Burn My Shadow

by Tyler Knight

  “How much was our last paycheck?”

  “Who are you, my wife?”

  Laughter.

  “Look, guys, since you guys started last, gold climbed from fourteen hundred dollars an ounce and now it’s testing a new resistance level at seventeen hundred dollars. Any idiot can make money in this market. That’s not important. What matters is how well you develop your skills in this room, your cash management, and the alliances you form starting right now with the people left in your class that will determine who survives the lean times and develops a career. Next question… You. Go.”

  “What kind of car do you drive?”

  “What am I, invisible? I drive a Prius. It’s comfortable. I like it… You. Yes, you in the Lane Bryant dress.”

  “I…I beg your pardon, sir. I did not raise my hand.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that. I always get my most fascinating questions this way. Go.”

  • • •

  It’s the last week of training and I’m tied for first place in new accounts opened with a kid from Stanford whom everybody pegged as the kind of guy who’d come back and spray the floor with a Heckler & Koch if he didn’t make it past training. A mop of hair swept forward and over his eyes, he could be twenty-four or fourteen. He never says hello to any of the other trainees except me. Already, management pulled him aside for his antisocial behaviour, which is amusing since the personality tests they gave us had a heavy selection bias toward type-A, borderline sociopaths. A typical conversation with us goes like this:

  “Good morning, Hansel. How was your weekend?”

  “If it’s possible to earn a million dollars my first year here, I’m going to do it!”

  I sigh…fucking commission breath.

  “Swell, have a good day.”

  “You’re not going to beat my numbers today.”

  • • •

  I log onto my terminal. Gold tested another resistance at $1,800 before closing in the high $1,700s. Then I listened to a voice mail from my missed phone call. Before the message is over, I dial Tiberius’s extension.

  “TTB. Go.”

  “Hey, it’s Erik from upstairs.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I got a possible new account who called me back—”

  “How much is he considering?”

  “Maybe start with twenty thousand dollars…I’m tied with Hansel and I can’t fuck this up.”

  “Copy that. Give me the client’s number.”

  Tiberius hangs up.

  Moments later, Tiberius’s extension flashes on my caller ID as my phone rings on silent.

  “Okay, Done. Your new client did a hundred thousand dollars. A mix of semi-numismatic and bullion. He ordered three tubes of Swiss Francs, some Kennedy silver dollars, and some junk silver for his bug out bag. Three thousand eight hundred and forty-seven dollars in commissions for you. Zero for the home team. Good job.”

  I say, “Wait, we’re not going to split the commission?”

  “Negative. But I’m claiming you for my team when you get down to the floor. You showed solid judgement by not letting ego get in your way and turning over the trade. Good job. Gideon drafted Hansel. They deserve each other. Whoever else makes it through the training program will get divvied up among the other teams.”

  “Tiberius.”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Team leaders are not supposed to draft trainees, but I told the brass that I’m taking you under my wing. Just don’t embarrass me.”

  • • •

  I sit in my pod and log on to the intranet trading system. Intranet, because we’re disconnected from the Internet on the main trading floor. There is a bathroom located on the trading floor. Its door opens to a clear shot down the row of stalls for anyone passing by on the trading floor, male or female, to see. Aside from the suit on your back, nothing you weren’t born with enters or leaves the trading floor. Not a pen nor a scrap of paper. Paperclips, tape, scissors and staples—all banned. You may only ever use the specific pen and pad of paper issued to you by the firm. Neither of which can ever leave your pod. No electronic devices of any kind. Cell phones are locked away. Violation of these rules subjects you to instant termination.

  • • •

  Eight fifty-nine in the morning. The flat screen TV monitors switch from CNBC to an internal feed. It’s time for the daily corporate propaganda meeting.

