The Subway ; The Debt ; Catastrophic

by Dustin Stevens

  The third floor was split into ten offices, the second-year hires, followed by eight floors with fifteen offices each. All of those offices were filled with people that had been with the firm a minimum of twenty-five years. Every one of them still showed up at least five days a week, many working the same long hours they had when they started.

  Somebody had to keep their trophy ex-wives in the lifestyles they'd grown accustomed to.

  Above those eleven were fifteen more floors, all belonging to the firm. Levels twelve through twenty-four consisted of attorneys ranging from those on the cusp of making partner to those just a few years removed from law school. Grouped in teams of three to five, each one had their own receptionist and paralegal, a veritable free standing entity unto themselves.

  Residing at the very top, the twenty-sixth floor was reserved for the rookies. Every single attorney that had ever working for Webster, Banks & Cohen started there, a fierce testing ground for new hires.

  Nicknamed the two-six, the entirety of the space was one large room with a tangle of desks strewn about. On their first day the new hires were assigned to a particular desk, but where they put it and how they chose to interact with the room was left up to them.

  Corporate America's truest Rorschach test.

  Some angled for the windows, taking advantage of the fact that their firm was the only one in the city that didn’t bury them in the basement. Others chose the middle of the room, displaying their bravado for all to see and daring others to challenge them.

  On his first day, Shane Lazlo chose the corner.

  Not the one closest to the door or the one where two banks of floor-to-ceiling windows intersected, but the far corner.

  As others sought out the coveted positions, shoving their heavy old desks into position while wearing expensive designer suits, Shane nudged his into the darkened corner and began unpacking his bag. By the time some of his smaller coworkers had managed to post up just where they wanted, he had already read through the employee handbook and was moving on to the standard stack of first day documentation.

  Cradled by dark brown brick to his rear and left, Shane positioned his desk tight against the side wall. It afforded him a good view of the room and even a decent sightline to the windows should he so choose.

  Strategically speaking, it was an excellent move.

  On the social scale, it was closer to self-imposed exile.

  That fact had failed to register with Shane the day he chose the seat. Not once in the months since had it done so either.

  Most days Shane was the first person to arrive at the two-six, finding his spot in the corner long before anybody else bothered to come in. He wasn’t much of a morning person, but his preference for the quiet solitude of dawn made up for it.

  Some nights, like this one, he was the last to leave as well.

  Not a single light illuminated the enormous expanse of scattered desks save the small lamp on the corner of his and the laptop screen in front of him.

  New Year's Eve, a night when most people in Boston were at the North End enjoying dinner with family or at Faneuil Hall having drinks with friends, Shane sat alone in the semi-darkness. He had no family to speak of and only a few local friends, making it easy to dodge the handful of half-hearted invites tossed his way.

  Not that he had much to celebrate these days anyway.

  Just six months removed from law school, Shane was twenty-six years old and over a hundred thousand dollars in debt. The firm required seventy billable hours a week from him, which in actuality was more like ninety. The only person he had waiting for him at home each night was a temperamental cat.

  The sadistic irony of being a twenty-six year old cat lady was not lost on him.

  Ten months before, when the offer to join Banks, Webster & Cohen first came in, Shane jumped at the opportunity. The chance to practice environmental law with a renowned firm caught his interest within seconds. The chance to one day make the type of money they were telling him was possible sealed the deal.

  Within weeks the new car smell of the whole thing began to wear off. By Thanksgiving, the closest he'd been to the environment or big money was wandering into the Public Gardens by mistake on his way home one evening.

  With a heavy sigh, Shane tossed his pen down on the desk and rocked back in his chair. He unknotted his tie and let it hang down from either side of his neck, placing his fingertips along his temples and kneading in slow, even circles. After several long moments he dropped his hands to his sides, leaned forward and slid open the bottom drawer from his desk. He withdrew an ancient clock radio and plugged it into the wall behind him.

