Sick Day (12 page)

“Are you going to let me drive?” I ask Gordo.

Gordo indicates the backseat with a nod. “Jeffrey has a racing game on his Xbox back there. You can drive that Bentley you keep bitching about.” And then he gives Hope his top-floor executive smile. “Nice seeing you again, Hope.”

Groaning internally at his childishness, I slip into the backseat and tell him that Newman is looking for me.

“I know,” Gordon answers. “That’s why I came early.” And then, as he merges back into traffic, he says, “We need to have a little chat. All three of us.”

} i {

Three Years Ago

N
obody loved Mondays at Harris, but the entire office was suffering from some form of “group comatose” that particular morning. As I walked through the corridors, still numb and confused from Hope’s story and the weekend I had spent with Riley, I prayed the reports and demands in my office could distract me from this moment known as my life. Nodding and grinning at the few analysts and administrators who caught my attention, I wondered where Hope was, right at that instant. I wondered if she missed me already, if she was thinking about me half as much as I had been thinking about her since our Friday night dinner.

“Hey, Cam,” Gordon said, falling into stride next to me. It surprised me to find him this deep into
Cubeville, let alone the fact that he had spoken two words, two more than anyone else had uttered so far this morning. “We need to have a chat before you head backstage.”

We called the management offices “backstage” because they were hidden behind an extra level of security and surveillance.

“It’s coming down,” he whispered into my ear, so quietly that nobody else would hear.

His words stopped me. “Already?”

“Yeah.” He looked around at the Monday morning stillness like it had trapped us. Realistically, we were minutes from being set free. He nodded at one of the smaller meeting rooms in the middle of the sprawling workspace. “Let’s chat.”

I followed him into the meeting room and placed my laptop bag on the table. Neither of us sat down, but he kept his eyes on me and said it was over.

“They’re giving all of us packages and asking us to sign on the dotted line, walk away, and never look back.”

“Even you?”

“
Especially
me,” he admitted, placing his hands on his hips and shaking his head like he didn’t see this coming. “I get to tell the entire group before someone from New York rides up those same elevators in half an hour to shake my hand in front of everyone else and announce that they’re going to transfer the management of this group to the head office.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “We’ve done our duty, and you know how the general public feels about us banks and bankers. We’re too fat. We were bailed out with
their
money in ‘08. Don’t you know that it’s because of you and me, Cam, that the American economy hiccupped a few years ago?” he asked with a sarcastic bitterness to his tone. “Nothing to do with the war or some shitty fiscal policy that backfired.”

“But we survived,” I said, realizing this was exactly what Gordo wanted to hear from me. “Harris repaid those government loans more than three years ago.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Who cares if the economy is growing, or that people are getting back to work and spending more than ever. Doesn’t matter that you and I might never find jobs again, or that we don’t have pensions like those fine folks at Ford, GM, and Chrysler,” he ranted and started to pace. “None of it matters because we work for a fucking bank. And because of that, because of whatever optics need to be given to the US government, you and I are going to walk out of here with a bit of money. Will it be enough to feed a family for the rest of our lives? Hell no. Would it compare to a government pension? Not even close.”

Grinning, I shook my head. Seemed Gordo was a little more worried about all of this than I was. He was the VP after all, not a senior manager. Tougher for someone of his stature to bounce back. I tried to lighten the mood. “You’re not a Democrat anymore, huh?”

“Listen, Cam. I need you to go to your office now. There’s a banker’s box on your desk. Use it to pack your shit, then come down to my office to sign the paperwork. You have five minutes before security comes to get you.” With that, he opened the meeting room door. But when I started to leave, he stopped me and nodded at my laptop bag. “Leave the computer with me.”

I hurried to the nice office that I had considered my home for the past few years, where I had (almost) single-handedly doubled Harris’s credit card revenues and cross-selling efforts through the careful execution of my consumer behaviorism theories. This twelve-by-twelve office, with a window overseeing Chicago’s Loop, had been witness to all sorts of genius.

