“Just take the call, Charlie,” Zadie sighs.
I glance at the screen and see it’s my assistant. “Hey, Lorraine,” I say, answering. “What’s up?”
“Where are you? Are you okay?” Lorraine says, the alarm in her voice apparent.
“I’m fine. Why? I was just going to work from home today. Is everything—”
“Charlie,” she says, her voice low, as though she’s cupping her hand around the receiver. “What the hell were you thinking last night?”
This stumps me. “What was I thinking about what?”
“That speech. I mean, wow. Wow.”
I scratch my head. “Yeah, I know. I was slurring my words for sure. But Welles just sprung it on me! And it’s not like I’m the first person in history to have one drink too many at an office party.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Zadie slip out into the hall. She closes the door behind her, giving me some privacy.
“Yeah, well, the slurring was one thing,” Lorraine says. “But now it’s online and . . .” She trails off. “Look, Fred and Welles both stopped by earlier looking for you. I think you’d better get your ass down here ASAP.”
I frown into the phone. “What do you mean, ‘it’s online’?”
There is a long, deafening pause on the other end of the phone. “Have you checked your e-mail yet? Someone videotaped your speech and it ended up on YouTube. And it’s, like, going viral, basically. I’m checking now . . . yeah, it’s up to, like, seventy thousand views already. Welles is freaking out. Some of the stuff you said about your clients, well, I’m pretty sure they could sue you for it.”
A sour feeling fills my stomach. “I think there must be some kind of mistake,” I say feebly. “I’m sure I can clear things up. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Good,” Lorraine says, “because someone from Page Six just called for comment.”
The YouTube
Welles sits across the conference table from me, silent. Every few minutes he shakes his head, as if he is trying, and failing, to come up with adequate words to address such a monstrous breach of etiquette. Beside him, Fred fidgets nervously and refuses to make eye contact. Next to Fred sits Steve Mays, who has absorbed himself wholly in his BlackBerry, and next to Steve is Lauren Hatchfelder, the delightfully slutty and self-important head of Human Resources. Lauren, who has perfected the art of sexifying business attire, has stepped up her game today and is wearing a tight pantsuit and a new pair of thick, black-framed glasses that make her look like a librarian in a skin flick. Of the five of us, Lauren is the only one who looks absolutely thrilled to be here. It’s probably not every day that a Human Resources issue gets elevated to senior management.
When the clock hits eight thirty a.m., Lauren springs to life. She bounces from her chair and, bending over in a way that makes it impossible not to look down her shirt, slides a small sheaf of paper across the table to me. “Here you go, Charlie,” she says, and offers me a pouting smile, the kind you give a significant other right before saying something like, Look, it’s not you, it’s me.
But it is me. That much is clear. Fred, who less than twenty-four hours ago was treating me like the son he never had, now can’t bear to look at me. No one is looking at me. Not knowing what else to do, I stare down at the printouts in front of me. I don’t need to read beyond the headlines; I know how much trouble I’m in. But I do anyway, because it appears that that is what is expected, and it saves me from looking helplessly across a table at a bunch of people who are trying their damnedest to pretend I no longer exist.
• • •
After what feels like an eternal silence, Welles clears his throat. I look up: eight eyes are now fixed on me. I manage a weak smile that is not returned.
“So, Mr. Goldwyn,” Welles says, sounding exhausted already. “I don’t think I need to explain to you why we’re all here this morning.”
Mr. Goldwyn. Yesterday I was Charlie. This can’t be good. I offer my most concerned nod.
“Your speech last night was inappropriate, to say the least. I think I speak for all of us here when I say that I found your characterizations of our clients here at Hardwick offensive, defamatory, and just plain wrong.”
“Sir, if I may—”
He silences me with a flick of the hand. “Now, it would be one thing if you had chosen to given this speech in the privacy of your own home. It’s another when it’s at a firm gathering. And it’s quite another when it ends up on ‘the YouTube’ ”—he uses air quotes here, as though he’s not entirely certain what YouTube is—“where, I understand, it has”—air quotes again—“ ‘gone viral.’ ”
“Well, see, that’s the thing, sir,” I say quickly, before realizing I haven’t actually been asked a question or been given permission to speak. “If I may say a few words?”