  Brought in special for the occasion, Shane adjusted the dial through a sea of static before finding what he was looking for. Clear and even, the familiar graveled voice of Ron Rickshaw floated out from the speakers, filling the desolate two-six.

  “Yes sports fans, what we saw here in the first half was a performance for the ages. Ohio Tech running back Tyler Bentley, fresh off a top five finish in this year’s Heisman race, making a strong case that he should have been the one hoisting that trophy at the Yale Club three weeks ago."

  Jumping in was Rickshaw's on-air sidekick, Ken Lucas. “It’s a shame that the folks tuning in this evening are listening on the radio instead of watching a television, Ron. I just don’t know that we can do Bentley's performance justice. Coming out of the backfield for the Crimson Knights, Bentley had rushes of 67, 45 and 38 yards, finishing the half with two hundred yards on the ground and three touchdowns. Forget the Heisman, this guy’s making a strong case that this could be his last game in a college uniform."

  “All week Bentley has been dodging questions about foregoing his senior season and turning pro," Rickshaw said, "stating he will not address those issues until after the Centennial Bowl. I tell you from the way he’s carrying the ball right now, I can’t imagine there are too many college coaches out there that wouldn’t help him pack up his dorm room."

  “This performance comes as no surprise to Crimson Knights fans out there though, Ron. This is what he’s done pretty much all season for Coach Bob Valentine’s club. Over sixteen hundred yards on the ground, another five hundred receiving, a dozen touchdowns. He’s even passed for one and returned a kickoff for another. About the only things this kid hasn’t done yet are tear tickets and hawk programs.”

  Rickshaw chuckled at the comment, his husky voice rasping out through the speakers. “Right you are, Ken. Let’s take it down to the field for a moment and get the word coming out of the locker room from sideline reporter Sue Barnes. Sue?”

  Shane took a long swig from a paper cup of tap water on his desk and rocked back as far as his chair would allow. He put the soles of his loafers on the corner of his desk and smirked.

  "Atta boy."

  Unlike his co-workers, who reminded him every single day of their Ivy League pedigree, Shane was a card carrying alum of Ohio Tech University. In total he'd spent seven years on campus there, enjoying the price breaks for local students and the life that accompanied a college town during football season.

  Tailgates, student sections, road trips. Shane had done everything and regretted nothing.

  “Thanks, Ron," Barnes said. "I spoke with Coach Berg of the Virginia State Falcons and he said that his team had to find a way to contain Tyler Bentley. Coming into tonight they had planned to try and take away all other options for the Crimson Knights and force Bentley to beat them. Right now their plan is quite the opposite – stop Bentley and worry about everybody else later.

  “On the opposite side, Tech Coach Bob Valentine said they have no need to change up what they’re doing. Remaining on the ground they’ve been able to control the clock and the tempo of the game while building a comfortable lead. If it’s not broke...

  "Back up to you guys in the booth.”

  “Thank you, Sue. With that we are all set to begin the second half. Darkness has fallen over Bill Irwin Stadium here in Miami and the temperature has dropped into
the high-60’s, a perfect night for football as Virginia State kicker Drew Lenton gets ready to kick us off.

  “Lenton draws back his standard eight yards and two to the side, has the referee’s whistle, and we're under way here in the second half. Ohio Tech returner Maurice Welsh settles under it just shy of the goal-line and has a bit of a crease, returning it to about the thirty-one, make it thirty-two yard line for the Crimson Knights.”

  “Knowing that Virginia State will be crowding the line and bringing eight or nine guys into the box to try and contain Bentley," Lucas interjected, "it’ll be interesting to see if Tech tries to open it up here. Maybe catch the defense edging forward and pop a big one right off the bat.”

  “First play from scrimmage Tech quarterback Nate Simmons takes the snap and drops back," Rickshaw said, "and he finds tight end Brent Hanson over the middle. Hanson breaks one tackle before being drug down by a host of Falcons. That's good for an eleven yard gain and a first down.”

