Chapter 16

July 1

"Dear Bob," Dana wrote. "I'm sorry I haven't written sooner, but things have been a bit hectic. You might have heard that there's a war in Spanish Guyana. But don't worry." Dana stopped to considered her words. "Well, I'm not saying not to worry about the war," she added. "Obviously worry about that. I mean, it's a war. Everyone should worry about wars. There's just no need to worry about me, since I'm not there. I was detained briefly by the government then put on a plane back out. 
 "I think I was treated well during my detainment, but I can't know for sure, since I'm not certain whether the rebels are good guys or bad guys yet, on account of the fact that I've been a little out of touch here on Lesser Morrell Island. 
 "And I've got a surprise," Dana continued. "One Planet reassigned me to--guess where?--Lesser Morrell Island!"
Dana never had been very good at keeping surprises secret.
"It's a tiny island in the South Pacific where it's just me, the natives, palm trees, parrots, monkeys, lizards, beetles, an astounding number of fruit bats, and a few other activists. 
 "It isn't easy here. There's lots of work to do, and not much contact with the outside world. I miss you tremendously. Please write. Just send the letters to the One Planet office in New York, and they'll find me. Oh, and if you would, let my parents know where I am. I only have the one envelope. Miss you. Love, Dana."
 Dana thought she should write more, but she was finding it difficult to construct a coherent sentence without drag-and-drop editing and the sage-like presence of the spell-check program. Anyway, time was short. William and George were boarding the ferry for Greater Morrell Island any minute, and it's not like there would be a mailman around if her letter didn't go with them. Here on Lesser Morrell Island, virtually all messages were exchanged verbally. Those considered too important for word of mouth were not written down and mailed but rather, in keeping with local custom, conveyed through the Sacred Dance of Important Communication. As far as Dana was concerned, this was an example of folk wisdom at its very best. While a written message often contains news that the recipient might not wish to hear, everyone tends to interpret a dance to mean whatever they want them to mean. Everyone remains happy and bloodshed is avoided. 
 Things were very different on Greater Morrell Island. Greater Morrell Island had lost the art of the Sacred Dance of Important Communication. But they did have overnight money-grams. Life is a tradeoff. In fact, as a U.S. protectorate Greater Morrell Island had everything from welfare payments to American post offices. It was the only location serviced by the United States postal system to vote resoundingly for the "Fat Elvis" stamp. 
 Dana quickly sealed her letter, addressed it to the Bucklin College Observatory, and gave it to William along with $5, which she hoped was enough to cover postage from half a globe away. Since Greater Morrell Island was a U.S. protectorate, the true cost was much closer to thirty cents, but William figured Dana could spare the money.
 
"May I help you?" asked the woman with the telephone receiver attached to the side of her head.
 "Yes, My name's Bob Gwafin…actually, make that Bob Gwafinn," I told the receptionist, then was sorry I'd lied. "I'm starting here today."
 "Starting what here today?"
 "Starting working here today. I was hired yesterday."
 "No, that can't be." 
 "And why can't it be?" 
 "Because this is July and all of the trainees start in June. That's when we have the trainee training program to train the trainees," explained the woman, who then went back to answering her phone.
I stood in polite, uncomfortable silence until I had determined beyond significant doubt that the receptionist didn't intend to waste any more time on me, and that her phone didn't intend to stop ringing.
 "I don't mean to argue," I said, since that's how polite people prefaced their arguments. "But I was in fact hired yesterday."
 "Hired to do what?"
 "No one up to this juncture has thought it necessary to clarify that point."
 "I don't believe you."
 "I have a contract," I said, producing my copy of the contract I'd signed yesterday. The receptionist took a call.
 "You have a contract to work here, but you don't know what you're supposed to be doing."
 "I was told to ask someone at reception and let them figure it out."
 "I see. Well, get me a cup of coffee."
I got the woman a cup of coffee from the pot in the reception area. "Good," she said when I returned. "Now go pick up my laundry." She handed me a ticket.
 "I don't think Johnston Brother hired me to do your errands."
 "But you can't say for certain that they didn't."
 "No," I admitted. "But I think I'm probably above you in the hierarchy."
 "Does it say that in your contract?"
 "Not that I know of, but…"
 "Then get my laundry."
 "Listen, I'm bound to be above you. They're paying me more than you."
 "You can't know that. You don't know how much I'm making. Now are you going to get my laundry or not?"
 "Listen, maybe you ought to contact Mr. Gwafinn to straighten this out."
 "Who?"
 "Mr. Gwafinn, the new CEO. He's the one who hired me yesterday."
 "You're telling me that the new CEO bypassed our entire hiring process in order to retain you for no particular job?"
 "That's right." 
 "And now you expect me to call Mr. Gwafinn, and tell him that a Mr…"
 "My name also is Mr. Gwafinn," I lied, but only slightly.
This time the connection registered. 
 "Please follow me," the receptionist said, hanging up on her latest caller. 
 "Gwafinn? Did you say your name was Gwafinn?" Human resources director Theodore Johnston was clearly concerned.
 "I said my name was Gwafin," I corrected, since I'd resolved to be as honest as possible. 
 "And you were hired by Mr. Gwafinn, the CEO?"
"That's right."
"The name--that's just a coincidence, I suppose?"
 "Oh, no," I answered. "It's no coincidence. My name's definitely why I was hired."
Johnston glanced at my contract--I'd left its unusual adoption addendum at home. "Aren't you missing one of the 'n's in Gwafinn?"
 "Efficiency," I explained.
 "I see. And you don't know what position Mr. Gwafinn had in mind for you?"
 "That didn't seem to a particular point of concern for him."
 "Well," said Johnston at great length. "I'll have to discuss this with the special hirings panel."
 "Special hirings panel?"
 "The executive panel that handles staffing through atypical means?
 "Atypical means?"
 "Not through the standard interview process."
