Chapter 20

July 16

"You're 34, you're 35, and you're 36--actually, I believe you already were 29," Dana said. "Now get back where you belong and stop trying to confuse me." The monkey did as it was told. Animal counting was a welcome break from the tumult of the activists' camp. And the counting had been considerably more enjoyable since Dana had finished with the fruit bats and lizards and moved on to the famous Lesser Morrell Island Uncommonly Clever Monkeys. Well, not famous, exactly. They were much too clever to be famous. 
 These monkeys had made it a point to lie low until the whole humanity craze died down a bit. In the meantime, they were tentatively willing to go along with Dana's monkey-counting idea, so long as she didn't try to put those awful numbered tags on them. When you're a monkey, there's nothing worse than having a brightly colored number tag around your neck. It makes you stand out like a peacock in neon nail polish when you're trying to hide from a native with a hankering for some monkey stew. Once Dana's happy lack of numbered tags had been established, the monkeys relaxed a bit, though they remained concerned that she might try some sort of Jane-Goodall-live-among-the-animals thing. Not that it isn't nice to have guests now and again, but some people just won't take a hint when it's time to leave. 
 Dana had been counting hard all morning and was just about to break for lunch when both she and the monkeys were startled to hear the pounding beat of drums in the distance. Dana wasn't quite sure how to interpret the sound; in her experience Lesser Morrell Island had been refreshingly drum-free, so there was little precedent for the situation. She looked to the monkeys for guidance, but they appeared uncertain themselves. Sensible, uncommonly clever monkeys that they were, they held a short conference and concluded that, for safety's sake, it probably was best to panic. Then they started in with the requisite screeching and running about. That was good enough for Dana, who dashed back down the mountainside towards the activists' compound as quickly as one can dash through dense, panicked-monkey infested undergrowth.
 
I reached for my phone, gathering my resolve for one last call before heading home for the weekend. I'd uncovered a new source of potential clients: the list of claimants in a recent lawsuit against a con man who'd preyed upon the rich and gullible. The way I figured it, if they'd let a con man talk them out of most of their money, they might trust me with whatever remained. It was a good idea in theory, but in practice I'd had little luck. Most of the con man's victims were unwilling to consider any investments that didn't guarantee returns of 100% or better in the first month. But persistence is one of the keys to the life of a salesman, and there was still one name left on the list. I picked up my receiver to make the call--then I put it back down. It was six o'clock. The rich, gullible person at the other end of this phone number might be sitting down to dinner. Rich, gullible people are people, too, after a fashion. Our jails are bursting at the seams with those guilty of no more than assault and murder, while salesmen who place calls to residential phones during mealtimes continue to walk the streets free men. But that didn't mean theirs was a group I particularly cared to join. There had to be a better way.
 "Is this all you want out of life?" I asked Keller the next time he was free. "To sit at a long row of phones every day for forty years selling stocks."
 "No, of course not. I want an office."
 "I'm talking about something even better than that. A more interesting life. Some excitement. Something to get you out of bed everyday other than a train schedule and the promise of a few dollars."
 "First of all, my friend, we're not talking about a few dollars here, we're talking about millions of dollars. And second, we're not really talking about millions of dollars, we're talking about the stuff that millions of dollars can buy. And that's more-or-less anything you want. Don't you want anything you want? Because I know it's exactly what I want."
 "What if what I want to do is run screaming from the building every time I picture myself doing what I'm doing now for the next forty years?"
 "Then you'd better get pretty good at this, because they're not going to tolerate that much running and screaming from a bad salesman."
 "I think you're missing the point here."
 "No, Gwaf, I think you're missing the point. You've lucked your way into an incredible opportunity, and by some miracle you might even be halfway decent at it. Don't throw that away because you're having a mid-life crisis two weeks into your career. For one thing, that would mean age 22 is the middle of your life, which doesn't bode well for any plans you might have for your golden years. And for another, what else are you going to do? Was your life that great before you came here? Are you really that good at anything more interesting?" Andy's phone rang, signaling that our conversation was over.