  One of our corporate officers holding a microphone paces back and forth and shrieks, “Good morning and happy Monday, everybody! Hope you had a good weekend! Time to get back to work! Let’s read the top ten producers for Friday. You had to earn at least three thousand and eight hundred dollars to make it to the top ten for the day… Coming in at number ten, from the new graduating class, Erik Robinson earned three thousand eight hundred and forty-seven dollars on Friday! Way to go, Erik!”

  I get a round of Monday morning golf claps from my coworkers.

  A nearby AE says, “You don’t seem very pleased.”

  “They’ll put me on a throne today, and tomorrow I’m a son of a bitch begging to keep my seat.”

  He gawks at me as though I’ve committed blasphemy.

  The executive gives shout outs to the remaining top earners for Friday and divvies out their awards accordingly. Then, he shifts to the real reason people show up every Monday. The lottery. A series of cash drawings which occur every Monday. You get one ticket for each $200 increment of commissions you generate during the previous week. For each of your corresponding tickets drawn from a hat, you win $1,000 cash. Today they’re drawing twenty tickets and giving away $20,000 cash. You can win as many times as you have tickets in the hat. Even if none of your tickets are pulled, you can still redeem them for ten dollars cash each. During the lottery, one of my tickets was pulled. During the worst recession in US history, I made $1,200 just for showing up to work.

  • • •

  I’m eating lunch in the outdoor courtyard with some other trainees from my graduating class, listening to them brag about their weekends.

  McNally is saying, “…Tompkins and I took those two skanks—remember the girls that—”

  “Yeah, we remember. They were in the parking lot,” Cortez says, “Go on!”

  “So, sixty seconds after we get those whores back to our room, I’m in the semi-hot one’s asshole—no kissing, no pussy fucking. Straight to the asshole—while Tompkins is trying to convince the short, fat bitch that the piss spot on the front of his pants is just spilled beer—”

  Laughter erupts around the table.

  McNally continues, “So, I’m pulling an ATM when—”

  Cortez says, “What’s an ‘ATM’?”

  “Ass-to-mouth. Jesus, you gotta get out more, dude—”

  One of the senior account executives, a Megan Fox look-alike, walks by our table. All the men stare at her ass.

  Levinson says, “Oh my God, did you see her ass?”

  “That’s the greatest ass I’ve ever seen in my life!” Tompkins says.

  The Fox look-alike turns around and catches the table staring. She scoffs and continues on.

  “Eh, that’s nothing,” McNally says. “I’m getting a girlfriend experience from this porn chick whose ass is—”

  “Wait, what?”

  “What? What ‘what’?” McNally says.

  “A ‘girlfriend experience’.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me, Cortez?” McNally says. “How can you not know these things? These porn chicks, they hook on the side, but they make you wear a condom. But most of them, if you toss a couple bills their way, they’ll fuck you bareback. That’s the girlfriend experience. Business is slow so they’ll do whatever they can to make ends meet—”

  Levinson asks, “Why would you do that?”

  “D
o what?”

  “Fuck a porn chick bareback?” Levinson says. “Those girls have diseases.”

  McNally sighs. He says, “Nah, dude, they test for everything like once a month. Besides, condoms fucking suck. It’s cool.”

  Levinson says, “Erik, you’re always so quiet? What did you do this weekend?”

  “Went out for a few drinks. Nothing special.”

  “You get laid?”

  “Nah.”

  McNally says, “Hang out with us next weekend. We’ll get you laid, dude.”

  • • •

  The contract starlet sits in a chair playing with her pussy. She says, “You wanna put that big black cock inside this tight white pussy, don’t you?”

  I’m sitting in another chair, stroking my dick. I say, “Sure.”

  “I wanna feel your mahogany inside me soooo baaad!”

  This girl requested me for the scene. But we’re on opposite sides of the room masturbating. This is the only way she will do an interracial scene. Under no circumstances will there be any physical contact between us. I sit two paces away from a flesh-and-blood porn star, but I’m rubbing it out to the memory of a civilian: the Megan Fox girl at my day job.