 "And what should I do until this panel meets?"
 "Wait right over there," he said, gesturing to the area just outside his office.
 "Wait by that cubicle? For how long?"
 "Oh, just a few minutes. The panel is convening at this very moment."
 "That's fortunate."
 "It's not a coincidence. I called the meeting while we were speaking."
 "Um…How could you have called a meeting? I've only been here five minutes, and you never picked up the phone."
 "We have a system in place to handle these sorts of emergencies," answered Johnston, again pressing the red panic button concealed under his desk. A worried looking man burst into the room.
 "Ah, the first of the panel to arrive," said Theodore Johnston. "Bob, if you could just wait outside."
Six more men had hurried into the office by the time I'd settled in my cubicle. Normally, the sight of eight unhappy-looking people in expensive suits discussing my future would have been exactly the sort of thing to make me nervous. But I knew I didn't have to be nervous about these men. I knew this because they so clearly were nervous about me.  

"But we can't just send him away," said Carlton Johnston. "Gwafinn's in charge now. And you can be damn sure this is his way of letting us know it."
 "You don't suppose he's going to start firing Johnstons?" asked Cameron Johnston, possibly the dimmest of the Johnstons, probably the laziest, and certainly the most distant relation, the last of which also made him the most vulnerable. "I mean, the board wouldn't stand for it. You wouldn't--would you, Dad?"
 "Relax, Cameron," responded Jonathan Johnston. "And stop calling me Dad at business meetings. You know very well that you were adopted. Anyway, if he thought he could get away with firing us, he'd have done it already. The little prick's just hiring his own son as a show of power."
 "Speaking of which, since when does he have a son?" asked Theodore. "I didn't even know he'd been married except that once for tax purposes. Maybe this little bastard's a bastard. We should look into it. It could be a real black eye for Gwafinn."
 "I doubt he'd have hired him if he was," said Theodore. "More likely he's kept his son in hiding to prevent our finding him."
 "How very Old Testament," commented Charles Johnston, not without a touch of admiration. 
 "Yes, I see it now," said Jonathan. "Gwafinn always was a suspicious son of a bitch. It would be just like him to have a son raised in secrecy to spring on us at just the right moment."
 "This is all well and good," said Theodore. "But what do we do with this kid?"
 "Well, what skills does he have?" asked Cameron.
 "He just graduated from a very expensive liberal arts college," said Theodore.
 "I see, then. None."
 "Should we just bury him in the research department where we can ignore his reports and let him stagnate?" asked Theodore.
 "He'd probably do the least harm in research," said Jonathan. "That is why we bury most of the sons of partners there."
The comment drew some angry looks.
 "Of course that's not to say that's the only reason sons of partners are sent to research," Jonathan added quickly. "Anyway, research is getting a bit over-staffed. Perhaps it's better to stick him in sales. Harder to hide an imbecile in sales. Could be a real blot on Gwafinn's record if his son's a failure."
 "And if he succeeds?" asked Cameron.
 "Then we'll let our competition hire him away from us. I have a friend in the personnel department over at Mornall & Swain who owes me a favor."
 "And if he won't go?"
Jonathan Johnston thought that one over for a moment. "Well, then maybe we could adopt him. Being a Johnston could be a real boost for his career here on Wall Street. If the kid's got the brains to make a good show of it here, then I'm sure he'll have enough savvy to want to be one of us. We'll put together an attractive package for him. Everyone's willing to switch teams if the price is right." 

A few minutes later I watched six members of the Special Hirings Panel file back out of the office. They looked less worried than when they first arrived, I thought, but none of the glances in my direction could have been referred to as "friendly" with any degree of accuracy. Theodore Johnston and a man I later identified as Jonathan Johnston called me back into the office. Jonathan managed to bend his lips into a smile of sorts. Theodore made no effort to conceal his hostility.
 "We've talked it over, and we're happy to say we'll be able to offer you a position here at Johnston Brothers," said Jonathan.
 "Thank you," I said. "But to be precise Mr. Gwafinn already offered me a position. All that's left to be decided is exactly what that position will be." Under different circumstances I might not have looked for an argument with my new boss, but I was fairly certain that as a Gwafin, if not a Gwafinn, cow-towing to Johnstons wasn't part of my job description, whatever that job description might turn out to be. 
 "Even so, final say on personnel decisions including hiring and placement within the firm is the purview of the personnel department," countered Jonathan, who didn't take shit from anyone unless there was serious money to be made by doing so. 
 "We also control the payroll department, so don't get too cocky if you want your paycheck to arrive on time," Theodore added. "I could garnish your wages back to the stone ages."
 "There's no need for threats, Thomas," Jonathan said, readying his next threat. "I'm certain Mr. Gwafinn realizes that as such an unconventional hire, there will be many people watching him. But even with this pressure, I'm confident that he'll do just fine. If that wasn't the case, the elder Mr. Gwafinn would have to have been a fool to have hired him…Oh, yes, and Bob, we've decided the best position for you here at Johnston Brothers is with our sales staff. Best of luck."
 This wasn't what I had expected. It was my understanding that the general breakdown of positions available at an investment bank was corporate finance, for people who understood mergers and acquisitions; sales, for people who knew how to talk people out of their money; and research, for people like me who knew how to get a job on Wall Street but nothing much else of tremendous use.
 In research, one was expected to visit a company, stare at its balance sheets whilst making knowing clicking sounds with one's tongue, then give the stock whatever rating everyone else on Wall Street was giving it. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, this was a Buy or a Strong Buy. You could, in theory, give the stock a negative rating, such as Hold. But if you did this, the company's CEO might not speak to you on your next visit, and then how could you be expected to make an accurate rating of the stock? 
