Kapitoil: A Novel

by Teddy Wayne

  I pick up my ticket, and when I enter the stadium I see signs up several escalators for the mezzanine where Jefferson and Dan sat and where a large crowd walks, and for a second I want to tell Jefferson to search for me on television in the luxury suite before I remind myself that not everyone is as fortunate as I am to receive this golden opportunity.

  The luxury suite is in a room off a hallway. Inside are several men in suits and a few females in dresses and fur coats. I expected other guests, but not so many. The females drink glasses of wine and the men drink bottles of Budweiser beer, and some of them eat off paper plates. A black man in a tuxedo stands behind silver trays of food on a table and serves sushi, and a Latin American man also in a tuxedo pours wine at a wooden bar. A large painting hangs on the wall of a Yankees player wearing number 7 and his signature, although I can’t decipher it and his last name isn’t on his uniform, as none of the Yankees’ are, possibly because they are like the residents of Mr. Schrub’s building and don’t have to call attention to themselves. The strongest programming code does the same thing: It is not always sexy, but it functions efficiently and without flaws.

  I don’t see Mr. Schrub, and no one introduces himself to me, so I stand near the door. I’m hungry, but I don’t know if I’m allowed to request food or if it requires previous payment. I take a free game program and read about the teams for ten minutes, and finally I decide I’m a guest of Mr. Schrub’s and should chitchat with the others, so I approach a small cluster of men and say “Excuse me” to the oldest one with white hair and steel glasses, because it is usually appropriate to initially address the senior member of a group.

  He turns his head and says, “Oh, thank you,” then hands me his empty Budweiser bottle and paper plate.

  I quickly return to the door and trash the bottle and plate and continue looking into the bin as if there is something of interest inside. Possibly he made an error just because my clothing is not high quality and looks like a waiter’s outfit, even though the waiters all wear tuxedoes. But whatever the reason is, suddenly I want to leave.

  Then someone says the game is beginning, and everyone exits the room through a glass door into the outdoor area, where there are 20 seats that look like the business seats in an airplane, and I know I have to stay.

  It isn’t truly outside, however, since we have a small roof over us and lamps that produce heat. There is even a television here, although I don’t know why someone would watch the game on television when we have the chief seats in the stadium, but some of the people near me utilize it.

  No one scores for the first two innings, and the game is more boring than it is on television, because on television the analysts explain the mathematical variations of the game and you have access to numerous statistics, which is the only part of the game I truly enjoy. So occasionally I do look over at the television for the displayed statistics.

  Then everyone turns around because Mr. Schrub finally arrives. He’s dressed in his business clothing but he also wears a Yankees hat. He talks with another man approximately his age and they quickly bypass me in the last row and I don’t think he even sees me. Mr. Schrub then shakes the hands of the other men and kisses the females on the cheek before he sits in the front row with two other men.

  There’s one voided seat in the front row, but I don’t want to interrupt Mr. Schrub and his friends and it would be boastful of me to believe that I merit a seat next to them. So I remain where I am and try to watch the game, but truly I’m watching Mr. Schrub, who records something on a piece of paper after each batter.

  After Atlanta terminates, Mr. Schrub turns around. “Karim!” he says. “What are you doing in the nosebleeds?”

  I’m humiliated, and I put my finger under my nose, but it is bloodless. Some of the people around me laugh.

  “No, it’s—never mind,” he says, and signals for me to come closer.

  I walk down the steps and feel all of Mr. Schrub’s friends observing me as if they are a wall of security cameras. He pats the seat next to him like it is a dog, and I sit down. Then he quietly explains the meaning of the term “nosebleeds,” and I also laugh now, because it is a clever application of language.

  Mr. Schrub asks if I know much about baseball. I tell him I am trying to learn.

  The Yankees hit efficiently and soon have players on second and third base with one out. One of Mr. Schrub’s friends, who must blend something into his gray hair because it looks like silver, says, “Cox has to have Smoltz walk Williams here to pitch to Martinez and set up the double play.”

  Mr. Schrub says, “It’s a given, with one out.”

  I access the statistics of the players they are discussing and note that:

  1. The Yankees player Bernie Williams does not perform well against right-handed pitchers;

  2. but Tino Martinez does, and the Braves pitcher John Smoltz is right-handed.

  3. In addition, I previously memorized a sabermetrics table of how many runs are expected to score in 24 different game situations dependent on the number of outs and how many players are on base;

  A. and in the current situation a team is expected to score 1.371 runs;

  B. but if the Braves walk Williams and load the bases with one out, the Yankees are expected to score 1.546 runs.

  4. Therefore, even though it appears to be the safe move, Mr. Schrub and his friend are advising a statistically unsound maneuver. Their strategy is understandable, however, as my line of thinking is unconventional, because it employs tangential statistics most observers ignore.

  Mr. Schrub explains the situation, even though I already understand it. “See how it makes sense, even though in the short term it looks worse?”

  “Possibly it is an error,” I say, although I intended to remain mute, but when I see an error in logic I find it difficult not to correct it.

