by Tommy Butler
“Do you believe in Neverene?” I ask.
Sasha turns to me with wide eyes, then breaks into high, ringing laughter that resounds along the length of the fire escape like an electric current. “No,” she says, settling into a sigh. She smiles at me, and her voice softens. “But you can.”
To my surprise, her amusement doesn’t offend me, even if I’m not inclined to join her in it, or to accept her concession. “No,” I say. “I’m done escaping. Gareth is right. I need to grab happiness.”
“By the balls?”
“Maybe the horns. Does happiness have horns?”
“Please forward all questions regarding happiness and associated body parts to Gareth,” says Sasha. “Though, personally, I don’t think he’s got the answers.”
“Then why do you go to group?”
She draws her thighs to her chest and drops her head, squeezing into a ball. “I guess it makes me feel a little less shitty,” she says into her knees. “Plus I get to tease Gareth.” Abruptly, she uncurls her limbs, grabs her shoes and notebook, and stands up. “So, you were a pitcher?”
“Briefly,” I say. “A long time ago.”
“Could you throw a pitch into the river from here?”
I look down, gauging the distance. Below us, along the edge of the island, FDR Drive runs like an artery too near the skin, the crimson glare of taillights flowing like blood. Somehow I hadn’t noticed it until now. I could probably clear the distance, though I’d need to step into the throw, and the fire escape is narrow and cramped. “Not from here,” I say. “I’d need room to wind up.”
“Fine.” Sasha opens the window and slips inside before I can ask her whether she lives here or has a penchant for burglary. My question is answered a few minutes later, when she returns in jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers that fit her too well not to be hers. Not so comfortable in her corporate garb after all. She starts to climb farther up the fire escape, pausing briefly to look back at me. “You coming?”
We climb to the roof—a flat expanse of fractured tar, ringed by a parapet just low enough to trip over. The serrated incandescence of Manhattan unfolds to the north, but Sasha has her back to it, her eyes on the river. From the pocket of her jeans, she pulls out a plastic square the size of her palm, which I recognize as a computer disk.
“Let’s see what you got,” she says, handing me the disk. Its rigid plastic casing is unmarked.
“Why don’t you throw it in yourself?”
She pulls out a pack of cigarettes. With a practiced motion, she tilts one into her mouth and lights it from a book of matches. “I’m not much into sports.”
“What’s on it?”
She smirks at me. I can only assume it’s something important, and that this is the only copy. Still, there are easier and more certain ways to destroy a floppy disk. Launching it into the East River bespeaks a sense for the dramatic that makes me wonder about Sasha’s intentions.
“Are you getting rid of all of your things?” I ask her.
“Not tonight.”
“Sometime?”
“We all get rid of our things sometime.”
“It just feels like you’re preparing for something.”
“Like my suicide?” The tip of her cigarette flares as she takes a drag. “I have a problem with the aftermath,” she says. “The body, specifically. It seems like such a mess, and I don’t want anyone to have to deal with that. When I do think about it, I imagine myself taking a little boat straight out into the Atlantic. I sit on the edge, lean over a little, and then shoot myself in the head so that I fall overboard. Of course, this would require both a gun and a boat, neither of which I currently possess. So, no, I’m not preparing for something. What about you?”
Despite having just bared my soul in group, I’m a bit stunned by Sasha’s candor. And her specificity. An image of a subway train passes through my head. “No,” I say. “I’m grabbing happiness, remember?”
“Right. What’s that look like, exactly?”
“The standard prescription, I guess. Career, money, health, love.”
“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”
“It’s all up from here,” I say. “An ascendant trajectory.”
“Gareth will be happy to hear it,” says Sasha. She takes another puff of her cigarette, then flicks the ashes over the parapet. “So, you going to chuck that thing in the river or not?”
I look out toward the lights of Brooklyn. They don’t seem far now, and the river seems even closer. With a running start, I might even be able to throw myself in. I think of baseball, of a strike zone drawn with chalk on a basement wall, of a narrow strip of green grass in a field of white snow. The disk rests lightly in my hand. I pinch it between my thumb and forefinger, then wind up and lunge forward, hurling it like a fastball on the outside corner. It sails into the night and is gone.