 The sales department was a very different matter. Over an early lunch--my first business lunch if one discounted the cookies I had wolfed down to stave off unconsciousness after selling my plasma--I expressed my concerns to my contractually stipulated father. Gwafinn was anxious for us to be seen eating lunch together, to reinforce that fact that I was his son. I'm not at all certain that he was anywhere near as anxious to actually engage in conversations with me. "Truth is, Mr. Gwafinn, all I know about sales is that things sell better when they're stacked in pyramids near the front of a supermarket." 
 "So? That's more than I knew when I started out. Try to work with that pyramid thing. Just don't use the word pyramid. People will think it's a pyramid scheme, and we don't need that kind of publicity." 
 "But I don't even understand the stocks I'm selling," I said. "My economics professors didn't mention stocks very much. They were mostly interested in selling widgets. Every class for four years we talked about widgets. Well, except for Professor Vallen. He was more concerned with making excuses for why Communism hasn't worked as well as he'd figured just yet. But other than that, it was quite widget-oriented."
 "Bob, you're getting yourself worked up about nothing. Sales isn't about what you're selling. It's about selling yourself. Just make the customers like you."
 "Selling myself? You make it sound like you're hiring prostitutes."
Gwafinn paused. "No…no, that's probably an SEC violation of some sort…and I expect they'd want to be paid up front. Still, would make for interesting office Christmas parties. I like the way you think, Bob."
I took a bite of my egg salad sandwich and wondered if I should mention that I had been kidding. Gwafinn took a bite of his own egg salad sandwich and thought, I suspect, about prostitutes.  
 "But what if I'm trying to sell someone a stock and they ask me a question about it?" I persisted. "What should I do? And don't I need a license of some sort to sell securities?"
 "Whoops, it's 11:30. I've got a conference call I can't miss. Good luck."
 
"I saw a fruit bat on my way up here," Tommy Binder said. "Did you count that one yet?"
 "I counted him yesterday," Dana said, in what she strongly suspected would be a futile effort to shut Tommy up. "Shouldn't you be running the literacy program?" There were still quite a few lizards left to be counted, and Dana didn't feel like wasting yet another afternoon not hurting Tommy's feelings while trying to get him to fuck off, something people as nice as Dana never can bring themselves to come right out and say. 
 "Yea, I should be," Tommy admitted. "But Sarah is on another one of her maximum-political-activism jags, and listening to all that rhetoric gives me the hiccups. Sometimes I think Sarah might have some sort of a problem, the way she acts. Like maybe a chemical dependency."
 "Not unless peroxide counts," Dana mumbled.
 "What was that?"
 "Nothing, nothing, just counting lizards," Dana said, appalled at herself for even thinking something so mean. "The heat must be getting to me," she thought. "The heat, and the fact at I'm surrounded by a bunch of chattering idiots day and night…There it is again. That was a very mean thought. What's happening to me?"
 "I figured it would be nice and peaceful if I came up here on the mountainside and helped you count fruit bats," Tommy said.
 "It was nice and peaceful until you got here," Dana thought. But out loud she said "I already got all the fruit bats." 
 "Okay, the lizards then. Did you look under this rock?" Tommy asked, turning over a rock. "No lizards. But there's a pretty big spider. Do spiders count? OH GOD, IT'S ON MY LEG, IT'S ON MY LEG. HELP! HELP! DANA, HELP ME."
Dana brushed the spider off Tommy's leg. "Maybe you'd better go see the doctor about that spider bite," she advised. 
 "It didn't bite me," Tommy said. 
 "Well, not yet, no--BUT LOOK OUT, IT'S COMING BACK." Dana pointed towards Tommy's other leg.
That did the trick. Dana listened as Tommy's screams grew more distant, and finally were replaced by the sound of a medium-sized man tumbling down a relatively steep, gravely incline. She wouldn't be bothered by Tommy anymore that afternoon. 
 "I just did something very mean," Dana said to a lizard. "That isn't me. It isn't me at all. I'm never mean. Maybe I should see the doctor. Except that Tommy will be there having his imaginary spider bite examined. And the Doctor's a nut case…There it is again," Dana caught herself. "Calling the doctor a nut case was extremely mean. I'm supposed to show compassion for the insane, and at least a modicum of tolerance for the slightly off kilter. Oh God, this is really becoming a problem. I don't want to be mean. I hate mean people."
The lizard didn't know how to help, so Dana counted it and continued with her work. "But on the bright side," she allowed. "I did get rid of Tommy."
 
By 11:45, I'd found my way to the sales department on the 35th floor. 
 "May I help you?" the sales department receptionist asked.
 "Yea, My name's Bob Gwafin. I'm starting here today."
 "Starting what?"
 "Starting working."
 "Are you transferring from another office? I wasn't told anything about this."
 "No, I was just hired."
 "From another firm?"
 "No, out of school.
 "That isn't possible."
 "No, it's possible. It just isn't very rational. Listen, I just went through this routine with the main desk receptionist two hours ago. Maybe we could skip ahead to the part where you dump the problem on someone else."
 The receptionist thought that idea was just fine, and dumped me on the head of equity sales, Gerald Callesse. I was pleased to see he wasn't a Johnston. That is, unless he had married into the family. Or had descended from a maternal line. They might all be Johnstons, I realized and fought back one of those Invasion-of-the-Body-Snatchers-I'm-the-only-one-here-who-isn't-a-pod-person moments.
 "And you are?" Callesse asked.
 "My name's Bob Gwafin. I'm starting here today."
 "Starting what?"
 "Starting working."
 "Are you transferring from another office? I wasn't told anything about this."
 "No, I was just hired."
 "From another firm?"
 "No, out of school.
 "That isn't possible," I said in concert with Callesse.
 "Listen, I know it isn't possible," I explained. "But somehow that hasn't prevented it from happening. I was hired by the new CEO Mr. Gwafinn just yesterday. Here, I have a signed contract."