  “If Virginia State is going to commit that heavy to stopping the run," Lucas said, "they’re going to be susceptible to that all night long. Their only hope is they can get enough pressure on Simmons to keep him off balance, otherwise this could be a very long night for the Falcons.”

  Rickshaw continued with the play call, not bothering to comment on Lucas's analysis. “First and ten from the Crimson Knight’s thirty-three. Simmons takes the snap and hands off to Bentley up the middle for a gain of seven. State was pressed up hard onto the line, but Bentley was still able to squeeze through to the second level.”

  Shane finished the water, sat the cup on the desk beside his computer and checked his watch. "One more play and then back to work. I might even make it home for the fourth quarter."

  “Right now Tech has State back on its heels. The Falcons have no idea what’s coming and no way of stopping it even if they did," Lucas announced.

  “Here on second down Simmons takes the snap and pitches it out to Bentley, swinging hard around the right side," Rickshaw said. "Nifty spin-move to avoid the first man, crosses the line of scrimmage and—

  “Oh! He just got leveled at the forty!”

  An audible groan from the crowd broke like a wave through the radio.

  “Oh my Ken, this does not look good,” Rickshaw said, the change in his tone unmistakable. “Tyler Bentley went down hard and he is not getting up.”

  Shane leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk, turning the volume up a little higher and staring at the radio.

  “I’m taking a look here on the replay," Lucas said, "as State safety Harris Burton comes flying in and..." He let his voice trail off, offering a slight gasp as he sucked in a breath of air between his front teeth.

  "Folks," Rickshaw said, "I know you can’t see this right now and be thankful for that. Burton almost put his helmet through the knee of Tyler Bentley. This does not look good.”

  "Oh my, Ron," Lucas said. “As you can see on the replay, it’s a legal hit. Burton works off a block and throws himself at Bentley, whose foot is planted. Boy did he take a shot right there.”

  Shane slid back in the chair and rested his chin on his chest. He closed his eyes and returned his fingertips to his temples, massaging them in even circles.

  “The angle that his knee is in just after Burton connects is difficult to watch folks," Rickshaw said, a certain measure of sorrow in his voice. "Now they are calling for the stretchers.

  “We can only hope this looks worse than it is.”

  Chapter Two

  The official population of Meeteetse, Wyoming was listed as three hundred and fifty-two people. As it stood, three hundred and fifty-one of them were packed into the local school gym.

  The lone outlier was playing in the Centennial Bowl over two thousand miles away in Miami.

  Situated on a stretch of dusty highway in western Wyoming, Meeteetse was the kind of place that most folks from the east coast referred to as "blink and you miss it." Just three blocks square, the town straddled State Route 120, a two-lane road that originated thirty miles north in Cody and ended fifty miles south, dead-ending into a slightly larger two-lane road running east and west.

  If someone from out of town found themselves in Meeteetse, they either had family nearby or had been caught in Yellowstone after the snows came and had to go the long way back to Cody.

  There was no other reason to be there.

  The town featured the standard lineup of one gas station, one motel, and two bars. One was open through the day, serving breakfast and lunch to locals. The other was open at night, serving dinner and beers to ranchers and hunters. A single school sat on the edge of town, housing all seventy-seven children between the ages of six and eighteen.

  Tonight, every single person in the town sat crammed tight into the drafty school gymnasium for two distinct reasons. First, it was New Year's Eve and each year the entire town came together for the evening. By all accounts it was the high point of the annual calendar, rivaled only by the 4th of July picnic and the Halloween carnival for largest attendance each year.

  Second, and perhaps more important, they were there to see Tyler Bentley.

  Tyler was the only child of Margie Bentley, a native daughter of Meeteetse. While in high school she dated the star of the basketball team and the two of them dreamed of running off together, maybe to the big cities of Billings or Laramie, perhaps as far as the bright lights of Denver.