The timing sucked.

I allowed a deflated sigh to slip past my lips. With the three personal items—one of them being the lunch Riley had prepared for me—packed loosely in that single box, I dropped into my chair and propped my feet up on the desk. Shaking my head, I contemplated what would happen next. I worried that my severance would not be enough to carry me through to my next job. I wondered how the wedding would happen in a month’s time, how I could take Riley away on the honeymoon we had booked on our credit cards.

And then it hit me: was this all just one sign after another?

Wiping my hands down my face, I heard a soft knock at the door. I glanced over at Raj, our Sr. Manager of Human Resources. His face looked whiter than mine. On any regular day, that was entirely impossible.

“You will be fine, Cam,” he promised. I believed him, too, his words providing a tremendous sense of security, more than any severance package could.

A security guard stepped up behind him. “Say your goodbyes, Raj, you can set up a dinner date another time.”

Raj forced a half-smile, but kept his eyes glued to me. “I will definitely have plenty of time soon.” With a wink, he promised to keep in touch.

I nodded goodbye, briefly remembering Hope’s words—
I believe that goodbyes are forever
—then returned to my melodramatic pity party. The complications of dealing with a fifty thousand dollar wedding with no income frightened me a little. Probably not as much as the coincidence of Hope’s sudden reappearance in my life, though. Or the story,
Our Story
, she had emailed me a couple of days ago.

Kissing the insides of my fingertips, I smacked the computer screen, grabbed my banker’s box, and walked away from the most productive and rewarding time of my life. 

}
i {

W
ith a Starbucks cappuccino to keep me company, I returned to the Harris building and waited in the lobby by the big waterfall. The security guards knew me by now and offered their nods of consolation
.

Fuck you. I have a wedding in a few weeks and a promise haunting me from my youth. The last thing I need is the struggle of unemployment.

I sensed Riley before I saw or heard her.

“Cam, what’s going on?” she asked.

I turned around and found her hurrying across the granite lobby floor, her forehead glistening with perspiration. She had tears in her eyes. Once she was close enough, she pulled me into a tight hug.

“I’m so sorry,” she cried. Like I had lost my best friend, like the crashing of the waterfall behind us was the banging of a funeral drum, like I even cared about losing my job as much as I cared about losing Hope.

I held her at an arm’s length and admitted to myself that, as much as I probably didn’t deserve Hope, I sure as hell didn’t deserve Riley. In her white blouse, unbuttoned to show a bit of cleavage and in desperate need of an iron, she looked frazzled. Scared. Yesterday we spent the afternoon at the United Center, decent seats at the Bulls game—they beat the Heat by four, but it still felt like a painful victory—followed up by a nice dinner on the West end. We laughed like we used to. And when we got home, I fucked her so hard… but the last thing on my mind was Hope, or her little novel.

I didn’t deserve this beautiful bride in my arms.

“We’ll put the wedding on hold,” she said, her breathing becoming rushed and a little erratic. “The deposits we can live without and…”

“No,” I told her with a softness that I saved strictly for Riley. I released her arms and grabbed her face, forcing her to look at me. It seemed to calm her a little, slow down those spinning nerves. “This won’t impact our wedding.”

“Cam…” Something in her eyes told me. She knew. I had heard that women “just know” when their husbands strayed, like they had some kind of sixth sense. Only I hadn’t strayed. Not physically.

At last, my hands dropped away. I turned from her, grabbed the Starbucks, and took a sip. It was getting cold, but it tasted just fine. I felt her hand on my shoulder.

“Cam,” she said, the volume so low that her words barely carried above the crashing waterfall. “Let’s just put it on hold. Until we figure things out.”

When I faced her again, I let out a long breath. “Riley, there’s something we need to talk about.”

She gave me an understanding nod. Her face appeared numb.

Before we could speak a little more about it, Gordo came toward us, carrying his own box.

“Someone die?” he asked, laughing at his own words. He dropped the box, not delicately, and faced me. “You’re not pissed that I told your fiancée about what went down, are you?”