Callesse glared at his receptionist. She clearly wasn't at fault, but he couldn't very well glare at the new CEO. "Goddamn receptionist," he grumbled for good measure. "But have you been through our training program?"
 "No."
"Do you have any experience in this field? Are you some sort of prodigy or something? Is there any reason at all you've been hired? Do you have any idea how odd it is for you to be hired while everyone else on Wall Street is worried about layoffs?"
 "No, no, my last name is Gwafin, and yes."
 "You say your name was 'Gwafinn'?"
 "That's right, more or less, in answer to question three."
 "I see," said Callesse, counting back through his questions to make sure there had been no mistake. "So I take it you're..." but he trailed off in mid sentence. He had meant to confirm that his new employee was related to the new CEO, but since the answer to that question seemed obvious, and since saying he was a relation of the CEO would give the young Gwafinn a psychological advantage in their future dealings, the wise course was to leave the whole matter alone. "Sorry about the confusion," Callesse said instead. "It's just that most new hires of this sort are assigned to Research. I'm not even sure we have an open desk. I'll put Jennifer in charge of figuring this out." 
Callesse glanced down at my contract. "Doesn't 'Gwafinn' have a second 'n'?" he asked.
 "It skips a generation," I explained, and took back the contract before he noticed that there was an addendum missing.
 Fortunately, Jennifer, as the sales department receptionist was known to those who had bothered to ask her name, was a smart woman who had worked on Wall Street for years. While other receptionists had lost their jobs in the recent recession, Jennifer knew the first rule of success in a cut-throat business: When faced with a seemingly insurmountable problem, just pass it along to someone even less powerful than yourself. On paper, no one in the Johnston Brothers' offices had less power than Jennifer--at least until the cleaning crews came around at midnight--but in practice power is a fluid thing. At any given moment, there was always one person in the office with less power than the receptionist. That individual was, of course, the worst performing salesman. Like the bottom-dog in a wolf pack, the worst salesman on the floor takes abuse from anyone and everyone, regardless of job title or pay scale. 
 Jennifer walked me to a desk.
 "You can sit here for now. It's Bill Lahey's desk, but Bill can share a desk with someone else. Or work standing up. Or quit. He's out this morning anyway."
 "Uh, maybe I should be the one to share a desk--I am new here."
 "No, no," said Jennifer, who was not about to fall for that one. "Bill hasn't been pulling his weight around here anyway. So screw him." If it came down to a power play between Jennifer the generally effective receptionist and Bill the non-selling salesman, Bill would find few allies. A receptionist might have little clout, but Lahey carried the stigma of failure. "Here, you can take Bill's computer, too. And his lunch. Poor bastard's been bringing a brown-bag lunch. I guess he saw the writing on the wall and started trying to save money. Here--he keeps the lunch in his second drawer. Come to think of it, I'm going to see about having Lahey fired. That would be the best move from a desk-management perspective."
 Taking Bill Lahey's job, desk, and lunch did make me a bit uncomfortable, but when you think about it everyone takes a job that someone else might have had. It's just that most people don't have to look at a framed 8"x10" desk-top picture of the other man's wife while it happens. Nice looking woman, I thought as I listened to Jennifer explain how to use Bill Lahey's phone system. I wondered if Lahey's wife would swap him for me as easily as his employer had. I looked deep into the desktop photo's eyes and decided that, yes, she probably would. But I'd worry about that later. For now, I munched on an apple from Lahey's lunch bag and listened to Jennifer explain how to make a conference call. 
 Once Jennifer left, I was on my own. For the first time in my life I was a professional in a respected position in society. This felt very good. What felt less good was the realization that once I'd finished Lahey's apple, I hadn't a clue what to do next. So I ate slower. But this didn't strike me as a long-term solution to the problem.  
 A lack of confidence was something I had rarely been accused of during the first 21 ¾ of my years upon this planet. My recent bout of unemployment had, however, shaved a few points off my ego. I adjusted Bill Lahey's desk chair and I wondered how long it would be until Jennifer would be giving this desk away again. The old me would never have given failure a moment's thought. The new me figured it was at least worth considering, and very possibly worth obsessing over. All in all, I would have felt much better if a single person had bothered to tell me what I was supposed to be doing. That is, aside from Jennifer, who had done a quite credible job explaining the phones.
 I was faced with my first big business decision: Should I admit I didn't know what the hell to do and look like an ass now, or try to bluff my way through it and risk looking like an even bigger ass later? Callesse didn't seem like the sort of boss who saw it as his job to provide guidance, exactly. More the sort to offer motivational threats and constructive insults. He hadn't stopped yelling into his phone since our brief meeting had ended, and the odds were astronomically low that whoever was at the other end of that phone line was any more incompetent than I. Callesse's face had turned red, and his veins were bulging. If I asked him to tell me how to do my job, the very best I could hope for would be that his head might burst before he had a chance to lunge at my throat. The smart play, I decided, was to hide my incompetence from such a boss for as long as possible. Ideally until I was ready for retirement. But looking around the room, I didn't see anyone else to ask. I'd just have to keep my head low and buy time until I could figure things out on my own. 
 For a firm with a century-old reputation as a money factory, the salesroom was not what you'd call showy. Just row after row of metal desks, computer screens, ringing phones, and humming florescent lights. The only sunlight arrived filtered through the executive offices that formed a perimeter around the floor. My fellow salesmen--a couple hundred I'd estimate, virtually all male, virtually all white, and virtually all well groomed--at least when the market was rising--sat hunched over their desks yelling into phones and pounding on computer keyboards. Every man wore a white oxford shirt and fashionable tie, every chair had a suit jacket slung over its back. If not for the quality of the ties it might have been a telemarketing outfit in Omaha. Nebraskans just can't seem to get a handle on men's fashions.