  “What do you mean?” Mr. Schrub asks.

  “He’s confusing fielding errors,” his friend says. “See, they’re walking Williams. Cowards!” Then he makes a sound like a cow to express his frustration.

  Now that I’ve already said a little, I decide I should express the complete idea, so I explain it to Mr. Schrub.

  “Hmm” is all he says.

  Tino Martinez hits a ball to the first baseman. It angles off his foot and two runs score for the Yankees. Then another Yankees player singles and Williams scores, which was possible only because the Braves walked him.

  When the inning is over, Mr. Schrub introduces me to his friend and adds, “Karim’s one of our brightest young minds downtown. And I don’t count a single error in that statement.”

  Those words will go in my archive of important recordings.

  Mr. Schrub also teaches me how to “score” the game, which is why he was recording notes on a specialized paper. It is similar to tracking the stock market with various indices, and I learn quickly.

  In the fourth inning Mr. Schrub says to me, “I could use some real ball-game food—none of this sushi crap. What do you say to a couple of dogs?”

  I know “dogs” are not real canines, but I’m uncertain what they are, so I nod. He turns and waves from his seat to the black man in the tuxedo inside.

  “Can you scrounge up two hot dogs?” Mr. Schrub asks as he pays the man $20, and now I recognize the term from street vendors.

  The man leaves, and later he returns with two sausages in elongated bread inside a paper box. “Keep the change,” Mr. Schrub says as he transfers one of the sausages to me.

  I look at the red cylinder of meat in my hands. Of course I can’t eat it, but I also don’t want to offend Mr. Schrub and his gift.

  I bring the hot dog closer to inspect it. The scent is like something burning flavorfully, and my stomach wants me to consume it, and my tongue wants me to taste it, and even my eyes find it delicious, and maybe Allah will be careless of a solitary offense.

  But I can’t do it.

  Then Mr. Schrub says, “My God, what was I thinking?” He takes the hot dog from me. �
�I’m sorry, Karim. I can’t believe I forgot.”

  He gives me a napkin so I can clean my hands. “I’ve got an idea,” he says, and he waves to the black man again. He hands him another $20 bill. “A bag of Cracker Jack,” he says. “Actually, make it two.”

  He puts his own hot dog in the box and sets it on the concrete. “This probably isn’t the healthiest option anyway,” he says. “Who knows where this meat came from.”

  The Cracker Jack is like sweet rocks that divide easily when I bite and I’m pleased I’m not offending anyone, although at the end I wish I didn’t eat it so rapidly.

  For the rest of the game Mr. Schrub introduces me to some of his other friends, who are all more friendly to me than the man with mirroring hair. When we are alone again, Mr. Schrub whispers to me, “Nice people, but most of them could give a damn about who’s out on the field.”

  The Yankees win, as I predicted, as they have the best and most expensive team. The players crash into each other and all the fans dance and Mr. Schrub and some of his male friends hug and clap and cheer. Then the friend with the silver hair says, “We have to sign a bigger bat in left field next year.” He and Mr. Schrub consult about other ways to enhance the team. In some ways they’re not enjoying their team’s success right now, but that’s also why Mr. Schrub is so successful: He’s never satisfied with mere achievement and is always thinking outside the box.

  The Yankees player Paul O’Neill, who did not perform well in the game, covers his face as he walks off the field because he is crying.

  Mr. Schrub is also watching Paul O’Neill, and as the other men around us talk he appears to be unfocused, but then someone asks him something and he resumes talking.

  While the Yankees players and manager and their employer make speeches on the grass about how they took every game in singular quantities and labored at over the 100% efficiency threshold, which is illogical but no one corrects them, Mr. Schrub says we should defeat the traffic and invites me to ride home in his car.

  Mr. Schrub’s car is an actual limo. His driver, who is white, which surprises me, because every salaried driver I’ve seen in New York is not white, opens the door for us. Mr. Schrub says, “How was the seat, Patrick? Good view?”

  “Very good, Mr. Schrub,” he says.

  Mr. Schrub and I sit on opposite sides, and I’m the one riding backward, which I’ve never done in a car. It feels like I’m disappearing from the baseball game and the crowd, which is positive, because I was feeling bottlenecked and the bottoms of my shoes have much food and gum attached to them. Even guests in the luxury suite deposit their trash on the ground.

  Mr. Schrub asks if I enjoyed the game. “I did. Thank you for inviting me, Mr. Schrub.” Then I add, “I apologize for not thanking you before.”

  He smiles. “You’re very polite, aren’t you?” I don’t know how to respond to this without in fact sounding impolite, so I only reciprocate a smile. “I wish my sons were like that. I tried my hardest to raise them without a sense of entitlement, but…”

  “It is difficult to raise children under any circumstances,” I say. “I suppose,” he says. “Maybe it’s my fault. No one could accuse me of spending too much time at home while they grew up. Looks like your parents did a good job, though.”

  “It was difficult for them as well.”

  “How so?”

  I don’t want to stimulate pity from him, or from anyone, but I think maybe telling him this will make him feel enhanced about his own family, so I say, “My mother died when I was younger, so my father raised my sister and me independently.”

