila broke off the engagement (March 12th), of course, 9/11, and Thursday November 19th at The Brass Monkey.
Ed was at the bar, but there was no newspaper waiting for him. “Hey,” Jake said.
“Hey yourself, how ya doing Jake?” Ed’s back was to him.
“Good,” Jake looked around, “where’s Gordon?”
Ed still was facing away, “I gave him away.”
“You what! How could you? Who…?” Jake felt light headed.
Ed turned then. His eyes were red. Had he been drinking? Crying? “Man! Gordon was like family, but after that health inspector notice, and the guys said he’d be in a habitat. I mean it’s a good thing right?”
Jake’s mind was spinning, “The health department took him?”
“No, these guys did.” Ed handed him a glossy brochure. Wilderness Relocations: Putting Nurture Back into Nature. “He’s in a nature preserve upstate now.”
The brochure looked real. Jake punched the phone number into his cell phone. “It’s legit”, he told Ed, “I got an answering machine.” He hung up without leaving a message.
The next morning, Jake called the number from his desk. Yes, they relocated wild animals to protected habitats. But no, they did not collect a chimpanzee from a bar in New York. They had no record of Gordon, or The Brass Monkey. Gordon had been stolen, and so it seemed had Jake’s confidence. He took the rest of the day off telling his boss he’d eaten some bad shellfish.
Last Friday, This January
Dick Reynolds started tapping his pen on the desk never breaking eye contact. After what seemed like ten minutes but was probably ten seconds, he said, “Interesting first year you’ve had.”
“Yeah” Jake’s voice sounded reedy he couldn’t take in enough air to make his lungs expand. He coughed. “Yes, it has been…interesting.”
Apparently agreement was the wrong response, Dick scowled. “Baxter Labs certainly found your performance interesting—enough to pull their account and go to Goldman Sachs!”
“I hadn’t heard.” Jake stammered.
“No, you’re no longer on that account. No reason you should have heard.” Dick’s expression was cold.
“You moved the account?” Jake felt like he was drowning.
“After your recent performance, that surprises you?” not waiting for an answer Dick continued, “Actually we didn’t move the account, we’re moving you.” He paused to let his words sink in. “I’m going to need your badge and laptop. If you have any personal effects, they will be collected for you.”
Today
“So, did you have any questions about the employment packet?” Hearing none the woman went down her check list: benefits, non-disclosure, HR handbook. “We’ll you’re ready to go. Mike’s outside he’ll introduce you to the group.”
“Sloan,” Mike Long shook his hand, “nice to see you at Goldman. How’s the car?”
Jake flinched, the car had been repossessed. “Traded it in. It was nice, just a little too flashy.”
Mike shrugged, “Well, let me take you to the boss, and then I’ll let the rest of the group meet you. Your experience with Baxter should really help us get a handle on the account.” Mike maneuvered Jake around a group of desks indicating which one would be his with a head nod, and then stopped in front of one of the corner offices. He lightly knocked on the door and ushered Jake inside. Sitting behind the desk smiling with his upper lip pulled over his teeth was a small chimpanzee. He was dressed in business attire.
“Gordon?” Jake was stunned. “Goldman is Wilderness Relocations?”
Mike shrugged, “No, that was me; six months seemed like too long for a prank.”
Jake continued to stare at the chimp. The suit looked bespoke. He had red suspenders on. There was an open Wall Street Journal on his desk riddled with holes. He started to say something then flung himself to the side as a dart passed within inches of his face burying itself in the wall missing the dart board by more than a foot. “I’ve never seen Gordon miss like that,” said Jake shakily.
Mike put his hand on Jake’s shoulder, “He didn’t miss. He just gets temperamental when we don’t bring him his latte.”
~~~~~
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