 Well, I thought, the first step in not appearing to be an idiot is not appearing at all. I took off my suit jacket, slung it over the back of my chair, and picked up my phone's receiver. Despite Jennifer's lesson, the telephone would be my first challenge. First two challenges, really, since I had no idea of, first, whom to call and, second, what to say if against all odds I should manage to reach them. At a loss, I said in my most professional voice "Get me Peterson." Silence, I figured, makes one stand out in a sea of commotion. I could talk even if no one was listening. I'd make my pitch to the dial tone.
 Within an hour I'd made some small progress. I'd spent the time eavesdropping on my colleague one desk to my right, jotting down key phrases that seemed likely to come in handy later. It didn't seem so very complicated. One stock was "showing tremendous momentum," he'd say. Another a "steady income producer," and all were "highly recommended by our top-ranked research department." He was not new-car-salesman aggressive, nor even new-appliance-salesman pushy. Instead he relied on the weight of the Johnston Brothers name, pointed out that down markets were when suckers sold and savvy operators bought, and avoided outrageous guarantees about future stock performance. I could do all of those things. Of course I had no way to know if I had selected a capable role model, but this man did have exactly that trait that's most necessary in a guru: he was the first person I'd come across in a moment of desperation who seemed to have any answers. Under different circumstances, I might have joined this man's cult, moved to Idaho, and stockpiled weapons for humanity's inevitable showdown with the giant space-zombies foretold by his teachings. 
 
You never know what it is you're going to miss the first time you spend a year on a small, inaccessible island. For some it's easy access to one's close friends and relatives. For others it’s the past three centuries of technological progress. For Sarah it had been righteous indignation. Everyone on Lesser Morrell Island was either a native or a fellow activist. This was all well and good in principle, but in practice it seriously curtailed Sarah's opportunities for luscious umbrage. Until she landed on Lesser Morrell Island, Sarah had never gone a month without finding at least one opportunity to call someone a bourgeois pig, a time-tested, if old-school, insult that she felt had unfairly fallen out of use since the 1960s. Sarah even bragged to fellow activists that 'bourgeois pig' had been her first words. In point of fact, Sarah's first words had been "Mama" and "Dada," but that was merely because her bourgeois-pig parents had brainwashed her into saying it, which should hardly count against her. 
 Here on the island, opportunities to accuse others of bourgeois pig-dom were painfully few. Only rarely did Sarah even get to call anyone a "tool of the establishment." And whole days had passed without a single opening to tell someone that he was "part of the problem." In desperation, Sarah had taken to writing self-righteous and accusatory notes concerning shore erosion and lawn-fertilizer spill-off to beach-front property owners. These she sealed in empty bottles that she tossed into the ocean. Sarah did this only late at night, to avoid becoming saddled with a reputation as someone who threw empty bottles into the ocean. Her fellow island activists did eventually learn Sarah's dark secret, since she had not considered the advantages of waiting for an out-going tide. But the others were tolerant. For starters, tolerance was easier than coming up with another way to recycle glass bottles on a remote Pacific island. But there was more to it than that. They knew Sarah; they saw her predicament. Sarah's passion for accusing others of crimes against the planet simply needed an outlet. The others even understood that this passion would be directed against them from time to time, if only because Sarah periodically ran short of empty bottles. The other activists understood all of this. They just didn't like it. 
 "I don't understand how you can justify working in that place," Sarah said, apropos of nothing. Sarah often didn't see how things could be justified. To Sarah, the fact that she didn't see how something could be justified was precisely the same as saying it was unjustifiable, and she tended to lash out if the behavior wasn't halted immediately.
 "That place?" Dana asked. "Do you mean the hospital? What's wrong with the hospital?" Dana helped out around the hospital when she could find the time.
 "What's wrong with it? It's the number one threat to the environment of this region." Sarah, it seemed, had found something on the island to be against. 
 "You said the number one threat was our dam. That's why we blew it up, remember. Then you said it was excessive fishing, so we handed out those environmental brochures. Then you said it was that no one could read our environmental brochures, so we joined the literacy campaign. Then you said it was the loss of cultural heritage, so we told the natives to forget the English they'd learned. Then you said it was littering, so we had Tommy take back the environmental brochures before anyone could litter with them." 
 "Don't you see, all this time we've just been addressing the symptoms. The greatest threat to the planet's environment is overpopulation. Any serious environmentalist knows that. And the greatest cause of overpopulation in this region is the hospital. Hospitals make death rates go down and birth rates go up. Where do you think that's going to lead?"
 "But the hospital is there to help people," Dana protested. "I like helping people. Helping is good."
 "But are you really helping people, or are you just taking the short-term solution?"
There was no response to this charge. The "short-term solution" accusation was the "did-too-plus-infinity" trump card of environmental activism. 
 "Well, what would you have us do?" Dana asked. "It's not like our hospital is increasing lifespans much. Just the other day I accidentally handed out the wrong medication, if it's any help."
 "That's not enough."
 "What do you propose?"
 "We have to take action."
 "And by take action you mean…"
 "We have to call a meeting."
 
I'd given up on my first prospective client, the dial tone, when it had voiced its hesitance to invest in the volatile stock market by making loud beeping sounds in my ear and warning me to hang up or dial a number. I'd taken its advice and dialed a number. The best one I could think of at the time was the number for Time of Day. Time of Day seemed slightly impatient with my sales pitch as well, in as much as it kept reminding me of the time. But it never actually cut me off, which I took as a positive sign. I continued to press the recording to do some planning for its future until I saw my neighbor and unintentional guru hang up, lean back in his chair, and rake his fingers through his expensive haircut. The haircut immediately sprang back into place. Clearly I had chosen my guru wisely. Sensing an opening, I told Time of Day that I would call back tomorrow when he'd had a chance to think over what we'd discussed, and hung up. Time of Day remained noncommittal. 
 "Andy Keller" my neighbor said, extending a hand.
 "Bob Gwafin"
 "What's your department?" Keller asked.
 "Sales."
