Free Food for Millionaires

by Min Jin Lee

  Kevin rolled his eyes at them and returned to his screen, at least until, as Walter had predicted, the walnut-paneled doors opened for the free food. The aromas of the Indian food issuing from the room were intoxicating. He tried to read the research report. The day before, he’d told a client that the chip maker was at best a neutral, and now the bonehead analyst had changed his mind, saying buy. If Kevin called the client back, he’d look like a moron. Besides, the analyst’s rationale was unpersuasive, and the friggin’ charts made no sense. Fuck, he thought.

  Kevin grunted, and no one paid him any mind.

  This Casey Han girl didn’t look as though she were going to work out. Was she working Ted? Kevin wondered. Possible. Whatever. He wanted to get rid of her so he could get the idiot analyst on the horn before lunch, but the guys were going to kill him if the parade of temp assistants didn’t end soon. On a hunch, the girl appeared unsuited for Wall Street. The traders called him Kevlar Kevin because his instinctive calls were eerily bulletproof. However, the girl’s résumé was unimpeachable. On paper, she was a WOW—walks on water—candidate. But he didn’t like the way Hugh Underhill was looking at her. To his knowledge, Hugh had not yet bonked a sales assistant, but this one was cuter than the ones who’d been on the desk previously. If Hugh wanted a girl, he bagged her. That’s all Kevin needed now, a flaky daddy’s girl screwing his best broker. And if WOW ended up sinking, he’d have to fire her; as it was, they were also calling him Murphy Brown—the TV character who couldn’t keep a secretary.

  “B school, B school,” Kevin muttered to himself, looking for a way out. “So why not be an analyst like your buddy Ted Kim? Get into the investment banking program or some”—he stopped himself from saying “shit”—“thing like that.” When he mentioned the banking program, the brokers made faces as though something smelled bad.

  “I don’t want to make books,” she said, borrowing a phrase she’d heard Jay’s friends say in their complaints about the investment banking program. Hoping to sound like a sales and trading kind of person, Casey said, “I want more action.”

  The men who sat alongside each other laughed heartily. Casey didn’t get it. Then Hugh, the one who had not yet been introduced, said, “And what kind of action are you looking for, exactly?” Then Casey closed her eyes, turning scarlet.

  “So, Ted’s friend wants more action,” Kevin said to Walter, raising his eyebrows.

  Hugh glanced at Casey, tickled by this. He stuck out his hand to introduce himself.

  Casey murmured, “How do you do,” unable to look him in the eye.

  “Very well, thank you,” Hugh answered, smiling broadly.

  Walter jumped in. “Now you’ve got our dog all hot and bothered.”

  Hugh said, “Please ignore the boys. They don’t get to see, much less talk to, attractive women often. You can see why.”

  Casey smiled, sensing that this man was a pathological seducer. And he was only flirting with her. He wasn’t serious. She knew his kind. Hugh was a hound because he could be. In terms of looks and charm, he was in the majors, and, well, she played in the minors—a fact she’d accepted a long time ago. Men like him sought the Ellas of the world. Casey hadn’t grieved too much for this missed opportunity, since Hughs weren’t her type anyway, and she hoped this wasn’t just sour grapes talking.

  Casey heard the footsteps first. The conference room doors had opened. A cavalcade of brokers and traders streamed by to get their complimentary grub. Walter got up, hitching his pants; he’d recently lost twenty pounds but hadn’t had a chance to replace any of his suit trousers. When Walter stood up, Hugh made the seagull sound again, then got up himself. All three sales guys—Kevin, Walter, and Hugh—were extremely tall, six three or four. Walter said, “Follow me.”

  Heaping trays of Indian food were laid out on the long table. A large, happy crowd gathered in clusters, piling food onto their white Chinet plates. Men made jokes about one another’s love handles and spare tires—things women would never say to one another despite thinking them. Walter handed her a thick paper plate before taking his own. “Get what you like, but we gotta head back soon. Okay?” He spoke to her affectionately, as if she were a little kid.

  The food made her mouth water. All around, people spooned food onto their plates, grabbing pieces of warm naan bread. There were pans of bread everywhere. The trays emptied gradually. The group dispersed.