I kept my eyes glued to hers, her unfaltering pupils laser-focused on me. When she looked away, I knew it was okay to face Gordo.

“No, it’s all good,” I admitted, letting out a long and tired sigh. “Are you all done?”

A 250-watt smile illuminated Gordo’s face, and he rubbed his hands together like a child about to get himself into a whole world of trouble. When I glanced over at Riley, her frown suggested she was confused by Gordon’s excitement at being newly unemployed.

“So…” I started, probably more confused like Riley than excited like Gordo. “What’s next?”

He patted my back, right between my shoulder blades. “What’s next is we go grab a few drinks. And fucking celebrate.”

}
i {

W
ith half of the day left to burn, I followed Gordo to the Chandler, a luxury condominium at the mouth of the Chicago River. He smiled the entire time, walking through the lobby and flashing a wink at the concierge who grinned back.

“Landon runs a commodities-based hedge fund,” Gordo whispered once we boarded the elevator. He pressed the button for the 34
th
floor—there were thirty-six floors in total. “You know why I can’t go home, right?”

I shrugged; I didn’t really care.

The elevator doors opened, but Gordo didn’t step forward. He grabbed my shoulders and gave me that look that he normally reserved for our strategy meetings. “Cam, if Melinda finds out I’m out of work, she’s gonna sentence me to death.” As the elevator doors began to shut, he flung his arm out and forced them open again.

“Sure, whatever you say,” I said, stepping off the elevator before those doors could shut again.

“You’ve got a wedding coming up, your whole life ahead of you,” Gordo went on, keeping his voice low as we walked down the long hallway toward one of only two doors. “You need to replace that income. And I need to find work, too. So follow my lead, okay? These are some good guys, and if you play things right, you’ll have a solid set of friends. For life.”

Before I could ask any questions, the door we were approaching opened, and a man in a suit and tie stepped out with a martini in one hand. He looked like a model with his dark hair, dark face, and unshaven jaw. I made a mental note to keep Hope away from this guy. And Riley, too.

“I thought my gay-dar was going crazy!” the guy sneered. Once we were close enough, he spread his arms and embraced Gordo, careful to not spill his drink.

“Landon,” Gordo said, his voice tight with anxiety, “this is Cam, my protégé.”

Landon winked; he was a good-looking dude. Even I felt special from the attention he gave me—which was just one glance, but still. Instead of a man-hug, though, he held out his hand.

“Pleasure to meet you,” I said, allowing him to swallow my hand in his, shaking it with a
n elite firmness that suggested seven-figure bonuses and a Maserati for the daily commute. “Gordo has said some great things about you and your work.”

Landon laughed, but it seemed forced and artificial. He waved us inside his condo. “What are you boys drinking? Markets are closing in a couple of hours and feeder cattle is up, up, up!”

Once inside, Landon hurried off to a crowd of other guys sitting and lounging on white leather sofas. Most drank from martini glasses, but a couple had bottles. Most wore suits; one wore a trader vest. There was white powder on the glass table, neither talcum nor sugar to rim those cocktail glasses.

“Jesus, Gordo,” I whispered. “What the fuck is this?”

“Don’t be shy, homos,” Landon said, stepping up to what I assumed was a large bar. Later I realized it was his dining room table with every bottle and type of alcohol imaginable on it. “What’s your poison on this glorious Monday afternoon, Gordon? Cam?”

Gordo nudged me forward. “Go with it. You’ll be making two-fifty by the end of the month if Landon likes you.” To Landon, he said, “Make mine one of those single malts you like.”

Landon nodded, then shifted his attention to me. “And you? I can make you a daiquiri if you’re thinking something fruity.”

Fuck it. “I’ll take whatever you’re having.”

The instant grin that rose on Landon’s face allowed the sunlight from outside to reflect off his shining white teeth. “Your friend is my kind of guy, Gordon,” he said, but kept his attention glued to me.

} i {