 "I'm taking off," I said to Andy, who waved a hand more-or-less in my direction and yelled into his phone.
 "Then there's the churning," I explained to the commuter unfortunate enough to take the seat next to me on the train back to Jersey. "It's not that I'm one to have much sympathy for the fool in the 'fool and his money…' saying--especially considering that most of these fools have more money than they know what to do with--but I am having some trouble justifying the whole thing. It's funny, I never wrestled with a moral dilemma in my life until I got to Wall Street. But now that I'm here, with big money on the line, it seems like I'm wrestling with a moral dilemma every day. Well, maybe not wrestling with one, exactly, but at very least I'm calling it names and circling it warily. Then again, maybe falling back on moral excuses is just a convenient way to avoid responsibility for my failure if I can't make it on Wall Street. What do you think?"
 "Que?" the man offered. I was going to have to find a better counselor. Or learn Spanish. Probably easier to do the former, I decided, especially since the train was almost to my stop.
 "What I need is a plan," I said to the woman on the stool next to me at Urie's, the bar next to the bar below my apartment. The place was packed, as always on Friday evenings, full of people who couldn't get into Artie's, the better, more popular bar next door. "If I don't come up with something quick, I'm either going to be miserable at my job or a failure at it. Maybe both."
 "You should just shut up and be happy you have a job," the woman suggested. "Everyone else is losing theirs. Look around. This place is full of people who are out of work."
 "You think?"
 "Actually, no. This place is full of people who are hanging onto their jobs. The better bar next door is full of people who are unemployed. They don't have to go to work, so they can grab all the tables before the rest of us are done for the day. Lucky bastards."
 "You know, I've never even gotten in over there. Is it really that nice?"
 "Are you kidding? They have great food, great beer, and it's full of attractive, successful people."
 "Unemployed, attractive, successful people?"
 "They're successful by definition. They've got tables over there and I'm stuck over here in a conversation that doesn't make sense with a guy who can't stop complaining."
 "It's not the conversation that doesn't make any sense, it's my job."
 "Excuse me, but I couldn't help overhear what you've been saying," said a man standing right behind us. "And I think I can solve all of our problems. I'll give you that plan you need," he told me, "but I want your bar stool in return. That way, everyone wins. You get your plan, this young woman gets to start a new conversation with a less depressing man, and I get to sit down. I've been standing here for half an hour waiting for a seat to open up."
 "That sounds great," I said. "But how do I know your plan's any good?"
 "Listen, I'll be straight with you," said the man. "If you wanted a good plan, you should have gotten a seat next to a more attractive woman over at the better bar next door. For a seat in this second-rate bar next to this good-but-not-great looking woman, all I've got is a half-baked piece of folk wisdom that you might or might not be able to turn into something. Take it or leave it."
 "I do appreciate your candor," I said. "There isn't enough honesty in the world these days. And frankly I wasn't getting anywhere with this woman, so I am tempted."
 "Go ahead," prompted the woman. "This other guy's no prize either, but he's bound to be less depressing to talk to than you."
 "Even after he called you 'not-great looking'?"
 "He called me 'good-but-not-great looking.' That's about the best you can expect to do over here in terms of smooth talk. The really suave guys are all next door."
 "Okay," I decided. "You've got a deal. Now what's this half-assed piece of guidance."
 "Here goes," said the man, clearing his throat. "If a situation doesn't make sense, then there's got to be a way to exploit it."
 "Come again?"
 "You say your job doesn't make sense. If it truly doesn't make sense--and it's not just that it does make sense but you can't figure it out, which, looking at you, is a possibility--then there's an inefficiency. And inefficiencies can be exploited. Instead of trying to play along by rules that don't make sense, you should try rewriting the rule book."
 "Actually, that's pretty good for second-rate bar advice," I stood up from my stool.
