*If you were in a Creative Writing class with me, this was originally shared with the title ‘Systemic Risk.’ This is Part 2. Part 1 was published last week. Part 3 will be available next week.*
I met her when I was a trader. A consolation prize, an apology—that’s all she was ever supposed to be. I’d just lost an account I’d been courting for a while to my best friend from college, Paul, who’d gotten me the job at the firm in the first place.
“Gavin,” Paul knocked on my office door. “Got a minute? I want you to meet Ace.”
I sized up the man who held his hand out to shake mine. I’d expected someone who looked like a criminal. There were no scars to indicate severe gang initiation beatings, no prison tattoos on his wrists to document a misspent youth. In a pressed grey suit, tailored to his five-foot-nine frame, Ace looked like any other business man. How twisted a man is can’t be judged by the knot in his silk tie.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Ace.”
“Likewise, but you can leave out the ‘mister,’ Gavin.” His expression was friendly enough. “You do great work. Our projections have never looked better.”
I nodded in an attempt to mask my bitterness. “Glad to hear that, sir.”
Glad. That’s the word to use when an unsavory billionaire rips a $200,000 rug right out from under your feet, then returns to pat you on the back while you’re licking your wounds.
“Gavin,” Ace said, clearing his throat, “I am a business man. What happened today was business, not personal. But I want to make it up to you.”
Ace pulled a business card from his breast pocket and laid it on my desk.
“I’d like to monetize your personal pursuit.”
The card was black with numbers clustered in the shape of a diamond.
“My personal – what is this?”
Ace grinned. “It’s a gift. And a lesson on quality versus quantity. Pick your poison. They’ll put her on my tab. When’s your birthday?”
“May 9th,” I said.
“You make it to a thousand in the next eight months and I will wire $200,000 into any account you’d like.”
Paul and I exchanged glances.
“And if I don’t?”
“It’s a bet,” Ace winked. “You will.” He turned to Paul. “I’ll show myself out.”
Once Ace had disappeared into the hallway, I chucked the card into my waste basket.
“Gavin, he knows how hard you worked on the account.”
“And he’s paying me in sex because he thinks I’m an addict – thanks to you.”
Paul shook his head. “I told him it was just a goal you set for yourself. It shows you’re ambitious. No other guy I know is even close to having a thousand notches on his belt by age thirty.”
“I’m not calling. He’s a snake.”
“He’s a rich snake, Gavin.” Paul bent to retrieve the card from my waste basket. “And this is how rich snakes apologize.”
***
As instructed, I wait for the beep.
The wine bottle slams into the passenger side door as I turn into the parking lot of my apartment complex.
“Hey Paul, it’s Gavin again. Wondering if you have plans for next weekend. There’s a show I want to see at the 169. Call me back.”
Paul hardly ever returns my calls these days. If roles were reversed, I can’t say I wouldn’t avoid him. There’s a reason I teach Algebra. No one on Wall Street would take me after I was fired. Ace blackballed me. I assumed that made us even. In Ace’s eyes, we weren’t—not even close.
***
A month after I’d met Ace, I found myself drunk and alone in my apartment.
“Thank you for calling Diamond Associates. Please listen to the prompts and make your selection.”
It wasn’t the first time I had called, but it was the first time I’d responded to the automated system. I was nervous, but casual sexual encounters were a risky business altogether. I’d been through the fake pregnancy scares, the real pregnancy scares, the STD scares, the angry boyfriend scares. Jail time didn’t seem like much of a threat, all things considered.
Within the hour, I checked into a hotel five blocks from my apartment.
A gorgeous young brunette arrived at the bar a few minutes after me, wearing a blue cocktail dress that accentuated all of her curves. She is known by those who pay for her company as Adriana. But that isn’t her name.
***
“Unbelievable.”
For three straight weeks now, the mystery man who has taken a liking to my numbers has purchased the ticket by Monday morning.
“I am very sorry,” Louis says. “You literally just missed him.”
I pay for a coffee, black with a dash of sugar, and forego the lottery ticket for the first time in years. By the time I get on the road, traffic is backed up. I’m stuck behind a white Cadillac, driven by a blonde who is more concerned about doing her makeup than making it to work. The ceiling of my own car feels lower today than it usually does.
A sealed envelope is waiting on my desk when I arrive in my classroom. I toss the entertainment section of the newspaper beside it and drop my bag on the floor.
Work has been a nightmare over the past couple of weeks. Our funding heavily relies on annual assessments the students are required to take. Even after several weeks of prep, all of my students bombed their assessments. I suspect that the administration is firing me, but I don’t know that they’ll even get the chance. I decide to file the unopened letter in my waste basket.
***
“You’re like a drug,” I said.
“Is that a line you use on every girl you sleep with?”
She didn’t know she was the only girl I’d slept with since we’d met.
“Only the ones who use fake names.”
I toyed with the bracelet on her wrist, a gaudy gold piece she wore to let her friends know she was working. Friends who might approach her at a club or a fundraising event. Friends who knew her as someone other than Adriana. I hated that bracelet.
The sheets crinkled as she rolled to face me. I brushed a strand of her hair away so I could focus on the flecks of gold in her green eyes – no small feat without my glasses.
“I’ll tell you my name if you tell me my number,” she said.
“Tell me your name and I’ll let you guess your number,” I said.
“Maya.”
“Maya,” I repeated. I picked a number in my head. “Maya, you’re 782.”
She smiled. “And what number are you on now?”
“Still 782.”
“You’re lying,” she said.
“No.”
“It’s been three months.”
At that point in my life, I had everything and nothing – simultaneously.
“Maya, I am in love with you. I want you to quit this. Move in with me.”
She laughed. “You’re serious?”
***
Paul finally called back almost a month after the last message. We meet at the club, order a couple of drinks each, and make small talk for half an hour before the bands start playing. We’ve been friends for long enough that we don’t feel any need to sugarcoat our lives. We’re both single men who hate our jobs. After a while, there’s really nothing to talk about. I realize now that’s why we never call each other anymore.
As the opening band finishes their set, a guy who looks like he never graduated from his frat house pushes through the crowd, dragging a beautiful brunette in a pink dress behind him.
“Did you know she was going to be here?” Paul asks.
“I had an inkling,” I say.
“You’re too calculated for inklings,” he says. – ©️ 2014-2021 Portia July
(To Be Continued NEXT Week…)
Portia July 