by Carter Blake
Once again, I’ll have to handle this for the sake of everyone’s sanity. It’s just going to take longer than usual.
Behind me, I hear all the noises of this morning—the quiet, tense conversations of interns, the shuffling of papers, the harried footsteps—suddenly stop with the hasty closing of office doors.
This is the second time I’ve heard that particular concerto, and it can only mean one thing.
“Good morning, Mister Barrett.”
Five years and five thousand miles from where I last heard it, that clear, high, and lovely voice is part of my life again. Crises are part of my routine, but this is a whole different set of challenges.
I let some time elapse, soaking in the rare quiet of the office corridor, quietly inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly before finally turning to face Madeline.
That nervous energy is still floating around. I hope Madeline doesn’t sense any of it. As for me, I still have a dry mouth, and my heart is pounding hard against my chest.
“I didn’t mean to send everyone running,” she exclaims from down the hall. She’s wearing a form-fitting dark gray pinstriped suit that flatters her curves perfectly. Her hair is pulled back in a French twist, letting her distinctly striking facial features shine on their own.
She still looks good and knows how to dress well. Good for her.
I’ve got other things to deal with right now. Madeline-related things. But they’ve got nothing to do with her appearance.
“Don’t take it personally,” I reply, walking towards her this time. “Everyone here is very busy, you understand.”
“Of course.”
Drawing closer, I’m struck by a familiar aroma. Roses and vanilla. They remind of other things, memories that come flooding back so strongly—ocean air, pineapple, rum. I almost need to stop walking.
“I know you’re not familiar with our firm,” I say, “but we have a lot of people visit. Keep in mind that not everything that happens is because of you.”
I stop a few feet away from Madeline, keeping a distance that’s slightly too far for a comfortable conversation. I’m close enough that I can’t escape that aroma, which, I’ll admit, is really nice, but I don’t look at her directly.
“It doesn’t matter.” She still has a way of being perfectly cold when she wants, but I’m not going to think about that or let it get to me. “As of now, I only need to speak with you. You’ve got—or can get—everything I need.”
I look up at the gothic ceiling, taking in every nuance of the architecture.
“I’m sure I do.”
I’m being sarcastic and saying nothing of consequence. I make the mistake of tilting my eyes downward a bit too far, and I end up catching the vivid emerald force of Madeline’s eyes, fixed right on me and, for some reason, betraying discomfort at what I just said.
She’s reading too much into things.
“Well, for the sake of your workplace, I hope everyone gets used to the idea of my presence. I’d like to make this as quick and painless as possible, but I don’t want to lie to you...”
“Likewise,” I counter.
I’m not considering my responses or my interruptions. I’m more or less listening to myself speak while studying the wood-grain patterns on a closed office door.
That was kind of fucking stupid of me to say to the investigator, but I’m admittedly unschooled in the way this works. It seems unusual right now, but I won’t let it throw me off.
“Uh, good. Anyway, this’ll be quick. This is just another preliminary visit. In the spirit of honesty, since you seem to believe in it, I’ll tell you that we already have a file with all the documents we’ll probably need. That’s not what I’m here for.”
I nod, although I do feel a bit irritated at the bureaucracy. “Thanks for clearing that up.”
I’m positive everyone else in the office right now is crouched and crowded on the other side of these closed doors—just like they were yesterday—listening for clues as to what the fuck is going on.
I’m sure my last statement didn’t help.
“That’s what I’m here for.” Madeline’s quick answer and assured tone give me a little jolt. A specific kind of charge that I thought I’d forgotten about.
That I’ve tried to forget about.
Feeling it again is going to set me back. Like I said, this is the biggest set of challenges I’ve had, but it’s still just another crisis.
I want to tell her that, along with the whole commission, she’s wasting her time with this.
I would actually do it if it wouldn’t make me sound desperate and shady as hell.
I’ll just have to let her waste this time and take her word for it that it will be quick and painless.
“Mister Barrett...you said I could call you Ethan, right?” Madeline’s voice is much gentler now, but it’s still clear and confident.
I feel another one of those charges, and my eyes are drawn to hers again.
I look away before I can even register their color or intensity. This time, I focus on the carpet, the toes of my polished derby shoes, and the pointed black tips of Madeline’s business pumps.
“Yeah, I said that.”
“Ethan,” Madeline addresses me softly, walking closer. I wish she would stop. “I realize this isn’t easy. Especially when everybody here, it seems, sort of abandoned you to face me alone.”
“I think I can handle it,” I say while staring straight down at our shoes facing each other.
“Hey, Ethan? Ahem, Earth to Ethan.” I see Madeline wave her hand in front of my downward-cast face, and I finally force myself to look up.
She’s smiling lightly.
Okay, she’s won me over enough for that. She’s personable, which must come in handy with her job.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s important that you hear what I’m saying; otherwise, this could end up a lot more difficult for everyone.”
“Okay, Madeline.”
Madeline’s smile changes from cautiously polite to subtly wistful, and she glances down herself, for probably less than a second, before shooting her green gaze back to me.
