Kapitoil (8 page)

“You wrote another program?” she asks. “I thought you said this was a bad time to try out new programs.”

“It is the same program as before,” I say. “I reconsidered and decided to show it to my higher-up.” She does not say anything, and I add, “I also went to a classy nightclub with my coworkers the previous night. I apologize if I email less frequently now because I am too busy with work and networking.”

“I know you are,” she says. “I tell all my friends about you. And I also remember what you always told me.”

“That if you work hard, you can achieve anything?” I ask.

She speaks very clearly: “That being a success at work does not equal being a success at life.”

I am a block away from the subway entrance. “I am about to lose our connection in the subway,” I say. “I will email you later.”

In the subway I think about how Mr. Schrub said I was a competitor. I am glad I deposited my voice recorder in my shorts pocket so that I can listen to it again.

player = someone who succeeds in the field of business, athletics, or females

pussy-willow = weak

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: OCTOBER 27

On Wednesday morning I check my work email from home. Everyone in the office receives an email stating there have been several layoffs and that the selected employees have already been informed. I accelerate to work.

Rebecca, Jefferson, and Dan are in the pod, which relaxes me, but when Dan sees me, he puts his head in his hands.

“Did you hear the news?” he says.

“You have been laid off?” I ask.

“Yes.” He covers his eyes with his hands and vibrates as if he is crying. “And I’ve got prostate cancer.”

Rebecca says, “Don’t be an asshole, Dan,” and I see he is vibrating from laughing. “He doesn’t have cancer.”

“Sorry.” Dan wipes his left eye. “There were less layoffs than expected. And none of us are laid off.”

“Yes, there were fewer layoffs than expected,” Rebecca says. “And none of us is laid off.”

Rebecca has optimal grammar.

“Neither of those subjects is something about which you should make jokes,” I say to Dan.

I also have strong grammar skills.

That afternoon I receive my paycheck. It is three times the normal value. I email Mr. Ray about the error and ask if I should contact Human Resources. He writes back:

I cannot believe this is the true amount of my salary. It’s about as much as I made in three months in Doha, or as much as my father makes in half a year at his store. But Mr. Ray is correct: I do merit it, because I have accumulated even greater profits for Schrub and its shareholders. Although some people lost their jobs, it’s probably because they’re not producing profits for the company. And if Kapitoil continues to perform high-end, possibly we can rehire those former employees or new ones.

I find it difficult to work the rest of the day as I think about tonight. I still know very little about baseball compared to Dan and Jefferson. However, I have been reading about the mathematics behind baseball called sabermetrics, and I spend another hour in the afternoon researching the players on the Yankees and the Atlanta Braves. Today one of the Yankees’ stars, named Paul O’Neill, found out that his father died, although he’s still going to play.

I have to leave work earlier than usual so the driver has time to navigate the traffic to Yankee Stadium. Fortunately Dan and Jefferson depart earlier than I do, so I do not have to explain why I am going, but when I retrieve my briefcase Rebecca says she will walk out with me.

“Kind of early for you to be heading out, isn’t it?” she asks as we wait for the elevator.

“As you said, I especially work a little too hard.”

We step into the elevator, and her eyebrows squeeze together, which I find not sexy but still pleasant to observe. “When did I say that?”

“After we saw the movie
Three Kings
, outside the Chambers St. subway station, when you were at the top of the stairs.”

“You have a pretty good memory,” says Rebecca.

“For certain subjects,” I say.

Another female from the office runs to the elevator, and I press the button to reopen the doors. We zoom downstairs and watch the elevator monitor’s weather forecast. It’s difficult to have a conversation in the elevator when there is a third party.

Rebecca updates me on the progress on the Y2K project as we exit through the lobby. “It’s going well,” she says, “but there’s still a lot of freaking out across the industry about what might happen.”

Fear and panic cause severe market vacillation, and Y2K will present a golden opportunity for major earnings with Kapitoil.

Because I’m concentrating on Kapitoil and do not respond, Rebecca says, “I hope I’m not wasting my fascinating cocktail-party chitchat on you.”

