by Hazel Parker
The end result was that when my flight landed in New York City at about midnight on Sunday and Ben told me I had to be in the office by eight the next morning, I was as close as I’d ever come to having a nervous breakdown.
Fortunately, I could pull from prior experience and rally around a shitload of coffee and the promise of an early bedtime Monday night. I would still have to work quite a bit that week, but if I just managed to get to bed by seven on Monday night, I could sleep for about eleven hours, more or less catching up on my sleep enough that I could avoid the worst.
I just hoped Fitz didn’t see me in this state.
But then again, I didn’t know why I worried about Fitz seeing me in this state. We’d kept up sporadic communication since our abomination of an attempted date, but I just felt like Fitz didn’t see any potential. I was probably self-sabotaging it to make it easier for me—it’s not like Fitz was anything other than his usual friendly, low-key self when we met in the cafeteria. But even if I wasn’t…
Well, this was the life choice I’d made. I had chosen the insane working lifestyle at the sacrifice of my family. Such was how it went.
All went well for the most part when I got into the office. I managed to sneak a nap in my lunch break, choosing to order Seamless delivery up to my office for lunch. I got to six and prepared to wrap up for the day when Ben called me into his office.
Fuck, please let this be quick.
I marched over to Ben’s office, barely holding myself together. I felt good at the moment, but it would only take one thing for Ben to say to piss me off enough for me to lose my mind. I entered the room as soon as he motioned for me to come in.
“How are you feeling, Amelia?”
“Fine.”
No one ever said “tired.” Much of the deal of working in banking was giving the appearance that you could handle the worst of it and face up to the challenges the job presented. If you couldn’t, then you didn’t get promoted. And right now, I had to give the appearance that not even two cross-global flights in the span of three days could make me tired.
“Good,” Ben said.
He’s struggling as much as I am, I thought as I noticed the bags under his eyes and how he seemed to have added a little bit of weight in the past month.
“Because we need you to finish something,” he said.
My mind went blank. Finish something? But I just got home. I just got home. You wanted me to rest…
Ben kept talking, and I saw his mouth moving, but I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. It was like my brain had suddenly turned to mush, and I could no longer make any sense of what was up and what was down. My head began to spin.
“…understood, Amelia? Amelia?”
“Yeah, sure, sure,” I said, starting to mumble to myself. “Sure, sure.”
“Amelia?”
“I’m fine!” I snapped, way too strongly to suggest that that was true in the slightest sense.
Ben leaned back into his chair.
“I, umm, I’ll give this to some of your associates. They could use the chance to prove themselves a bit.”
He had taken the work back, but the damage had already been done. I left his office in a zombie-like trance, unable to handle the stress. I had finally cracked. Sure, the work had been removed for tonight, but tomorrow? The day after? It would never end. Never, ever end.
That was the nature of working in investment banking. We had to get more, more, and more. Banks didn’t exist to invest. I didn’t have a job to help people get funding. I had a job so I could maximize profit for the corporate entity known as Rothenberg Banking. I worked an average of eighty hours a week since I’d graduated Princeton purely so I could add a few million dollars to the bottom line at Rothenberg.
I wasn’t saving the world. I wasn’t doing anything I said I wanted to do at eighteen. I wasn’t helping people.
I was just working at a job that people would claim to be impressed by with a bank account that barely kept past my spending in a city that never slept.
What the fuck was wrong with me? How the fuck had I let my life get to this point?
I walked out of the office, grabbed my suitcase, and headed for the elevator. One other analyst looked at me—an analyst that Ben was going to give the work to.
“Amelia?” he said. “Do you—”
“Go see Ben, now.”
I had no emotion in my voice. I think I scared the poor soul into moving as quickly as he could, skittering to Ben’s office like a cockroach underneath a stage light. The doors opened up, and the worst thing possible on the other side awaited.
“Fitz,” I said.
“Amelia, are you OK?” he said as I turned around and faced the doors. I didn’t want him to see my eyes, which couldn’t focus on anything, they were so tired. “Amelia?”
“I’m fine, Fitz,” I said. “I am fine. I am very fine.”
“You don’t sound—”
“I don’t need your fucking pity, OK? I don’t need anyone’s fucking pity!”
I kept my eyes ahead, but this time, it was because I was starting to feel emotional. And I did not do emotional. I especially did not do emotional when I was in the middle of my office, trying to keep it together in front of the rest of my peers.
“Amelia, you need to go home for a bit,” Fitz said as if giving me advice that I didn’t fucking know already. “You’re probably exhausted from jet lag. It’ll be—”
“Yeah? You gonna take me there on your motorcycle?”
Fitz bit his lip. I realized I’d gone too far.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice wavering. “I’m sorry. I…”
I took a deep breath, but I didn’t say anything more. The more I talked, the closer I got to crying, like a weakling, in the Rothenberg Banking building. If I cried, I needed to do so far away from this golden prison. I needed to do it at home, alone, where no one could bother me. Not even Fitz.
“Amelia, we can—”
“No, Fitz, I need to go home,” I said.
I took a risk. I turned and faced him. The reaction on his face said it all.