  Kevin and Hugh had already returned to the desk. Casey had managed to grab a cocktail-size Samosa and a scoop of biriyani but had hesitated to fill her plate during an interview. Walter’s plate was crammed with a taste of everything.

  “Gosh. Girls eat so little,” Walter said with wonder in his voice.

  “It happened so fast,” she remarked, her free hand resting at her side.

  Walter swept his right arm to the ceiling, gesturing like a ringleader, and said, “It’s free food for millionaires.”

  She wrinkled her brow, amused by his dramatic movement.

  “In the International Equities Department—that is, Asia, Europe, and Japan sales—the group you’re interviewing for—”

  Casey nodded okay.

  “—whichever desk that sells a deal buys lunch for everyone in the department. We finished a deal last week—a big power plant outside of Bombay. So today we bought Indian. Get it? If Japan sales finishes a deal, then we get sushi.”

  “Gotcha,” she said.

  “The funny thing is that if you were a millionaire like some of these managing directors shaking down seven figures a year, you’d have known to push your way ahead and fill up your plate. Rich people can’t get enough of free stuff.” Walter shrugged. There was no reproach in his tone; in fact, there was a wistful admiration in his voice, as if he were beginning to understand how the world worked.

  “So, this is the game, Casey. You have to take what’s offered.” He spoke like a mentor.

  “If you say so,” Casey replied. But she didn’t know how she felt about money or free things. Her father always said there was no such thing as a free lunch.

  It had been nearly impossible for her to accept Ella’s charity, and even though she loved the beautiful clothes that she couldn’t afford, she couldn’t imagine a life where she was working only for money just so she could get more stuff—because she sensed that somehow it wouldn’t sustain her for very long. Working hard for good grades had made sense because she loved learning itself—the acquisition of new ways of seeing things and possessing new facts—but the good grades hadn’t sustained her, and for her, school wasn’t meant to be forever.

  Casey glanced at her plate again, recalling the posters of her elementary school lunchroom: YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT. So, how much you ate indicated the quantity of your desire. Walter was also implying that how quickly you got your food revealed the likelihood of achieving your goals. She was in fact terribly hungry, but she’d pretended to be otherwise to be ladylike and had moved away from the table to be agreeable, and now she’d continue to be hungry.

  Walter turned to wave back at a girl who was walking toward them. It was hard to tell her age. She might have been about ten years older than Casey but possessed the ideal figure of a twenty-year-old and dressed like one. She wore no stockings. Remarkable legs. Her plate held mostly vegetables and a large piece of bread.

  “Hi, baby,” she said. The men on the floor craned their necks to check out her rear end as she passed them.

  “Hello, Delia,” Walter said cheerfully.

  She came to a full stop to talk to him. Delia wore a short blue linen skirt and a paler blue blouse with its shell buttons gaping slightly across her full bosom. Her eyes were also blue, the color of mint candy, and they shone beneath the waves of curly red blond hair. She had a soft Staten Island accent, almost unnoticeable—it showed up when she said “yeah” now and then. Her facial expression was alert, but it was easy to overlook the intelligence in her eyes because of her suggestive clothing and curvy figure. There was a lushness about her skin, a ripeness. Jay
’s literary friends would have called her a fox and deemed her legs sonnet-worthy.

  “And this is Delia Shannon. The brilliant and talented sales assistant on the European sales desk.”

  “Walter, you’re brokering again.” Delia smiled at Casey warmly.

  “Hi,” Casey said, feeling something sisterly about her.

  “Casey Han is interviewing to be our sales assistant,” Walter said.

  Delia felt sorry for the poor kid. Kevlar wasn’t a bad guy, but his wife should blow him now and then before he left for work. That’s what uptight men needed—Delia felt sure of this. She shook Casey’s hand. “Good luck.”

  Casey withdrew from Delia’s weak and powdery handshake. Used to the firm, make-eye-contact masculine handshakes at Princeton, she found Delia’s grasp anachronistic and overly feminine.

  “So we’re just going to tell Kevin that Casey’s a hire. It’s a no-brainer,” Walter said.