 "Thank you," the man said, taking my seat.
 "I mean it," I said. "I used to be a spiritual guide--just part-time, you understand--and this advice is really very solid. If you don't mind my asking, how'd you come up with it?"
 "I saw you sitting at the bar boring the hell out of this woman and I thought to myself, here's an inefficiency. Based on the sleazy dress and excessive makeup, this woman clearly is looking for action, while this loser sitting next to her is looking for advice that she isn't smart enough to provide. Me, I can provide the advice, and earn greater utility from the seat next to this woman, who I intend to buy exactly one drink, take back to her place, screw within an inch of her life, then never see again."
 "You sir, are a genius."
 "No, no," he waved me off. "I'm just a simple man, properly motivated. Sex is one of the most basic of life's urges, you know. Plus, I like to make this world a better place when I can. Now, my lady, what would you like to drink?" The man turned back to the stool next to him. "Miss?" But the seat was now filled by a largish man in a poorly styled suit. "Excuse me, friend, did you see what happened to the woman who was sitting on this stool a moment ago?" 
 "I think she took off right around the sleazy dress comment," I said.
 "But that doesn't make any sense," he protested. "She must have known the dress was sleazy. She clearly was here to get laid. I was ready and willing to provide said service."
 "Just one of those things in life that defies reason, I'm afraid."
 "Well, fuck," he said. "If I'm not getting the girl, then our deal's off. I'm afraid I'll have to ask for that advice back. Hey, buddy, come back. You owe me my advice. Hey, Buddy."
But I was already half way out the door. And I was keeping his advice. In fact, I was already half way to turning his half-baked folk wisdom into a real plan of action.

"What are those drums?" Dana asked the Doctor when she reached the tents.
 "It seems to be coming from the native village, but we're not certain what they mean. Laura's gone down to ask."
The activists were no less confused than the monkeys, although they at least had thus far resisted the urge to take to run about waving their arms in the air.
 "Maybe they're starting a band," Tommy ventured. "I play a little bass. Think they'd let me join?"
 "You know, I've often wondered what inspires someone to become a bass player," the doctor said. "Wouldn't it have been more interesting to play the guitar instead?"
 "There's Laura," Dana interrupted. The group gathered around for her report.
 "I'm told they're war drums," Laura said. "The villagers say you can't really get in the spirit of a war without some good drumming first."
 "They're going to war?" asked Dana. "These people haven't had a war in nearly a century."
 "They say they've been provoked. One of the fishermen claims someone sneaked up behind him and tried to suffocate him with a bag. He might have been killed--except the bag was made of a relatively breathable fabric. That, and it had a hole on one side."
 "You mean to say they're going to war against…" Dana began.
 "They're going to war against Greater Morrell Island," Laura said.
 "Why Greater Morrell Island?"
 "Tradition. Whenever something goes wrong on Lesser Morrell Island they always assume Greater Morrell Island is to blame. It's just their way. Who are we to criticize?"
 "I take it the fisherman didn't see who held the bag over his head?" Dana asked.
 "He said he was afraid to look behind him after the person left, in case the attacker was still lurking around with a knife or gun."
 "Why would someone with a knife or gun try to kill him with a cloth bag first?"
 "I didn't ask."
 "Don't you think we should do something?" Dana asked.
 "It's hardly our place to interfere with their society," said Laura.
 "We’ve already interfered with their society," Dana said.
The others stared at her blankly.
 "You mean the rest of you don't think it was one of us who did this? Even after all the talk about murder with cloth bags just a week ago?"
 "No," the others agreed.
 "How about you Sarah?" Dana asked. "You've been uncharacteristically quiet. Do you have anything to add to the conversation?"
 "I'd rather reserve my opinion."
 "What does opinion have to do with it? I think you know who did this, and I think it's probably you."
 "I don't think there's enough evidence to say at this point." Sarah stalked off.