After
After you die, you find yourself in a room that is not a room, at a table that is not a table. Across from you are Merriam and Jollis, and before each of them is a manila folder. They ask if you’re ready for your exit interview.
“It’s not mandatory,” Merriam assures you.
“Yes,” says Jollis. “Entirely up to you. Still, we’d appreciate your input.”
Merriam nods. “Everything you tell us will be kept strictly confidential.”
“Unless,” says Jollis, “you give us permission to share it with management.”
“Management?” you ask.
“You know,” says Merriam. She gives you a conspiratorial shrug. “The brass.”
You feel that you know—or ought to know—who the brass are, so you say nothing. Though this whole transition is a bit unnerving, you would like to help Merriam and Jollis. You agree.
“Wonderful!” says Merriam. She and Jollis open their manila folders to reveal a list of questions. Merriam diligently reads the first item on the list—“Can we get you anything to make you more comfortable?” As soon as she finishes reading, Merriam frowns down at the folder, seemingly surprised by her own question. You sympathize with her confusion. It’s a strange offer, as you no longer know what it is you might need, or want. You politely decline.
“Certainly,” says Merriam. She eagerly moves on to read the next query from her list—“Lovely weather we’re having, don’t you think?”
Merriam glances worriedly at Jollis. You assume your own expression matches hers. “Weather?” you ask. “What do you mean? Where, exactly? And . . . when?”
“Oh, I suppose they mean on Earth,” Merriam stammers. “I guess on your final—but of course you wouldn’t have—”
“We have a confession,” Jollis tells you. “We don’t normally handle the exit interviews. This whole process is new to us, as you can probably tell. We’ve never even seen these questions before.”
“Sorry,” adds Merriam. She looks pained. You beg her not to worry. It’s a privilege, you tell her, to be their first interviewee. She smiles.
“Great,” says Jollis. “Why don’t we just proceed down the list? Next question . . . What was the main reason you originally accepted a position with the enterprise?”
“The enterprise?”
“I think they mean the human enterprise,” explains Merriam. “The journey.”
“Ah,” you say. “Yes, well, the reason . . .” You falter, then try again. “I accepted the position because . . .” Again you stop. There was a reason, you think, wasn’t there? There had to have been a reason. One doesn’t just blithely accept—but wait. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I can’t seem to remember accepting the position at all.”
Merriam straightens in surprise. “Really?” she says. “Well, that seems inappropriate.”
“Yes,” says Jollis, thinking it over. He turns to Merriam. “But they wouldn’t remember, would they? You know—the Auction, the Fugue . . .”
“Of course,” says Merriam. “They couldn’t remember. Not yet.” She looks down at her folder. “So that was kind of a stupid q
uestion, then.”
“Let’s push on,” says Jollis, checking his list. “Now then . . . Were the goals and objectives of your role sufficiently delineated?”
You think about it. There were all kinds of goals and objectives, of course. Everybody seemed to have them, marching stolidly along to one beat or another, and exhorting you to keep pace. But you seem to recall hearing a different drummer—that is, when you heard the drums at all.
“No,” you say. “I’m afraid I wasn’t clear on them.”
Jollis nods sympathetically. “Perfectly understandable. Quite common, really.” He makes a note in his folder before reading the next question—“Do you feel you received proper training in order to be successful?”
“To be honest,” you say, “I feel like we were just thrown into it. I don’t remember there being any training.”
“The Fugue,” Merriam reminds Jollis.
“Right,” says Jollis. “We’ll skip that one, too. Next . . . Do you feel you were kept adequately apprised of organizational policies?”
“You mean, like, the rules?”
“I suppose.”