  The director gives the signal for dual climax, so the contract starlet intensifies her masturbation and fakes her orgasm. The camera turns on me, so she gets on her hands and knees to show me her ass for visual stimulation. Her ass looks a bit…off. Then I see them under her cheeks. The scars from ass implants. I close my eyes and focus an image of the day job girl’s real ass. I pop.

  • • •

  Ken, the photographer for the scene, and I sit at the kitchen table. The contract girl is at the table, too.

  Ken says, “I heard you’re off of the Viagra. That couldn’t have been an easy scene. Good job, Tyler. ”

  “Thanks, man. These past few scenes without drugs…it’s like learning how to perform all over again.”

  He nods. I stab my fork into my salad and put it in my mouth.

  Ken says, “I’ve never seen this business so segregated. It’s ridiculous.”

  “You think it’s getting worse?”

  “Yeah. I mean, who’s left from your generation of black male talent? You, Darkus, and Rex?”

  “I had my day in the sun,” I say.

  “Yeah, but then there are scenes like this one. Across the room with no touching? Seriously?”

  The contract starlet’s fingernails click across her iPhone, texting. If she’s listening, she doesn’t seem to care.

  “The business is racist,” I say. “Knowing that, you can either chose to accept it for what it is or you can do something else with your time, because it will never change.”

  The girl gets up from the table and leaves the kitchen.

  Ken says, “The people in porn sure do change. I shot Tina Allen the other day. What a fucking nightmare.”

  “I heard the stories.”

  “She was such a sweet girl before…”

  “Before she won all those awards?”

  “No,” Ken says, “No, she was still cool after the awards. It was when Travis screwed her over. You hear about that?”

  “Uh huh. It was on that mainstream film he directed, right? I know them both…It’s hard to know what to believe, really.”

  “Well, yeah. It was a slasher film, but yeah. Travis actually went to film school. He had these ideas on how he can change the business.” Ken laughs. “Want to know what Travis is doing now?”

  “What?”

  “I heard he’s filming girls getting pies thrown in their faces, then fucked.”

  I laugh. “Well, there you have it.”

  We sit in silence.

  I say, “Have I changed? I mean, for the worse? You’ve known me for years.”

  He takes a bite of his salad and pushes it aside. He says, “I wouldn’t say I know you, Tyler. You never open up to anyone. But yeah, I’m sure you have. Hell, I know I’ve changed, too. Man, Tina was such a nice girl…”

  “Yeah.”

  Ken says, “I always tell my friends back east…you know the ring, Precious, from Lord of the Rings?”

  I nod.

  “I tell my civilian friends that this business is like Precious. It slowly corrupts everyone.”

  • • •

  I say my lines, “It’s time to go,” and walk down a hallway and out the door.

  The director says, “Cut! That’s a picture wrap for Tyler Knight and Ryan Lancer.”

  As Ryan Lancer and I are heading to change, a blond, Calvin Klein model–looking kid orbits us. The kid, porn’s next generation of male talent, asks us questions about performing and asks for any advice we may have. Ryan is patient and answers every question.

  I say my good-byes. Part of me is glad these people are here because I’ll never step foot on another porn set.

  Vlad, the director, says, “If going straight doesn’t work out, you always have porn to fall back on.”

  Jake, the cameraman, says, “You spend eighteen-hour days on set with the same cast and crew years on end, you become a dysfunctional family.”

  The way this business corrupts people, the Decadent crew is one of the few cliques that has managed to not fuck each other over.

  Ryan asks me if I’m ready. We leave the studio and drive off into the night.

  • • •

  “But you’re a legend,” I say. “You’ve got to be a hero for every man who would interview you.”

  Ryan takes a deep drag and blows smoke out the car window. “Therein lies the problem.” he says. “Those kids who saw my work, they’re sitting across the desk from me and they’re thinking, ‘There’s no fucking way I can hire this guy. If something happens, like an HR problem, it’s my ass.’”