“Just let me go home. I have some thinking I need to do.”
The doors opened, and without another word to Fitz, I left. I didn’t bother waiting for an Uber. I just hailed the first cab that appeared and rode it home, fighting to stay awake long enough to get upstairs to my room before I fell asleep on the couch once again.
* * *
When I woke up, it was four in the morning. I tried like hell to go back to sleep, still feeling tired, but my body refused to let me. Apparently, I had adapted too well to functioning on less than six hours of sleep. At least I had gotten close to nine tonight, but I wouldn’t hit double digits, no matter how much I tried.
But the lack of sleep had done something to me that I could not sleep off.
It had made me realize that I had officially hit the breaking point. And now that I had hit the breaking point, I didn’t think there was any going back. Even if I turned around and repaired said breaking point, I’d still have the battle scars and wounds.
I stood up, headed to the bathroom, and splashed some water on my face. No matter how much I tried, I could not force myself to be energetic. It was like this job had not only cracked me; it had put a ceiling on my mood. I could not go above a certain level of energy.
“Come on, come on,” I said, muttering to myself. “Wake up, wake up!”
This was the deal you made. Get paid, get nothing else. Be lopsided in one area of your life, and nothing else.
I had always thought that “more” was the answer. More money. More responsibilities. More prestige.
And what, exactly, had that gotten me?
You have a moment like this at least once a year. Go lie down, watch some sports highlights if you have to. It’s not any different.
It might be this time.
No, no, it’s not.
Is this still part of the nervous breakdown?
I headed
back to my room, dragging like a zombie through my empty apartment. I briefly pulled back the curtains and looked down. A couple of stray cars drove by, one of which stopped abruptly for some reason, undoubtedly honking its horn in frustration and fury. A couple of people walked by. It was impossible to tell their mood, but they didn’t look homeless. They looked...free.
You’re still employed. What are you going to do, quit your job? You really think because of one noticeably bad stretch at work, you want to quit? This happens annually.
I went back to my phone and read through any of the messages that I had missed. I had a couple from my parents asking me to call them. My mom, in particular, wanted to know if I had become partner at the firm yet. One step at a time, Mom, come on. My father wanted to know if I was eating enough.
I had a message from one of the few friends I had outside finance, Natasha, asking me what I wanted to do for my birthday. It had completely eluded me that my birthday was in just a month’s time; frankly, sometimes, if the weather were lukewarm enough, I would just lose track of what month it was.
And then I had a message from the only person who seemed to notice and care about my breakdown at work yesterday.
“I just want to check in and make sure everything is OK. If you need to take a work-from-home day, I can let Rothenberg know that you hurt yourself or something like that.”
I smiled at Fitz’s message. Getting away with something like that at Rothenberg wasn’t so easy. Unlike elementary school nurses, they required extensive proof before they handed out sick pay and the like. But to see that Fitz cared...I guess there was a pretty good reason that I liked him so much.
It made me even more pained to know that we weren’t going to be anything right now. And I sure couldn’t admit any weakness. Even though Fitz was a good guy, I couldn’t afford to look weak before anyone.
“I’m good, thank you, though,” was all that I wrote back.
I hit send, put my phone on the bed, and went back to staring out the window. I didn’t really think of much of anything. I was content just to let the morning play out, the sky shifting from a dark blue to an ocean blue to a light blue to the early signs of sunrise. At six, I began my morning prep routine.
I got all the way to getting out the door when I looked at my phone again. Fitz had not been so inclined to let what I had done slip by.
“Are you sure? You didn’t seem fine at work yesterday. You can talk to me.”
I know. And that’s what makes it painful. If I do say something to you...how much are the floodgates going to open?
I ignored the message for a while. I did all that I could to not say anything to him. I went to the bagel shop, got myself a bacon, egg, and cheese, and headed for the lobby.
And then, in a bit of an impulsive moment, I stopped the elevator on the cafeteria floor.
I got off, went to the only fit person in the room, and sat beside him.
“Can I get the Business & Finance section?” I said.
Fitz dropped the paper, smiled, and reached in and grabbed it. I unfolded it and held it out in front of my face, making me anonymous to the rest of the room.
“I can’t believe you’re back,” Fitz said. “You didn’t look great yesterday.”
“And you’re surprised?” I said. “I’m obsessed with becoming executive director, Fitz. I can’t get that role if I take off for a mental day. I’m not some West Coast floozy.”
“True,” Fitz said. “But sometimes, a chance to reflect can be a good thing. You know?”
I’m afraid of what I’ll discover if I do take that day.
“When was the last time you took a day off?” I shot back.
“Me?” Fitz said with a laugh. “It’s been too long. But if you ask Gerald, he thinks I take every evening off. Besides, I have my motorcycle. It helps me stay centered and relaxed certain evenings.”
The motorcycle. I just assumed I’d never get to ride it. Maybe…
Maybe…
“Let me ask you something.”
“Hmm?”
“You said you ride your motorcycle in order to relax, right?”
Fitz nodded, either unaware of the direction I was about to take this or doing a good job of hiding his awareness.