“Then I guess, technically, I’d have to say yes.” The truth is, you were buried in rules. There were regulations, orders, decrees, axioms, codes, statutes, canons, ordinances, and maxims for every occasion. At times it seemed that, for anything you might do, there was one right way and a hundred wrong ones. There were physical laws, moral obligations, ethical responsibilities, religious commandments, familial duties, philosophical imperatives, aesthetic principles, social norms, political necessities. Yes, people were constantly proclaiming the rules. The real challenge wasn’t keeping apprised of them but knowing which ones you really needed to obey and which ones you didn’t, especially when some were diametrically opposed to others. “I think maybe we were long on rules and short on guidance,” you say, “if that makes sense.”
Merriam and Jollis share a knowing glance. “I think we understand,” says Jollis. “What was your relationship like with your manager?”
“Manager?” you ask. “I don’t think I had one.”
“Maybe they mean your mentor,” says Merriam.
“I don’t think I had one of those either. Was I supposed to?”
Merriam looks at Jollis, who quickly looks down at his folder. “Next question,” he says. “What are your future plans?”
“For goodness’ sake,” says Merriam, annoyed. “How ridiculous. Don’t answer that,” she tells you, which is a relief, because you wouldn’t have known how.
“We’ll go with ‘Not Applicable,’” says Jollis. He reads the next query from the list—“Would you consider taking a position with the enterprise again, and/or would you recommend the enterprise to a friend?”
“Stop,” says Merriam, her frustration bubbling over. “Given the circumstances, you don’t need to answer that one either. And I’ve had about enough of this list.” She shuts her folder and takes a moment to collect herself, then looks at you gently. “If you don’t mind, I think what we’d really like to know is—why did you choose to leave?”
A legitimate question, you think, and the one you’ve been fearing. You struggle to formulate an answer. Perhaps if you could take Merriam and Jollis through each moment of your life—but, no, even that probably wouldn’t explain it.
“Please be honest,” says Merriam.
“That’s right,” says Jollis. “Whatever the reason, you can tell us—not enough parking, lack of adequate health insurance—”
“No,” you say. “Nothing like that. Look, I don’t want to sound ungrateful. All in all, it really is a beautiful world. I was just . . . sad.”
Jollis and Merriam frown in bewilderment. “Okay,” says Merriam. “And . . .”
“That’s it.” You’re not sure how else to say it. “I wasn’t happy.”
“I don’t understand,” says Jollis. “You valued happiness so highly that its absence made you quit? What about wonder, or awe, or grace, or intimacy, or sacrifice, or—”
“But that was the whole point,” you say. “Right? To be happy?”
“Who told you that?” asks Merriam, her confusion giving way to sadness.
You’re concerned now. You have a sneaking suspicion that something important was hidden in the cacophony of all those goals and objectives and rules—and that you missed it. “Pretty much everybody,” you say. “Why?”
“We don’t mean to upset you,” says Jollis. “We’re not here to judge.”
Merriam nods. “We’re just surprised that you left because you weren’t happy,” she says. “After all, there were so many other things to be.”
Elliot
(1997)
This is a day on the ascendant trajectory of Elliot Chance.
7:00 a.m. My alarm sounds with a bold hum, like a double bass heralding the opening of a symphony. I press the off button, studded with clever little beads so that you can find it in the dark. The spring morning and a mercurial radiator have left my studio apartment chilled, but I throw off the covers at the promise of coffee—a taste for which I am actively acquiring, in deference to the medicinal benefits of caffeine. While I shave, shower, and shine, my industrious coffeemaker performs its hum and gurgle, ultimately presenting me with a mug of sixteen hot ounces—or, as I like to think of it, 180 milligrams.
I take it in roughly equal doses, interspersed with the donning of my work attire—boxers and socks (gulp), shirt and pants (gulp), tie and jacket (gulp). I’ve trimmed the process down considerably, aided by a precisely defined rotation of three suits, two pairs of black shoes, and eleven ties. It’s early April, and the air outside is likely to be either cold or wet, so the ensemble is capped off with my father’s hand-me-down overcoat, just in case. In Manhattan, when your window looks out on the bricks of the building across the alley, you don’t know much about the weather until you’re under it.