  In the end, the captain of the basketball team made it all the way to the east coast. Margie never even made it as far as the county line.

  Armed only with a broken heart and a bulging stomach, Margie stayed with her parents until after Tyler was born. She worked longs shifts as a waitress by night and learned to operate a crane at the lumber mill during the day. When she turned twenty-three, she dropped the waitressing, bought a small house on the edge of town, and together she and Tyler made a life for themselves.

  Tyler had been gone three years now, but the town of Meeteetse still considered him as much their own as the flagpole that stood in the town square. They got together every fall Saturday to watch him play and would still be talking about him the next morning at Sunday school.

  Margie made it out to see him play twice a year, this year attending the home opener and the Midwest Conference Championship. The roof on their house was in bad shape and she needed new snow tires on her Jeep, but she'd even managed a third trip out to New York City for the Heisman ceremony.

  Most years, the main draw of the New Year's Eve celebration was a square dance caller from Jackson Hole or a country-western band from Cody. This year, the town had elected to go a different direction, for obvious reasons.

  The women's chorale at the church stitched together over a dozen gleaming white sheets and hung them against one wall of the gym. A projector from the school's audio-visual department was rolled in and the game was broadcast for all to see, their very own star stretched almost twenty feet tall in front of them.

  Big time college football in their little corner of Wyoming.

  Clumps of spectators dotted the bleachers on either side of the gym floor, talking in low voices and enjoying the potluck spread lining the back wall. A low hum of voices hung in the air, almost drowned out by the play-by-play call from the ESPN announcers working the game.

  Less than twenty feet from the wall, Margie sat in a folding chair on the gym floor. The seats on both sides of her were empty as she stared rapt at the screen, the same nervous wreck she'd been during every game she ever saw.

  Margie ignored the food and gossiping going on around her, not even hearing the handful of questions lobbed her away about whether Tyler would turn pro after the game or stay in school. She barely noticed the roar of every person in the gym behind her each time Tyler broke off a big run or the thunderous applause when he scored.

  Didn't hear the groans when Virginia State punched one in late in the half.

  As far as anyone could tell, she didn't even hear the announcers calling the game. Al
l she could hear was the pounding of her own heart as she clutched the edge of her seat and prayed for the safety of her son.

  On the fourth play of the half Margie watched as Tyler took the pitch and swung out towards the high side of the makeshift film screen. It was the same play she’d seen him run a thousand times before and could already envision him planting his foot and making a tight spin back towards the sideline. On cue, Tyler made the move and left a defender hugging air, his body pirouetting in a tight circle.

  Less than a second later he took the hit.

  Margie knew the moment contact was made that Tyler was hurt. She was on her feet before he hit the ground, racing forward to the sheet and casting a long shadow across the screen. Silent tears streamed down her face as she grabbed at the material and kneaded handfuls of it between her palms. The tears grew heavier as she registered the level of concern in the announcer’s voice and thicker still as the network replayed the hit again and again.

  By the time an ambulance rolled onto the field she was hyperventilating, both cheeks stained red and glistening in the half-light of the gym.

  Rooted in place, she watched as medics loaded Tyler onto a gurney and hoisted him into the back of the ambulance. On the field groups of players knelt in prayer as the cameras panned over the shocked faces of spectators from both sides.

  The ambulance crossed the enormous logo painted at midfield and fled from the stadium as Margie stood with a hand pressed over her mouth. Every pair of eyes in the gym was locked on her, a few with tears of their own.

  Nobody made any effort to go to her. Even the youngest children sensed the gravity of the moment and stood still, watching things unfold.

  The sound of Margie's cell-phone rang out, just audible above the concerned voices of the ESPN crew working the game. By little more than reflex she tugged it from the pocket of her jeans and held it to her face. “Hullo?”

  “Ms. Bentley," a deep baritone responded, "this is Jeromy Burbank, team doctor for the Crimson Knights. I assume you saw the play.”