 "I'm going to go speak with the natives," Dana said.
 
The number of departments must be cut in half, Smith had explained to the faculty assembled outside his office. But since prejudice must not be shown against any particular department--and since it was a virtual impossibility to lay off a tenured professor anyhow--the only solution was for each of the departments to be merged with another. Nothing would be lost. Every professor would have a department, every subject matter would be covered. All the professors had to do was find the middle ground between the two merged disciplines and lecture on that. 
 Smith's original plan had been to combine departments with their closest relative--biology with chemistry, American History with American Civilization, et cetera. But in practice this only added to his problems. When word got out that the African studies and Latin American studies departments were to be merged, they complained that they were being ghettoized. The Theater department complained that combining them with the Gay Studies department only fostered an unfair stereotype, and held firm to this stance even when reminded that for sixteen years running the campus production had been a musical. And nobody wanted to join the math department, since they were no fun at parties. 
 In the end, Smith decided that the only equitable option was to arrange the marriages by lot. 
 Smith was still writing the names of their various academic departments on small slips of paper as the department heads gathered on the fourth floor of the administration building. No one could find a hat, owing to the same fashion trends that have doomed so many of our nation's haberdashers, so Smith shuffled the slips together in the Class of 1822 Cup, a trophy awarded each year to the student with the highest grades in Latin. At least it had been awarded to the student with the highest grades in Latin until 1982, when the school cancelled its Latin program. From 1982 through 1988, the trophy had served as an ashtray. Then the school had banned smoking. Now the Cup, showing the grit of a true survivor, had found a new purpose.
 Smith drew the first slip. "Computer Science," he read. "The computer science department will be merged with…" Smith drew another slip.  
 
Truth was, Dana didn't know many of the natives. There's a natural gulf between social activists and the societies they represent. Social activists tend to chalk this up to the societies' not wishing to embarrass the activists by showering them with thanks. But Dana did know George and William, the bar owners she'd met on her boat ride to the island. 
 Dana found their bar packed that day. Or it would have been packed if not for the fact that it was an outdoor bar, and it's notoriously difficult to fill such a place. Most of the young men from the village seemed to be there, although many of them were too busy drinking to notice her. 
 "George," Dana yelled over the drumming, which was much louder here. "George!"
George heard her the second time. "Oh, it's you. You are feeling better after your seasickness, I hope?" He spoke loudly to be heard over the drums.
 "Much better. But I want to talk to you about this war."
 "What?"
 "The war, the war," Dana shouted.
 "What? Wait a second." George turned behind him to a short wave radio unit and turned down the volume. Suddenly the drums disappeared. A few of his patrons glanced up at the unexpected silence.
 "That was the radio?"
 "Yes, it's the war drums channel. Very popular in these parts."
 "Oh. I kind of assumed you had your own drummers."
 "It's a small island. Manpower is always an issue."
 "I can imagine. You get excellent bass from that radio."
 "Thank you. My brother William found a solar-powered sub-woofer on Greater Morrell Island. But what was it that you wished to discuss?"
 "I wanted to talk with you because I'd heard you were going to war."
 "That's right. We're leaving any minute."
 "Uh, then why is everyone drinking so heavily?" The men were pounding Cook Island Beer at a rate that would make a frat boy proud, right before it would make him vomit.
 "It is our tradition to drink beer before battle. It is our belief that the alcohol makes us impervious to our enemy's weapons. We also believe it makes us witty and more attractive to women, but that's of secondary importance right now."
 "But how could your traditional warfare rites include beer? Your last war was nearly 100 years ago, and you couldn't have had beer here then."
 "Well, back then we used fermented betel nut juice, but not anymore."
 "Why the change?"
 "Have you ever tried to squeeze the juice from a betel nut? It is very hard. Many a bartender was lost." George shook his head in sorrow. Dana got back to the point.
 "So you're going to war as soon as you're through drinking?"
 "We have no choice. We've been attacked."