  His mouth opens a fraction, and it looks like he’s trying to make words but can’t. Finally he looks out the window and says, “I’m very sorry to hear that, Karim.”

  “It is not your fault,” I say, which is how I always respond.

  We are quiet for a few minutes as the lights on the side of the highway flash periodically. We arrive at his home first and he directs Patrick to take me home. I decide not to tell anyone else here about my mother, although I don’t know anyone else who might want to know about it.

  When I get home, I remember I never called Barron, and when I call his telephone I don’t access him, so I record an apology.

  But I keep thinking about making him wait for three hours for no reason, when he could have gone home to his family and eaten a real dinner. I dial another number.

  Zahira picks up and says she only has a few minutes before she leaves for university. She asks what I have been doing lately. For some reason I do not tell her about the baseball game, and instead I ask her about her classes. Then she says, “I want to talk, but I have to go, Karim.”

  “Wait,” I say.

  “What?”

  The toggling lights of Times Square mirror on my blank television. “You do not remember the song mother used to sing to us before sleep, do you?” I ask.

  “No. You have asked me this before.”

  “It was a Beatles song.”

  “How could I remember it?” she says. “I was four years old.”

  “I thought possibly you might,” I say, although our father trashed all the Beatles records after she died, which would make it even more difficult for Zahira to remember.

  “Why are you asking about this now?” she asks.

  On the street people are celebrating and cars are honking again even louder than when the Mets won their game. “I don’t know,” I say. “I was thinking about it.”

  She says, “It’s not good to always think about these things.”

  “I don’t always,” I say.

  “I don’t have time to discuss this now,” she says. “You can call me tonight.”

  We disconnect. I don’t remind her that I can’t call tonight because our time zones are so divided.

  burn the midnight oil = work late into the night

  chitchat = conversation used in a social environment to fill up silence

  freaking out = panic

  lighten up = relax

  my bad = it is my fault/error

  nosebleeds = inexpensive seats that render the sitter vulnerable to nosebleeds

  score = record statistical events for a baseball game

  scrounge up = search for and retrieve

  JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: OCTOBER 28

  When I arrive at my pod, my computer is missing from my desk. Only Dan is present. “Is this a joke?” I ask him.

  He denies responsibility. I log in to Rebecca’s computer. Maybe I offended Mr. Schrub last night and I am no longer working in the pod.

  There is an email from Mr. Ray asking me to meet him on his floor. Now I am truly fearful.

  When I find him, he tells me to come with and leads me downstairs again. We walk past the kitchen and into another hallway where some of the senior employees have private offices. He swipes his ID card on the reader of a door and opens it.

  It is a spacious room, with a blue carpet on the entire floor and two leather chairs on our side of a black wood desk and a chair with netting on the other side. The entire wall also has windows with a view of the Statue of Liberty. The computer has two adjacent monitors: One is a standard horizontal monitor and one is vertical for enhanced observation when programming.

  And in the middle of the desk is a name bar:

  KARIM ISSAR

  Before Mr. Ray leaves, he touches one of the leather chairs and says to himself, “Nicer than my office.”

  I spend a few minutes sitting in my chair and reclining against the strong netting and observing out the window. Then I swipe my ID card several times and watch the light convert from red to green. Finally I remember they are not paying me all this money and providing me with such a luxurious office merely to recreate.

  Rebecca knocks on my door after lunch.

  “So you’re no longer in the tech ghetto,” she says as she scans my office. “What nefarious schemes are you masterminding in here?”

  “I am working on futures,” I say.

  Then we do
not say anything for a few seconds, and she says, “Don’t be a stranger,” and leaves.

  In the afternoon I start thinking that if I have a private office, I should look like I work in one. I email Jefferson for advice on where to purchase clothing. I don’t want to ask Rebecca, because she might not know where good men’s clothing is, and also it’s not in her class of interests. Her clothing looks nice on her but it’s not very expensive. And Dan’s clothing looks expensive but is not attractive and never fits him well, e.g., he always reminds me of what I looked like in my first suit I bought for work at age 18.

  After work I visit the first store on Jefferson’s list, Barneys. I’ve been inside stores like this in Doha, but of course the items are always too expensive for me. I examine an attractive dark blue suit. A female in a black dress as restricting as a tie walks over and says, “That’s a gorgeous suit. Do you want to try it on?”

  I try it on in a dressing room and observe myself in the mirror. It fits my body like suits do in advertisements, and the color is pleasing, and I do look sexier than normal in it. Then I see the price tag. It’s greater than my former weekly salary. This is my most major purchasing decision ever, and after I consider the cons, I evaluate the pros:

  1. Previously, if I had to purchase a new suit, I would have spent a large percentage of my weekly salary, so why should I not do that now?

  2. I am working extremely long hours; if I do not get to enjoy at least some of the financial compensation, I will not be motivated to continue working so much, because the output is less than the input.

  3. Quality clothing will help me in future business transactions.

  4. My purchase will stimulate the economy.