“This investigation is my life right now, so I’ll tell you what—I can work with your schedule. I don’t want to have to rush anything or create some sort of issue that could muddy or delay things.”
I glimpse at my wristwatch for no reason.
“My schedule? Yes, that can be a problem, sometimes.”
“I know, Ethan. So, here’s what I’m going to do.” Madeline reaches into a side pocket I didn’t even know was there and pulls out an off-white business card.
Fuck, I said her name. Has she even introduced herself in the office?
She hands me her card, and it appears legitimate enough. Her name is printed there, first and last.
If there was ever a time or a place to deny it, it’s not here, and it’s not now.
Another break in routine today: I go home shortly after five in the afternoon. It’s still light outside when I get home.
Ethan
The only time I’m used to seeing sunlight through my windows is during those early morning hours before—or after—work, or if I wake up on a weekend morning and decide to go for a run across the Brooklyn Bridge to clear my mind.
Some mornings, there are the beginnings of soft sunlight when I’m doing what I do best. I think I’m decent at hedge fund management, even if some of my colleagues lay on the praise a little thick.
But I’m even better showing my partner—whoever she happens to be on a given evening—some of the greatest pleasure that life has to offer.
If it now sounds like I’m the one laying on the praise too thick, all I can say is that it’s something I give my all to and pride myself in. I also really enjoy it.
The sun of the late afternoon is a novel sight here in my home, on the fifty-second floor of the Barclay Tower.
There’s a nice glint to the uptown-facing view, with the Empire State Building still taking preced
ence over the ugly, new colossal residential towers going up around it.
I’m still looking out of the window of the apartment I’ve lived in for five years, debating whether to take a picture out of my own fucking window since I don’t know when I’ll see this light again, as I walk over to my living room bar.
The bar is mostly for show. I didn’t intend it that way, but I hardly ever find myself using it.
The scotch-filled crystal decanters do match the sparse décor of the room well enough. Even though they’re unlabeled, I have the contents of the decanters memorized: Johnnie Walker Blue Label, Glenfiddich, and the fifteen-year-old Macallan—that’s the one I go for this time.
I pour myself some scotch whiskey and add a few drops of filtered water from the fridge door dispenser. Not very glamorous, I know, but who gives a fuck?
As a rule, I ace every fucking test my career throws at me—without breaking a sweat. The only time I ever stop to take stock in any of it is when I realize how goddamn easy it is for me. That can be disconcerting, on occasion, but I don’t think about it often.
What’s giving me some pause now is that this doesn’t feel easy. It feels out-and-out ineffable, like an ‘I don’t even know where to begin’ type of feeling.
I’m going to need to quit complaining when shit seems too easy because I’ll take easy any day over this.
I hold up the glass of whiskey at eye level. The water’s making the spirit look hazy, diluted, unattractive, but when I take my first taste of it, standing right in front of my gleaming silver refrigerator, it’s immediately outstanding, the water having done its job of expanding complexities to the surface.
With intricate flavors still telling their insistent stories, I almost fall over walking to the leather recliner facing the window.
The sunset’s quickly giving way to the night over New Jersey, and they’re turning on the floodlights at the top of the Empire State Building, bathing the few stories in a fierce red glow.
I’m still wearing my goddamn suit jacket, and, as I reach for it, I find Maddie’s card in the chest pocket.
Okay, I’ve found a place to start with this current test: Stop calling her that.
I pull out Madeline’s card.
The paper industry’s glad these things still exist, for sure. I don’t have anywhere to store it, though, but I’m not keeping it in my wallet.
I hold the card in front of the window, the skyline illuminated in the background.
There’s Madeline’s name in Helvetica or some similar font, her position underneath it in all caps: SECURITIES COMPLIANCE EXAMINER.
Below that is SECURITIES EXCHANGE COMMISSION in a smaller typeface, right next to the commission’s address on Vesey Street, literally just around the corner from where I’m sitting.
How long have I been living so close to her? Does she live in this fucking building? Not likely on that salary—maybe in a smaller studio, but I probably would’ve seen her.
She must live in New York, though, or really close. The SEC’s local office address is on her card after all.
I need to stop thinking about where she lives. The presence of her card is not doing me any good. I was doing just fine before I got it, even after Madeline waltzed back into my life.
I should toss the card in a recycling bin—but not before saving her number. I’m responsible for dealing with the investigation after all.
Okay, next phase, saving Madeline as a contact—by calling her. If the thought makes me uncomfortable, which it does, then I’m probably onto something.
Besides, it’s not even fucking six yet. I should still be working.
It’s time to get on the horn with Madeline. A bit of comfort comes flooding back as I realize I’m still working. Just sitting at home doing nothing is terrible for my health.
I cross the room to the kitchen counter where my two phones are charging and put my scotch down. Time to get back to work.
I mechanically reach for my large-screen business phone, which I use a lot. It has a massive list of contacts and astronomical usage stats each month.