  Delia smiled knowingly.

  “Maybe you’ll help Casey out if she wants to take the job.”

  “Yes, I’d love that. I mean, if everything works out,” Casey said.

  Delia clasped Casey’s large hands with her small white ones, saying, “Anything for Kevin’s new victim. Anything at all.” There was no malice or cynicism in her tone. Casey liked her.

  Walter put his index finger dramatically across his lips, and Delia winked at him.

  “I don’t think you have to worry about Casey. Ted Kim tells me that Casey is as tough as anything,” he said.

  Casey tried not to look surprised.

  “Oh? Is she Ted’s friend?” Delia asked.

  Walter nodded. “Well, I think she’s Ted’s fiancée’s friend. A family friend.”

  Casey nodded, not thinking it necessary to explain. Delia winked again, then excused herself. She had to speak with someone in the mailroom about a package. The men nearby watched her stroll away. Delia’s backside, shaped like a small blue heart, twitched with each gingerly step.

  Delia was a perma-assistant, Walter explained. Never having gone to college, she was stuck in what was supposed to be a two- or three-year job. But apparently Delia did not complain.

  The way Walter confided in her made Casey feel that she might be getting the job. Why else would he tell her these things? When they returned to the desk, Kevin curled his hand toward him, and she went to sit.

  “Two years. Minimum. You’re going to have to work out. I swear. You have to make hotel reservations, get airline tickets, arrange conferences, send out reports, make copies, pick up faxes and packages, and coordinate details. Perfectly. You have to pay attention to everything. Do you understand? Two years. Or else. You will not get a recommendation from me unless you fulfill that two-year mark. Get it?” Kevin was looking hard at her, making sure she understood.

  Hugh put down his fork, amused by Kevin’s offer. “It’s hard to believe that he was once a stellar broker. A salesperson. His personal skills have deteriorated beyond recognition.” He held out his hand. “Casey, welcome to our desk.”

  Casey shook his hand but looked directly at Kevin when she said, “Deal.”

  “And don’t trust this guy,” Kevin said, widening his eyes. “No matter how much he was fighting for you to get the job.”

  Hugh laughed, unfazed. “Yes, don’t trust me. I’m just awful.”

  Walter said, “So you’ll come to work tomorrow?”

  “Yes, of course,” Casey said.

  “Two years,” Kevin said sternly.

  “Enough, tough guy,” Hugh said. “Think of the Thirteenth Amendment.”

  “I’m impressed,” Walter said. “I didn’t know I was working with an abolitionist.”

  Hugh buffed his fingernails against his chest. “Anyway, can you imagine how Kevlar asked his wife to marry him?”

  Walter shivered.

  “Assholes. At least I got a woman to marry me.”

  “The kindness and goodness of the fair sex can never be under-estimated,” Hugh said, beaming at Casey.

  “Down, boy,” Walter said to Hugh, and Hugh made a halo over his head by joining his thumbs and middle fingers.

  Kevin checked his screen. The chip maker had fallen by a basis point since lunch. He threw his pen at the monitor. “I knew it.”

  Casey jolted up in her chair.

  Kevin turned to the girl, remembering to finish up with her. “See you tomorrow at five forty-five.” He picked up the phone to call the analyst. His tone switched completely—earnest, questioning, and calm.

  Walter noticed Casey’s confused expression. She would get it soon—you didn’t get to become the boss without having some versatility in style. Casey remained in her chair, not knowing if she was being dismissed. At once, the phones rang and both Walter and Hugh picked up calls. Walter motioned to Delia, who was back at her desk. He covered the receiver of his phone and whispered, “Go talk to her. Ask her to walk you to Human Resources.”

  Casey went to her, and Delia took over.

  10 OFFERING

  ELLA’S LONG DARK HAIR was pinned up with a barrette, and she wore a lilac-colored linen dress reaching down to the middle of her slender calves. They were at home, so she had no shoes on her bare white feet. Ella tilted her oval-shaped face, peering into Casey’s like a hopeful girl before a party.

  “Maybe you can come with us today?” she asked.