  The Mercedes glides onto the freeway on-ramp. This time of night, the nearest car going our direction is a red dot of light ahead of us.

  I say, “So, you’re out? For good?”

  “That last divorce fucking crushed me. Wiped me out. That was the last straw. When my directing and performing contract with Decadent expired, there was nothing keeping me here. Getting as far away from the Valley is the best thing for me. Away from the drugs… I’m healthy, now.”

  “That’s fucking great.”

  The lane lines glow white under our approaching headlights and disappear one after the other as we pass them.

  Ryan says, “You got a woman?”

  “Amanda…been together ten years.”

  “That’s a long time. She in the business?

  “No. Civilian.”

  “And you’ve made it work for the entire time you’ve been in the business.”

  “Yeah… She took me in when I was homeless and despite everything… AIDS scares—remember that HIV outbreak in o-four?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I was first generation exposed, and she… I put her life at risk so many times and I fucked up so many different ways and she never gave up on me. She…”

  My eyes sting. I look out the window and watch the exit-ramp signs pass by my window.

  Ryan whispers, “We’re damaged goods, bro.”

  We exit the freeway and merge onto traffic on Ventura Boulevard, the main artery of Porn Valley. We pull up to the hotel. We park and get out and a valet gets behind the wheel and drives off. Ryan and I stand a car’s width apart, looking at each other.

  I say, “What are you gonna do?”

  He’s silent for a while. Then, he says, “I’m staying in Arizona. Maybe start some kind of business. Then after that…shit, I don’t know. You?”

  “I’m going for it. I’m working a full-time gig while I finish my book.”

  He smiles. “Good for you, bro. Good for you. Remember, whatever happens…whatever happens, you get out of this business w
hile you’ve still got something left, and don’t look back. If you can’t do it for yourself, do it for Amanda. She’s waited long enough.”

  I nod.

  “By the way, my real name is Erik.”

  “I know. I’m Gary.” He laughs.

  He crosses the distance between us and offers me his hand. In all these years of bumping elbows, I can’t remember anyone who has ever offered me his hand to shake. I take it.

  I say, “Nice to meet you, Gary.”

  He laughs. “What the hell, I’ve known you a decade, right? Good luck with the second half of your life.”

  Gary, still holding my hand, pulls me into a hug. He lets go and lights another cigarette. “We were the best in the world at what we did, Erik. The experiences we’ve had…nobody can ever take that away from us.”

  I watch him walk through the hotel’s double doors.

  The bus is coming and I have to run across the street, dodging traffic to catch it. I feed some coins into the slot and find a seat. Then I text Amanda.

  Me: It’s over. I’m out.

  Amanda: Really? You promise?

  Me: Yeah.

  Amanda: I’m so proud of you! Te amo!

  Me: Te amo, mujercita.

  • • •

  It’s Friday. This week saw America’s credit rating downgraded for the first time in history. The equity markets are in turmoil and the precious metals markets, the markets I trade, broke new record highs. It’s draining, but doing an honest day’s work feels good. When I exit the building I check my cell phone for any missed calls that came in during the day. Two texts. One text is from Frank, the director of the scenes when I strangled a girl with an iPod cord, and the scene when I got blown by my baby sister.

  Frank: How’s my favorite psychopath? Are you avail—

  Delete.

  The next text I missed is from a director who wants me to reprise my role as Tyler Wood. He’s always been kind to me so I text him back.

  Me: No.

  Delete.

  If you want to take the shortcut out of the office building complex you have to walk by a restaurant’s outdoor patio. It’s happy hour, and a group of senior account executives sit at a table with some well-dressed women. Dane, one of the senior brokers who took me under his wing, waves me over. He introduces me to everyone, and everybody says hello except one man who leans back in his chair with his arms crossed. He’s got an expression that says, “What’s that smell?” on his hang-dog features and his clothes appear three sizes too big. He reminds me of a pissed-off Humphrey Bogart.