 "That much I'd surmised, since this is the sales floor. The question I had hoped to have answered is what, exactly, are you selling?"
 "That's where it starts to get a little fuzzy."
 "How fuzzy?"
 "Irish Wolf Hound."
 "I see. They didn't assign you a department?"
 "No, they just assigned me this desk, this phone, and this bag lunch."
 "Hmm," said Keller, leaning back in his chair. "Most salesmen get assigned to a department. 'Course most salesmen also go through the training program, and only a few steal other salesmen's bag lunches. Tell you what, I'm kinda busy here, but I'll give you a quick piece of advice in exchange for half of Lahey's chicken salad sandwich."
 "Sure…but I think he brought tuna salad today."
 "Tuna salad? Disgusting. No deal."
Keller reached for his phone. 
 "Wait," I stopped him. "I'll give you the whole sandwich--and his soda. But I really could use that advice."
 "Deal," said Keller, who preferred tuna anyway, but knew a strong negotiating position when he saw one. "Here's my advice: Sell equities. That's where the money is here at Johnston Brothers. Anyway, most of us on this side of the room are selling equities. That's what Lahey was trying to sell, and you are taking his desk."
 "Yea, I'm sorry about doing that to Lahey."
 "Fuck Lahey. He had his chance and he fucked it up. Now he's gone." 
I handed over the bag lunch. "So what equities should I sell?"
 "Whatever equities you think you can get people to buy."
 "What people?"
 "Any people you think will buy them."
 "Yea, but which people are those?"
 "People with money. Pension fund managers, insurance companies, lottery winners, NFL running backs, widows, coin-operated Laundromat chain owners, you name it. We're not picky here at Johnston Brothers. Just make sure they're ready to fork over at least six figures, or it's not worth your time."
 "Come'on man. I need a hint here. Who do I call."
 "I'd like to help you, my friend, really I would. But if I've got a lead, I'm not handing it to you, certainly not in this market…and come to think of it, not really in any other market, either. You're going to have to find your own clients. As far as I know, Lahey only found one in three months. Now they've given his desk to some asshole who steals other people's lunches. It's a tough world. And as near as I can tell, you've already wasted the first hour of your professional career without selling anything. At this rate you'll be unemployed in a month."
With that Keller picked up his phone and started yelling at whomever was unfortunate enough to be at the other end. I stared at my phone and tried to calculate what my odds were of finding a client with "six figures minimum" by dialing numbers at random. I could start by eliminating any area codes in Arkansas or Mississippi, I thought, which would improve the odds a bit. That's when I noticed a scrap of paper on my desk, one that hadn't been there before. Turning it over, I read: "Bob, You seem like a good guy. Some free advice: Don't play their game." 
 The note was not signed. I looked around, but didn't spot anyone looking in my direction. I studied Keller, but saw no hint that the message was his work. I shoved the paper in my pocket, put the receiver to my ear, and dialed up Time of Day. "Don't play their game?" I repeated to myself. Was there someone on the Johnston Brothers sales floor looking to instill morals in young salesmen? Or trying to confuse one? It could be a Johnston attempting to drive me insane.
 "At the sound of the tone, the time will be 1:12" said Time of Day.
 "Yea, give me Womack," I answered, then started in with the most impassioned sales pitch that that talky clock had ever heard, occasionally switching to nods and grunts of agreement to better eavesdrop on Keller's pitches to his likely-more-promising candidates. 
 
It had been a different Dean Kerns in recent days, Smith noted. Or more accurately, it had been the same Kerns, only with a previously unimaginable degree of administrative savvy. And if anything, that was worse, since had it actually been a different Dean Kerns, Smith could have tracked down the original, incompetent, version and returned him to his station. The prospect of a savvy Kerns was going to require a more involved response on Smith's part, if he didn't want to end up playing second fiddle to the man for the next two decades. As it happened, Smith didn't want that very much at all.
 In a meeting that morning, a student had proposed that the college quad be handed over to a commune of organic farmers who would raise crops to feed the oppressed peoples of the world. Kerns had agreed it was good for people to have food, then suggested the student come back with a full report explaining his program in the context of the economics of global crop prices. When the student tried to protest, Kerns chided him that the college didn't want to accidentally undercut world food prices, thereby threatening the livelihood of small farmers. Faced with this logic, the student could only drop his head, admit that he didn't want to threaten the livelihood of small farmers, agree to look into this economics thing, locate an economics book in the library, get bored before completing the first page, and go outside to play Frisbee on the quad instead. It was a total victory for Kerns, and not the only one Smith had witnessed of late.
 As a test, Smith had himself proposed that the college finance the economic study in question…and Kerns had artfully handed off budgetary approval to a committee that Smith had never heard of. And Smith had heard of all the committees. Smith was on all the committees, or all those that would have him, anyway. "This was no coincidence," Smith thought. "Kerns has somehow gotten a hold of the idea that he's smart enough to do his job, and the man's too stupid to realize that he's wrong."
 This was a problem. Smith only had accepted the Assistant Dean position at Bucklin because Dean Jergensen had been at death's door. Or on death's front walk with a nice bottle of Chardonnay under his arm, anyway. It had never occurred to him that Jergensen's job wouldn't simply be handed to the next man in the chain of command as a matter of course. It was like being Vice President, Smith had reasoned. If you could knock off the President, the big chair was yours. It was in the Constitution. Only too late did Smith re-read the 25th Amendment, and discover it did not specifically cover college-administration promotion policy. Remarkably, a check of the Bucklin College charter revealed no rules concerning succession of powers there, either. It was as if the college was expected to find a new dean without an explicit written policy covering exactly who that new dean would be. A decision to be made without an explicit written policy. Smith shuddered at the thought. 