  Casey fumbled through her bag. There were exactly six cigarettes left in the packet she’d accidentally filched from Mary Ellen. The first thing she intended to buy with her paycheck was a carton of Marlboro Lights.

  “I forget,” Casey lied, knowing full well that church began at nine. “When do services start again?” It was already eight in the morning, and Casey had been awake, showered, and dressed for nearly two hours. Before starting her job at Kearn Davis, it had been her habit to rise well before Ella did, prepare coffee, tuck away the sofa bed, read the classifieds, and draft cover letters. She’d been working for a week now, and on this Sunday, she’d wanted to be by herself while Ella and Ted went to church and ate their brunch at Sarabeth’s at the Whitney.

  Ella told her the service times, then invited her again. Her innocence and vulnerability had the effect of making Casey feel hard and wizened. Ella appeared so easy to hurt, and this made Casey careful around her.

  “We never celebrated your job properly. . .” Ella tried again.

  “You keep saying that, but there’s no need. Really.” Casey didn’t want any more kindness or charity from her. Without Casey’s asking, Ella had handed her carfare and lunch money to tide her over until she got paid, bought her hosiery, and loaned her dress shoes to wear to the office. Casey’s debts mounted like a heap of laundry.

  “And I really want you to meet Unu. He promised he’d come today.”

  Casey nodded. In the past week, Ella had been mentioning her cousin who’d just moved into a rental across the street. He’d been an electronics analyst at Pearson Crowell—a second-tier British investment bank. Ella, who had no guile, couldn’t hide her wish for Casey to like Unu and vice versa. Twenty-seven years old, raised in the suburbs of Dallas, St. Mark’s, Dartmouth, the son of a businessman and a doctor—the last of four children. He’d just returned from a four-year stint in Seoul with Pearson Crowell before switching to a boutique firm in New York; he was also fresh from a quick marriage to and a faster divorce from a girl in Korea who had treated him badly.

  Casey sat on the bench near the front door to put on her black espadrilles. She was headed to the roof for her cigarette, and slipped under her arm was the real estate section of the paper. As soon as she’d put together the security deposit and first month’s rent, she’d move out. In anticipation of her departure, Ella had concocted a fantasy that Unu and Casey would fall in love and join her and Ted at church every Sunday. They’d both be couples and do things that couples do. Casey thought it was sweet but ultimately far-fetched. So when Ella got that gleam in her eye talking about Unu, Casey would answer politely, “Your cousin
sounds nice.”

  Her shoes now on, Casey picked up her set of house keys.

  “You don’t like Ted,” Ella said.

  “Pardon?”

  “That’s why you won’t go to church,” Ella said. Casey would agree to do most anything with her on the weekends, mundane errands like grocery shopping or a trip to the dry cleaner, but when she invited her to do something, even fun things like movies or dinner, when Ted would be there, Casey declined. And Ella had not forgotten this from their confirmation class days: Despite Casey’s “too cool for Sunday school” affect, Casey was the student who’d consistently asked the singular questions about God.

  Casey dropped a book of matches into her white shirt pocket, pretending not to have heard what Ella said. She placed her right hand on the doorknob.

  “He’s not easy. I know that,” Ella said.

  “What are you talking about?” Casey asked. Had her contempt been so obvious? “Your fiancé got me a great job.”

  “It’ll be fun. Please say yes. Unu’s my favorite person. You’ll—”

  The phone rang, and guessing accurately it was Ted, Casey walked out, saying, “Ella, you know I can’t make any big decisions without my morning cigarette.”

  It was Ted, a fellow smoker, who’d told her about the roof on Ella’s building. Ella was allergic to smoke, and oddly enough, Ted and Casey were unrepentant. But they never smoked in her presence.

  Unlike the roof at her parents’, this one was meant to be used by all the residents. There were pink and white geranium plants in terra-cotta pots and metal patio furniture painted a racing green color set up invitingly on the white gravel-covered roof. On summer weekends, young women sunbathed with their bikini strings undone and men in baseball hats and sweatpants plowed leisurely through their swollen Timeses while drinking lukewarm coffee in mugs brought from home.