“Please,” Welles says. He makes a grand sweeping gesture. “By all means, tell us what’s on your mind, Mr. Goldwyn.”
“I’m just wondering how this did end up on YouTube. Why would someone put this online if not to damage the firm’s reputation?”
Suddenly, with bone-chilling clarity, I know the answer to my own question.
Todd.
That little weasel. I don’t remember much from the previous evening, but I do remember him holding up his phone. At the time I thought he was snapping a picture, but now I realize he was sealing my fate.
Welles is talking, but I’ve stopped listening.
“I’m sorry,” I say, cutting him off. “But it was Todd Ellison. He filmed me last night. I’m sure of it. He’s the one who leaked the video. He’s the one who put the firm’s reputation in jeopardy.”
From the look that Welles gives Fred, it’s clear that they at least suspected as much.
“Don’t you see?” I snap. “He’s trying to eliminate his competition. We’re the only two associates in Litigation up for partner this year and, let’s be honest, everyone knows I’m better qualified. Me screwing up is the best thing that could possibly happen to Todd right now. I have to hand it to him, though: he’s smarter than I thought. Filming me while I made an ass of myself was pretty clever. But leaking it, well, that’s a stroke of evil genius.”
Welles shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He knows I’m right, but of course he’ll never admit it. Like any good lawyer, he’s already thinking ahead to a potential lawsuit.
“We don’t know how this video became public. What Mr. Ellison did or did not do is not relevant to this discussion,” he says curtly. “The fact is, this video made its way onto some legal blog, and from there it was picked up by the mainstream press. It is, as we speak, gaining traction. Whether you like it or not, Mr. Goldwyn, you are rapidly becoming some kind of anticorporate poster child. The voice of a disaffected generation. Not unlike that fellow at Goldman Sachs who penned that very angry op-ed in the New York Times.”
“That’s totally different!” I explode. “That guy wrote a fucking op-ed! I made a fool of myself at an office party. I was drunk, that’s all. Haven’t you ever said something you didn’t mean when you were drunk?”
Welles pretends not to have heard this question. “As you might imagine,” he continues, as if reading from a script, “this is a publicity nightmare for the firm. It shows a terrible lack of judgment on your part, one that will be very difficult to explain to clients. Clients hire us, Mr. Goldwyn, for our clarity of thought, our professionalism, and our discretion. You have demonstrated none of the three.”
I feel the mood shift in the room. Lauren’s closed her eyes as though I’m a puppy about to be put down and she can’t bear to watch. Fred is tugging on his eyebrow, something he does during particularly stressful client meetings. All of a sudden it hits me like a ton of bricks: I’m not being reprimanded. I’m being fired.
The anger I felt one minute earlier rushes out of me like air from a balloon. “It will blow over. I’ll take some time off. Unpaid, of course. Tell them I’m still in mourning. It will all blow over.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Charlie,” Steve Mays pipes up. He doesn’t look angry, just sad. Somehow this is worse. “This job is very stressful. We all know that, and we can appreciate that you went through a particularly challenging personal time with the loss of your wife. But clients . . . well, I’m not sure they will be so forgiving. Let’s put aside the fact that you expressed some very strong opinions about the finance community generally. How can you ask a client to trust a lawyer who not only doesn’t respect him, but who can crack so easily under stress?”
He’s got a point. I slump back in my chair, close my eyes. This whole thing is a fucking nightmare. Some small part of me still clings to the hope that at any moment I will wake up and it will all be over.
“This can’t be happening.” I shake my head. “I’ve given up everything for this firm. My whole life is this firm. I have nothing else.”
“We are fully prepared to offer you a very generous severance package, and we will assist you in finding another job,” Welles says. “Lauren here will go over the details of the offer, as well as specifics regarding health insurance, your 401(k) . . .”