 As for Kerns, the man was barely into his fifties, just a few years older than Smith himself. Kerns had a strong heart, no family history of cancer, and an aversion to risky situations so finely honed that it bordered on cowardice. Smith would never get his promotion through the time-honored tradition of waiting for one's superiors to die. "Still there's no need for panic," Smith remained himself. "Whatever Kerns might have learned in the past few weeks, he's still a novice in the cut-throat world of policy and administration. He can't compete. Not against me."
 Smith had been an administrator all his life. Well, all his adult life, anyway. As a child he had merely played at being an administrator. When the other children in his neighborhood pretended that their cardboard box was a spaceship heading to Mars, Kerns had secured another box and pretended it was the NASA offices. He would insist that the other children complete the necessary forms for takeoff approval, Martian landing clearance, deep-space insurance coverage, and all the other paperwork that's de rigueur for such a massive undertaking. Most days his playmates would submit to only a few documents before the notoriously rigorous Martian quarantine protocols caused them to give up on space travel entirely, and change the game to one of beating young Smith with all the vigor children can muster after they've been filling out forms for a while and anyway were a bit tuckered out from a long voyage in a cardboard rocket. But Smith was okay with this new game as well, so long as the other kids filled out the necessary forms before the beating. It was one form per punch, with special dispensation needed for kicks. They rarely persisted for long.
 This lifetime of training had given Smith real-world administrative skills that Kerns couldn't possibly match. It also had provided him with the ability to take a punch, which was a nice talent to have in reserve, should all else fail. Things were still a long way from the punch-taking phase, but Smith was becoming concerned. 
 He paced around his office, back and forth, back and forth, then for a change, around and around. Smith shuffled his feet when he walked, hands clenched behind his back, shoulders hunched. It was an odd gait, and that very oddity was a point of pride for Smith. When he had set out on his career in academia fourteen years prior, Smith had been the blandest, most inconspicuous of personalities. That was just fine at the time, since like most low-level administrators, Smith's goal had been to blend into the woodwork where he wouldn't be saddled with any important, and thus potentially career-damaging, assignments. But when Smith decided to strive for something more meaningful in life--something like a high-level administration position--that very anonymity became his bane. Smith worked for a college, a non-profit entity. In an atmosphere where financial success rarely was given much thought, the only way for an ambitious young administrator to stand out was, well, to stand out. So Smith had cultivated a handlebar mustache, only to find that his upper lip wasn't up to the job. He had developed a fake accent, but with so many professors speaking versions of English that were for all intents and purposes languages of their own, a minor speech flaw earned him little mention. Then he'd hit on the odd walk. Like so many great ideas in history, Smith had stuck on this solution purely by accident, noting the large number of people who inquired about a limp he had obtained quite honestly, by rolling over his own foot with an office chair. Smith promptly took a long weekend to produce and practice an even more noteworthy walk. 
 Over the following months, Smith had worked the components of the new stride into his standard locomotion, wary of a sudden change arousing suspicion. It had, to date, been the most important decision of his career. At his previous place of employment, Wilson University in Delaware, he had been known not as "you know, that administrator…no the other one," as he had in all prior places of employment, but as "Shuffling Smith," a name he quite liked. Within weeks, Smith was earning promotions and gaining serious consideration at the annual administration awards banquets.
 "I can handle Kerns all right," Smith assured himself. "At this afternoon's administrative meeting, I'll just trot out the heavy artillery. I'll use the one weapon that wins any administrative pissing contest--the budget."
 
By 1:30 that afternoon I had the banter down and I knew which stocks Johnston Brothers was pushing. All I had to do was find a client. That was the one thing I couldn't learn surreptitiously from my guru. Sure, I could watch him dial. But it's not like I could then try the same number myself. How would I explain why I was calling right after my colleague? And why should I think I could make a sale where a more experienced salesman couldn't? Anyway, Keller made his most successful calls through his phone's pre-programmed speed-dial buttons. Must be the best of his existing clients. I took another look at my own phone. Twenty speed dial buttons, twenty names penciled in beside them. If Lahey was on his way out anyway…
 The first read "Home." Probably not a client. The second read "Julia," no last name. Probably the wife's office number, I guessed. The photo on the desk wore a ring, so I knew Lahey was married, and "Home" figured to be his wife's home number as well. That seemed to leave 'wife's office' as the only reasonable conclusion. I considered calling Julia to let her know that I was taking over her husband's life and would be around to see her soon, but decided to let it ride--at least until I had discussed the matter with Lahey. Just seemed like the classy way to handle it. Speed-dials three through twenty were last names. I hung up on time of day without so much as a goodbye and reached for button #3--then stopped. Number three could very well be Lahey's best or longest-standing client. Better to perfect my patter before trying the big time. So I pushed #20, "Talbot." 
 Talbot answered after one ring. "At the sound of the tone," said Talbot, "the time will be 1:35." I was back on the phone with my first prospect. Lahey, it seemed, was a man so insecure about his position at Johnston Brothers that he had filled his speed dials up with fictional names so that anyone glancing at his desk wouldn't know he had fewer than 20 clients worth speed-dialing. 
 Working backwards, I found that buttons 4-20 all connected me with Time of Day, with the exception of #10, which put me in touch with a job placement firm, and #11, which rang up the Depression Hotline. It seemed that Lahey was not oblivious to his tenuous employment status. It also seemed that the rumors had been right. There was only one speed-dial left untried; thus in three months on the job, Lahey had accumulated a grand total of one client--if indeed he had accumulated any at all. Perhaps Lahey had been spreading the rumor of a single client just to build up his reputation around the sales floor. 
 I hit #3, "Bahnsen."
 "Hello?" a woman's voice answered.
 "Yes, Mr. Bahnsen, please," I said, making a sexist but statistically valid assmption that a woman whose voice suggested that she was, charitably, in her fifties probably left the investments to her husband.
 "May I tell him who's calling?"
 "Yes, Ma'am, this is Bob Gwafin at Johnston Brothers."
 "Oh, is this about Bill?"