But before I can reach it, I stop. If I put Maddie—sorry, Madeline—on my business phone, I’ll have to see her name come up all the time again, her incoming calls, missed calls, and texts.
The last time that happened...
My slightly smaller personal phone sees less use. My contact list is shorter, and, if it becomes necessary, I can just ignore Madeline. Figuratively.
Don’t get me wrong, this is business. I owe it to my firm to figure out what this is about.
No more fucking thinking; it’s time for action. I unplug my personal phone, bring up the keypad, and dial Madeline’s number, copying from the card.
I ignore that residual anxiousness from my fucking office earlier and hit the call button.
I hear her voice after two rings.
“Hello, Mister Barrett—or Ethan, I should say.”
Fuck, my personal phone number’s still the same as it was five years ago, but she has a different phone, right? Okay, time to stop it and just fucking talk.
“Hey, Madeline, do you have a minute?”
I never say ‘hey,’ and that’s too informal anyway, but at least I called her Madeline. Okay, just let it happen.
“Of course, Ethan. I was hoping to hear from you today. Again, the sooner we start, the better. Are you still at your office?”
“No, for once.”
“Ha! Tell me about it. I’d love to be at home before it’s dark someday. Oh, well.”
“Yeah. I’ve got a short commute, at least. I don’t know about you...anyway, is there a chance we could meet in person? I don’t like speaking on the phone too long.”
“Pet peeve, huh? I can fit a meeting into my schedule, if you can suggest a good venue.”
“Okay, I don’t want to go back to the office, and I need to talk to my colleagues personally before more speculation arises.”
“Hmm...okay.”
Fuck, am I making this worse?
“How quickly can you get to Avenue A?”
“Fairly quickly. Why? What’s there? Let’s discuss that, first.”
“Do you know Lush Republic?”
Yeah, I have no fucking clue why I’m doing this. Well, I already asked. Might as well roll with it.
“I’ve heard of it. If that’s where you’d like to meet, I’m okay with it. I just want to get this moving along, already. I think we both do.”
“Are you at the SEC now? I’m around the corner if you want to share a taxi. You know, to save some money, be more environment-friendly.”
“Thanks for the offer. I hope you’re not offended, but I don’t think that’d be appropriate at this juncture, Eth.”
Well, she called me Eth before I called her Maddie. I better still not fucking call her Maddie, though.
“Of course. No offense taken...so, SEC, huh? I bet that’s a good gig.”
“Uh, yeah. We take pride in what we do, sir.”
“I see. So, Lush Republic, Avenue A between 7th and 8th. Is an hour doable for you?”
I hear what sounds like a heavy sigh, but I do my best to ignore it—or at least avoid reading into it.
“I can fit that in...two hours. Is that okay?”
“I’ll see you there.”
Ethan
It’s just another meeting for work. This one’s scheduled for a couple hours from now, an hour and fifty-seven minutes to be precise.
This meeting is not with an investor, not with a trader, not with a partner at the firm or a potential hire.
I’m almost done with my scotch, with plenty of time to spare. This meeting’s with an SEC examiner—not usual, but nothing extraordinary for what I do, even if it is my first time.
I down the last of the whisky, numbed to the flavors by now.
I still have a crazy excess of time before I need to be at Lush Republic. In my normal working mindset, I shouldn’t even be thinking about it yet. I should be zealously checking market
trends, running my own ongoing mental analysis, and updating everything in real time.
I should be planning out what to say and when, predicting which questions will arise at the firm over the next couple days and the most effective way to address them.
Instead, I finish my scotch and get ready for my next meeting. As much time as I feel like I have, it may not be enough to shower, change, get rid of any emergent five o’clock shadow, and get to Alphabet City my standard way—on foot. A taxi would probably be faster, but rush hour will still be going strong past seven.
What was I thinking?
Poor planning, but I can make up for it by getting myself back into work shape starting right now. I strip while walking down the hall, holding all my worn clothes, to be distributed swiftly yet awkwardly where they need to go: in my bedroom on the way to the master bath.
I run inside the walk-in shower and try to be as quick and thorough as possible. Normally, I focus more on the thorough part, but I try not to be late for meetings, especially with the SEC.
Whether I like it or not, this is an important business meeting, despite the low lighting and natural food and aroma of Lush Republic, which all suggest otherwise. I don’t know why I didn’t plan this out better, why I didn’t think to sharpen my straight razor earlier even though it’s been fucking weeks and now I don’t have enough time to do it properly. I mean, I knew this was coming.
I can’t be too hard on myself for being sort of in denial about this whole thing. I have a personal connection to it—as much as I need to let that go, already—plus it’s the SEC, which I’ve been fortunate enough to never have to deal with this intimately. Until now.
But fortunes change, as I keep fucking telling myself. All I can do now is give myself the closest shave possible with my dulling razor, dose myself lightly with the best aftershave I have, and brush and floss out the scotch.
I don’t think about my outfit for a moment; I just throw on the suit I was planning to wear tomorrow. It’s a good thing I plan for contingencies like this one with my suit rotation.