“You can’t seriously be firing me.” I’m muttering to myself, since no one else appears to be listening. Has the air conditioner malfunctioned? It’s a hundred thousand degrees in here all of a sudden. I look at Fred. How can he sit there so calmly while Welles tears me apart? I strip off my blazer and tug at my tie, which is knotted far too tightly around my neck.
“The firm will, of course, be issuing some sort of press release addressing the situation. The last thing we need is for one of your former clients to sue us, though of course that is certainly a possibility. We’ve already engaged a public relations firm which specializes in crisis management—”
“Is it hot in here?” I look to Lauren. “I’m having trouble breathing.”
“Charlie?” she says. Her face twists with concern. “Are you okay?”
“We’d like you to speak with the head of the PR team as soon as possible. He may want you to apologize publicly to any clients you may have offended.”
“Not okay,” I manage. My right hand shoots to my left bicep, which is throbbing with an unusually unpleasant burning sensation. The track lighting on the ceiling is getting brighter and brighter; I feel like I’m looking directly into the sun. What is going on in here? I have to get out. I stand up and spin around, looking for the nearest exit.
Welles pauses and peers at me over the top of his glasses. “Mr. Goldwyn? Are you listening to me?”
“No,” I squeak. “I’m not listening. I have to get out of here. I’m having a heart attack.”
And with that, I collapse onto the cold, hard conference room floor. The last things I see before I black out are Lauren Hatchfelder’s pendulous breasts swinging towards my face as she lunges at me, yelling something about calling the paramedics.
Family History
“How are you feeling, Mr. Goldwyn?”
My eyes flicker open. A strikingly handsome man in a white jacket smiles at me from my bedside. “I’m Dr. Fabulan. Would it be all right if I ask you a few questions?”
I blink at the man. What did he say his name was? Dr. Fabio? Dr. Fabulous? He doesn’t look like a real doctor. He looks like an actor playing a doctor on a telenovela. His teeth are suspiciously white, a shade that can’t possibly exist in nature.
“Do you know what day it is, Mr. Goldwyn?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you know what day it is?” he says more slowly, enunciating his syllables in a way that is simultaneously condescending and terrifying. Dooo yooo know what day eet ease?
“Friday?” I guess, still wondering if this is some incredibly realistic dream in which I play a patient on a show being broadcast on Telemundo.
Dr. Fabio writes something down on his clipboard.
“And can you tell me your address?”
“Two fifteen East Seventy-Fourth Street. Listen, I think the guy in the ambulance asked me all of this before. Does a heart attack cause temporary amnesia or something?”
Dr. Fabio looks up from his clipboard. “Mr. Goldwyn, you didn’t have a heart attack. I believe what you had was a panic attack.” Pan-eek attack.
“Excuse me?”
Before he can answer, the door opens, and Zadie comes flying through.
“Charlie! I’m so sorry it took me so long to get here! I had to find someone to watch Caleb. What happened? Are you okay?”
I stare at the cardiac monitor beside my bed. A little green heart flashes on the screen, signaling that I am, in fact, alive.
“It’s nothing,” I say, thinking how hard it is to appear casual while wearing a paper dress. “I thought I was having a heart attack. And then I sort of passed out—”
“Oh my God.” Zadie’s face is wrought with worry.
“But everything’s fine—”
“Charlie, a heart attack? Everything is not fine.”
Dr. Fabio clears his throat.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Zadie looks up as though she’s just noticing Dr. Fabio for the first time. It might be my imagination, but I swear she gives him a reflexive once-over. “I didn’t see you there. How rude of me. I’m Zadie,” she says with a flurry of giddy laughter.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Goldwyn,” Fabio says.
“Oh, no, no,” we both say in unison.
“I’m his—”
“She’s my—”
He looks at us, amused.
“Sister,” we both conclude.
“Ah. Well. Please take a seat, Mrs. . . . ?” He trails off.