7:40 a.m. I join the small trickle of suits flowing westward along my street. We turn south on Lexington Avenue, where the trickle becomes a stream. By Eighty-Sixth Street we are a river of blue and gray—a single frictionless body, with hardly a ripple to mar its surface. We cascade down the cement steps of the subway entrance, spill through the turnstiles, and fill the waiting cars of the train.
The ubiquitous yellow taxicab is one of the city’s most iconic creatures, but real New Yorkers take the subway. Specifically, from the Upper East Side to Midtown, either the 4, 5, or 6 train. I think of these collectively as the green line, because that is how they’re depicted on the plastic, credit-card-size subway map I keep in my wallet. I do not, however, publicly refer to them this way, at least not since Dean helpfully pointed out that only the bridge-and-tunnel crowd does so. (He also helpfully pointed out that “bridge-and-tunnel crowd” refers to anyone who doesn’t live on Manhattan Island, particularly the commuters and weekend revelers who pack the roads and suburban rails into the city.)
We islanders are a different breed. The subway doors slide shut, and we dart along in bright cars through dark tunnels, like spies on a joint secret mission that we are forbidden to discuss. I used to smile at my confederates when I caught their eye, though they would invariably avert their gaze (as any good spy would). I stopped this practice when Dean constructively advised that I would someday get punched in the face for it. At any rate, it’s rare to meet the eyes of my fellow travelers. Most bury themselves in the newspaper, or stare thoughtfully into the middle distance, no doubt already beginning the workday in their minds. New Yorkers work hard. As Dean likes to say, “New Yorkers get shit done.”
8:10 a.m. The office elevator is decidedly more social, perhaps because the faces are more familiar, or perhaps because everyone’s morning coffee is by this time kicking in nicely. The car fills with a collective energy, a shared enthusiasm for the new day’s potential that bubbles up in the dependable repartee of my colleagues.
“—the club last night,” Dennis is saying. “I’ve never been so hungover in my life.” Dennis is t
he consummate bacchanal. He’s made it his personal mission to verify that New York is, in fact, the city that never sleeps. I don’t know how he does it.
“Whatever,” says Nicole. She smiles, not quite flirting, but close. She loves to tease Dennis. “You were so home last night. By yourself, as usual—unless you count your cat.”
“There were cats, all right,” says Dennis. “Why don’t you come out next time and see for yourself?”
Nicole smiles again. “You wish.” Yep, she loves to tease him.
“Ah, the folly of youth,” says Jeff from the corner of the elevator, though we are hardly youths to him. Just a few years older, Jeff is married with two small children, whose finger paintings are proudly displayed above their father’s desk. He shakes his head as if to say that he’s discovered a happiness that can’t be found in any club or bottle. “Someday you’ll settle down and see the light,” he says. The others laugh.
8:15 a.m. I step into the office that I share with Matt. We don’t have windows, but Matt has a poster of the island of Bora Bora above his desk, and it’s easy to imagine that those iconic white sands and turquoise waters are just beyond our wall. I take off my suit jacket and hang it from a coat hanger on the back of our door, right next to my office mate’s. Matt is always here when I arrive, head down, focused. I don’t like to interrupt him, so I keep my morning greeting simple.
“Hey, Matt.”
“Hey,” he says. Matt’s reticence and his enduring absorption in the task at hand make him somewhat mysterious. Also the fact that I generally can’t see more than the top of his head—the rest of him is typically hidden behind the cardboard file boxes stacked on his desk. I can still see Bora Bora, though.
The quiet serenity of our shared space is in marked contrast to the office as a whole. It’s April—tax season—and we’re an accounting firm. Enough said. Most of the accountants have been buzzing with activity for months, preparing year-end financial statements and tax returns for our clients, which consist mostly of small-to-midsize companies rather than individuals. Matt and I, however, work in audit. Our job is to review the financial statements prepared by the other accountants, to ensure that those statements accurately and fairly represent the state of the client’s business. For some clients, this rigorous analysis is an annual rite, but often it is performed only when a client has a particular need for it—say, because it’s requesting a large loan from a bank. Matt and I often work on these less regular audits. Our deadlines, therefore, are different, and April has no power over us.