 "Well, in a manner of speaking, I suppose it is, yes," I said.
A moment later, Mr. Bahnsen was on.
"Hello?"
 "Yes, Mr. Bahnsen, my name is Bob Gwafin. I'm just calling to let you know that I'll be taking over Bill Lahey's accounts here at Johnston Brothers."
 "Taking over his accounts?" Bahnsen sounded concerned. "Is he okay?"
 "If you mean his health, then yes, as far as I know--well, aside from a bit of depression," I surmised from button number 11. "But he'll be leaving Johnston Brothers soon, so we thought it was better to transfer his accounts now rather than later."
 "But why is Bill leaving Johnston Brothers? He hasn't said a word about it--and he was so happy to land a position there."
 "I'm sure he was going to let you know soon. It's common knowledge here on the sales floor that you're his favorite client." This was true enough.
 "Well I ought to be his favorite client," said Bahnsen. "I am his father in law. And I think I better speak to Bill about this before I agree to let someone else take over my accounts. Perhaps he's leaving for a better opportunity at a different investment bank."
 "I'm going to be honest with you here, Mr. Bahnsen. Bill isn't leaving Johnston Brothers for a better opportunity. He's leaving because he's too big of a man to keep hanging around the office of a company that's just fired him."
 "Bill's been fired."
 "Yes sir, or he will be soon anyway."
 "For what reason?"
 "I suppose there are always many reasons one can point to in a situation like this," I hedged.
 "What reason primarily?"
 "Primarily for the reason that he's a lousy salesman."
 "'Lousy'? That's putting it rather harshly. Is there a chance you could tell me how many clients Bill has acquired aside from myself?"
 "None."
 "I really do think you should tell me."
 "I just did, Mr. Bahnsen."
 "Oh…I see."
 "Listen, I'm really sorry. I'd hate to have to find out that my son in law was a loser."
 "Well, there were signs," Bahnsen admitted, his previous bluster having left him. "He didn't do all that well in school…and he never showed any great ambition…and he tends to laugh at those lite beer ads on television. Still, I thought he might make a go of it when I pulled some strings and got him the job at Johnston Brothers."
 "You've done all a father-in-law could," I offered. "But you have to think of your own interests now. For example, the funds you had invested through Johnston Brothers. We should discuss how you'd like those handled."
 "To be honest, I only invested with Johnston Brothers because Bill was there. Now that he's not, I'll probably move my money elsewhere."
 "Mr. Bahnsen, need I remind you of the potentially dire tax consequences of such a move?" I asked. It was a stab in the dark, but I thought a safe one. Whatever is done in this world, it's likely to have potentially dire tax consequences.
 "No…but…"
 "Let me ask you this," I interrupted. "Would you have entrusted your life savings to your son-in-law if he was the mop-and-bucket man at your neighborhood McDonald's?"
 "No…"
 "No, of course not. You're a reasonable person. You trusted Bill not because he was a member of the family, but because he was a member of the family who worked at Johnston Brothers. Now Bill is no longer with Johnston Brothers--or won't be shortly anyway. I am with Johnston Brothers. I'm the guy they brought in to clean up the mess Bill has made of things. The only sensible thing to do is let the better man handle the account."
 "But we're not even related," Mr. Bahnsen protested, though not vehemently. 
 "So introduce me to your daughter." I was on a roll. Within a few minutes, I had my first client. I was rather pleased with myself, too, until Lahey returned to what he apparently still considered his desk a few minutes later. Obviously no one else had bothered to explain the situation to him. It really seemed like a job for the human resources department, but I took the initiative and gave him a rough sketch of what had happened since he'd left that morning. Lahey looked a bit pale when I told him about his job, and even paler when I threw in the details of a small misstep I'd made towards the end of my conversation with Bahnsen.
 "You told my father-in-law about Julia?" Lahey stammered.
 "Yes, but only because I assumed she was your wife. Of course I realize now that that was a mistake, but is it my fault you're cheating on your wife--and put your mistress on speed dial? For God's sake, Bill, you're juggling a wife and mistress as a first year Wall Street salesman? No wonder your work has suffered."
 "Hey, you son of a bitch, I don't need to take that shit from a man who just took my job, stole my client, ruined my marriage, and ate my tuna salad sandwich all in less than two hours."
 "Now wait just a minute," I countered. "I didn't eat your sandwich. I traded it."
 "Traded it? For what?"
 "It was a standard business deal," I answered, a bit defensively. "I don't think it would be very ethical for me to disclose the terms to a third party."
I did feel for Lahey, but the conversation was dragging on and, frankly, it was starting to make me a little uncomfortable. So when Keller looked up from his computer screen long enough to suggest to Lahey and me that he'd solve our problem if one of us would go get him another Coke, I readily accepted. "Fuck off, Bill," Keller told Lahey, then turned back to his computer. I would have to start thinking of these solutions on my own or I'd spend my whole life running back and forth to the soda machine, and Keller's caffeine intake would reach unhealthy levels. 
 To give credit where credit is due, Keller's solution did work, eventually. Lahey continued to stand behind my chair for a while, in some sort of trance as near as I could tell. It was a quiet trance, so I had no rational reason to complain. Still, I wasn't displeased when security arrived to escort him from the building. "Imagine cheating on this beautiful woman," I said to the picture on my desk, shaking my head once to emphasize my concern at the declining moral standards in our society.
 But I couldn't afford to waste any more time worrying about the past. I was a Wall Street equities salesman, and I already had an idea where I could find my second client. Last I'd heard, there was a one-handed former grocery bagger in Bridgeton, Maine who had a sizable lawsuit settlement coming his way from an on-the-job accident. I might have cost Timmy an appendage, but I'd earned him a fortune. If you thought about it long enough, you might even conclude he owed me. 
 Well, I concluded he owed me, anyway. And you're too late to do anything about it.