“Miss,” Zadie says, batting her eyelashes. “Miss Goldwyn. But please call me Zadie.”
“All right, Zadie.”
I cough, reminding them of my existence.
“As I was saying,” Dr. Fabio says quickly, “while what Mr. Goldwyn experienced—chest pain, shortness of breath, heart palpitations, vertigo—may have felt very much like a heart attack, it was, in fact, nothing more than a panic attack.”
“No”—I shake my head—“it was a heart attack. I’m sure of it.”
“I know it may have felt that way to you, Mr. Goldwyn,” Dr. Fabio says, “but neither your EKG nor your blood work showed any signs of a heart attack.”
“Your tests are wrong, then. Run them again.”
“This is a good thing, I assure you,” Dr. Fabio says, appealing to Zadie, who he’s already correctly identified as the more reasonable adult in this situation. “Your heart is healthy as can be.”
“It’s a good thing, Charlie,” Zadie says, bobbing her head in agreement. “It’s such a relief. A heart attack—my God.”
“If my heart’s so healthy, then why did it completely malfunction for no reason?” I argue. “I mean, I passed out. That’s not just in my head. I didn’t just make that up.”
“No, no, Mr. Goldwyn, you’re misunderstanding me. I don’t mean to downplay the significance of what you experienced. The symptoms of a panic attack, particularly an acute one such as yours, are real and terrifying. They are also similar to those experienced during a heart attack, so it’s quite common for patients to confuse the two.”
“It’s just good there’s no damage to your heart, Charlie. But you’ve got to take better care of yourself, okay? Less stress, okay? Caleb needs you. I need you.”
“Have you been under stress lately, Mr. Goldwyn?”
He’s got me there. “Yes,” I concede. “I guess. A little bit.”
“His wife was on Flight 1173,” Zadie offers.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Goldwyn.”
I nod, willing him to move on.
“And our mom died a year before that. She had stomach cancer.”
I shoot Zadie a look.
“I’m just giving him the whole picture, Charlie.”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Goldwyn,” Dr. Fabio says in a grave voice that I imagine he reserves for the most depressing of patients. “That’s a lot of stress for on
e family to bear.”
“We live together,” Zadie blurts out. “I mean, I live with Charlie and his son in their apartment. I help take care of Caleb. It’s worked out well so far. No complaints. But I know it’s probably a lot for Charlie. I mean, what thirty-five-year-old wants to come home to his sister every night, right?” She lets out a nervous chuckle.
I close my eyes and lean back against the pillow.
“Anyway, my point is, he’s got a lot on his plate. It’s been a tough few years.”
Dr. Fabio smiles sympathetically at Zadie, who in turn picks at her cuticle and stares at the floor.
“Your son’s name is Caleb?” he says to me, after a second.
“Yes. He’s five.”
“He’s your only?”
“My one and only, yes.”
“That can’t be easy, being a single father.”
“It’s been a blast.”
Dr. Fabio recoils a little. Apparently, this is not the time for sarcasm.
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Goldwyn?” he asks, his words crisp.
“I’m a lawyer.”
“White-collar defense. At a big firm. His job is also very stressful,” Zadie adds knowingly.
“On a scale of one to ten, how would you quantify your recent stress level?”
I pause. A fourteen? I think.
“An eight?”
“Would you say that is higher than normal?”
“Maybe a little.”
“He’s been really stressed lately,” Zadie pipes up. “And this isn’t the first time he’s had a panic attack.”
Dr. Fabio perks up. “What do you mean? Can you describe for me what happened before?” He eyes me suspiciously, as though I’m a defense witness who’s been withholding vital information.
“This hasn’t happened before. Zadie, what are you talking about?”
She widens her eyes at me, sister code for: You know exactly what I’m talking about.
“I’m talking about the time I set you up on that date with my friend Andrea.” She looks up at Dr. Fabio. “He hyperventilated in the middle of a restaurant.”
This Was Not the Plan Page 5