“Where is your motorcycle right now?”
“Brooklyn. Not far from the subway. Why?”
I turned to him, a smile on my face.
“Want to help me relax?”
Chapter 9: Fitz
My motorcycle usually helped me relax.
Though it was really a rocket of transportation, a metallic horse upon which I rode, the equivalent of my own personal cavalry, it had always acted more as something that I used to calm my nerves after a long day at work. Some people used it to be invigorated, some people used it for status, and some people used it to send a message, but despite the loud VROOM VROOM that any acceleration produced, it was almost like white noise to me.
Tonight, though?
Tonight, that motorcycle was going to get me excited to do something I hadn’t done before.
It was going to be the vessel upon which Amelia and I could actually explore our relationship.
Naturally, we weren’t going to talk much while actually on the bike. But I knew that the bike would help Amelia with whatever she was going through. It would either thrill her and make her scream with delight, or it would overload her so much that she wouldn’t have any energy to feel stressed about. Either way, this would go a long way to helping her out.
Gerald tried to yell for me when I left the office at seven, but I ignored him. I knew I’d get an earful from him but seeing Amelia had made me go through my own reflection the night before, and I was already leaning in a direction that Uncle would not approve of.
As soon as I escaped Rothenberg Banking, as if becoming Clark Kent transforming into Superman, I ditched my banker’s clothes in a bathroom stall and put on my Savage Saints cut. The two-piece suit, black tie, and button-down white shirt vanished in favor of a navy-blue t-shirt and my black cut. I still kept the glasses, but that was only because my contacts were at home—and nothing needed to stand between me and my bike.
The only fallacy in this analogy was that Clark Kent emerged as Superman seconds after stepping into the phone booth and could get into the action immediately. I went from Thomas Fitzgerald, relatively anonymous banker at Rothenberg Banking, to Fitz, secretary of the growing Savage Saints...and would now ride the subway like everyone else. It was like Superman had busted out of the booth but then needed to get on a cross-country flight to get to Metropolis.
Still, I had energy, I had confidence, and I had a smile that could not be removed as I rode the subway all the way down to Brooklyn. I thought of how the ride would go, specifically how Amelia would respond to it. Something Marcel had mentioned and that several other club members had confirmed was how much a woman could get off just from riding a bike—literally. They spoke of how, once that happened, even if they didn’t get off completely, they’d want you so bad that the rest was just easy work.
I didn’t want to say that that was my explicit goal with Amelia.
But…
I was attracted to her, she was attracted to me, and we kept telling each other that work prevented us from being anything more. Why did we have to accept conditions like that? Why couldn’t we just have fun like two young adults? We might have been a little older than, say, Marcel, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t have fun like him and Christine.
The subway came to its abrupt stop in Brooklyn, and I pushed through, unusually aggressive about getting out of the station. I slithered through people moving too slow for my own tastes, including many of the locals, and took the stairs two at a time. When I got outside, I jogged at a steadily increasing pace toward Brooklyn Repairs. I nearly ran over a few people, and though this was very unlike me, it was also very unlikely that I would get another chance like this again.
I busted open the door at Brooklyn Repairs, finding only Uncle
in the back, working on his laptop.
“Fitz?” he said, surprise in his voice. “The hell you doing here?”
“Just going for a ride.”
He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. I got my hands on the handlebars and started to flip my right leg over the bike when I saw Uncle step out, his arms crossed, a bemused grin on his face.
“You’re going to pick up a girl, aren’t you?”
I nodded, not even bothering to hide it.
“Goddamnit, first Marcel, and now you,” Uncle said. “I should have known.”
“Hmm?”
“What do women love more than anything else? Bad boys. There couldn’t be anything more bad boy than being an MC member. Especially an officer.”
I put my hand on the key, preparing to start the engine.
“Are you going to stop me?”
“Stop you?” Uncle said. “No, I want to stop Richard. I want to stop Kyle. You? You’re a grown-ass man. Just remember, I will call out your ass if pussy starts affecting your ability to be our secretary.”
I haven’t gotten “the pussy” yet. And even if I had, I want more than anyone else to be seen as a legitimate member of this club, not just an investor.
“You got nothing to worry about,” I said, a statement that made Uncle scoff as I turned the engine on. “Besides, there’s no club business tonight.”
“There’s always club business!” Uncle shouted, but I was already gently moving the bike around the shop and to the garage. I opened up the front door as I put my helmet on. Uncle put his hand on my shoulder and stopped me. “Just don’t do anything too stupid, OK?”
I shook my head, let gravity take the bike to the street, and then rode out, heading back toward Manhattan and Amelia’s place. Uncle tried to shout something to me, but it quickly became inaudible as the roar of the engine took over.
I smiled as the wind brushed past me, the feeling of being in open space took over, and the freedom that I associated with the bike came back. Even when I hit slower traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge and into Manhattan, I still felt free. I was not at a cubicle, and I was not crunching numbers about another investment. I was living. I was breathing real air. I was Thomas “Fitz” Fitzgerald, the man, not Thomas Fitzgerald, another one of hundreds of employees.