“I am sorry,” I say. “I was thinking of another subject. It will not happen again.”

“I’m teasing.” She punches my shoulder with minor force. “Lighten up. That’s your next goal.”

I take out a pen, stop walking, and write on my other hand so that Rebecca can see: “GOALS: (1) LIGHTEN UP.” “I will make efforts to meet that goal,” I tell Rebecca. “Thank you for suggesting it.”

Her facial expression is very confused. I wait a few seconds, then say, “I am teasing as well,” and punch her shoulder, although I contact the metal on the strap of her bag, which hurts but I pretend it is painless.

She lets out a strong breath and laughs. “Maybe I need to lighten up, too. It’s been a long day—I wouldn’t mind unwinding.”

Outside, black cars wait next to the sidewalk in a line as if for a funeral, and I see mine, with a sign that displays “13” in the window.

“Which way are you heading?” Rebecca asks.

“Oh, I forgot a disk in my office,” I say, although I pronounce “Oh” with too much volume.

“Want me to wait?”

“No, that is unnecessary. In fact, I have some more work to do.”

“Burning the midnight oil, are we?” she says. “See you around.”

She walks toward the subway and I return to the building. There is probably a better means of negotiating the situation, but it is hard to strategize the right thing to do when you have to act quickly.

I wait inside the building until Rebecca disappears, then knock on the dark front window of car 13. The doors unlock and produce a sound like a bullet firing.

The face of the driver surprises me. “Do you remember me?” I ask.

Barron turns his head a quarter of the way. He still has a mustache. “Sorry, I drive a lot of people.”

“It was on October 3rd,” I say. In some ways it feels longer and in other ways it doesn’t feel that long. “From John F. Kennedy Airport. My name is Karim Issar.”

“I go to JFK all the time. Yankee Stadium, right?”

“Yes.” I don’t say anything for a minute, as I don’t want to make him feel uncomfortable that he can’t remember me. Although I am truly the one who should feel uncomfortable, because it means I’m not that memorable, which I already know, e.g., I don’t talk loudly or dress with unique fashion or have an appearance others consider very sexy.

Then Barron depresses the gas pedal harder as we pass a yellow light, and after we safely cross, I say, “Do you remember I asked you how many gallons of gas your car guzzles?”

He is quiet at the next red light for a few seconds, then says, “Oh, yeah—I remember you.” He turns his head all the way back this time. “What’s happening?”

“I am going to the Yankees game.”

“You must be doing pretty well for yourself if I’m driving you to the World Series.”

“I did not pay for the ticket myself,” I say.

His eyes observe me in his mirror. “My bad.”

We drive for several minutes and reach FDR Drive. The picture of Barron’s daughter is still underneath his sun-protector.

“How old is your daughter?” I ask.

“She just turned seven,” he says. “Sorry—six. They grow up quick here.”

Zahira also grew up quickly, but for different reasons. In other ways of course she’s still a child, e.g., she has never had alcohol or a boyfriend, because I will not let that happen to her until she’s truly an adult.

The traffic becomes denser, so I don’t distract Barron anymore by talking. The car reroutes off the highway and onto the streets, and the buildings aren’t like the buildings in Manhattan, which are either modern or historic. These are obsolete and they all look the same, like ugly red rectangles, and although my family’s apartment building in Doha isn’t luxurious, it is superior to the apartments in this section of Manhattan and the Bronx and its architecture is unique from the other buildings. Everyone on the street is black or Latin American. I haven’t seen anyone in my building who is, minus the doormen and one black couple.

We approach Yankee Stadium, which is a massive white building whose shape is a hybrid of a circle and a triangle, and Barron stops and gives me a business card with his number on it and his full name: BARRON WRIGHT. “Call just before the game’s over, and I’ll tell you where to meet me,” he says.

“What are you going to do during the game?” I ask.

“Get some dinner around here, listen to the game in the car. Not worth driving all the way to Queens and back.”

I don’t like the image of Barron eating a discounted dinner and waiting inside the car for the whole game, but I merely say, “Thank you for driving me.” He nods but angles his head out his window at the other cars so he won’t cause a crash.

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.