 "By Greater Morrell Island?"
 "Who else?"
 "But how can you be sure they did it?"
 "They're always to blame. We haven't been to war with anyone else in centuries."
 "But what if it wasn't them this time?"
George shook Dana off. "Doesn't matter. We couldn't possibly reach any other islands in our canoes. They're the only ones we can go to war with."
 "But maybe war isn't the answer this time. No one's been killed."
 "Yes but look at Samuel's neck. He was badly scratched by the bag's zipper. He's really quite put out by the whole thing."
Most of the men seemed to be listening now, if only because this was the best entertainment option, what with the radio turned off and the timer that went with the Boggle game having gone missing. Dana looked in the direction George was pointing and saw a man with a three-inch scratch on his neck. "Ooh," Dana said in sympathy.
 "Plus he says the bag smelled terribly of chickpeas," George added.
 "It was a nightmare," said Samuel.
 "But did you see a Greater Morrell Islander? And did anyone see a boat leaving the cove? If there was no boat, how did the attacker get here? Surely someone would have seen it. Maybe we shouldn't be so quick to jump to conclusions."
 "But Dana, jumping to conclusions is one of our culture's proudest traditions. Without jumping to conclusions, we never would have known that the mountain was inhabited by invisible monsters, that the spirits of our ancestors protect us, or that we are the chosen people."
 "Chosen for what?"
 "Not sure yet. But we figure it's something pretty good."
 "George, Greater Morrell Island has hundreds of men, and they have things like guns and powerboats. There are only about thirty of you, you're all drunk, and one of you is badly scratched. Plus, all you have to cover the 60 miles to Greater Morrell Island with are your outrigger canoes, and all you have to fight with are the wooden spears you use for fishing. This is foolish."
 "We will fight Greater Morrell Island the same way our forefathers fought Greater Morrell Island."
 "I know the history" Dana countered. "Your forefathers were slaughtered. None of them have ever even gotten past Greater Morrell Island's shore defenses, and the shore defenses are just a handful of lifeguards armed with whistles and those floaty things. The only reason any of your warriors ever have gotten back to Lesser Morrell Island alive is that some of the war canoes always get lost, miss the battle entirely, and came back here to look for a map."
 "It worked before, it can work again," said George
 "There's nothing I can say to convince you to stay?"
 "Nothing."
 "Not even if I point out that if you go to war with Greater Merrill Island, they'll probably stop supplying you with essentials like beer and 100% cotton tee-shirts."
That got their attention. 
 "They wouldn't," said Samuel.
 "They certainly would," said Dana. "You'll be back to drinking fermented betel nuts and wearing woven-grass clothing."
 "Woven grass is very itchy," George conceded. "And if I never drank another betel nut I would die a happy man."
 "Then perhaps this can be settled without bloodshed," said Dana.
 "There already had been bloodshed," Samuel reminded her, pointing at his neck. "And we're honor bound to seek revenge for bloodshed."
 "But did you actually shed blood?" George asked. "Sometimes when I get a scratch like that, it just turns red and doesn't actually bleed."
 "It's a good point," said William, who had remained silent up till then but wasn't looking forward to squeezing betel nuts either. "There's no blood on your shirt. If you'd bled it probably would be on your shirt."
 "But we're already so drunk," said Samuel. "It would be a shame to waste our imperviousness to injury without going to war."
 "Why don't you go home to your wives and take advantage of the fact that the beer also has made you all so witty and attractive to women," Dana suggested.
 "You know," said Samuel, "That's not a bad idea. Women love scars. I better get home before this scratch on my neck disappears."
Dana had had a feeling they might like the suggestion. And now she had a feeling that it was a good time for her to get the hell out of a bar full of drunken would-be warriors looking to get some.

July 19

Kerns' week off campus was over. It had taken ten days, which is more days than one expects to find in the average week, but Kerns was a patient man. He'd been willing to wait the week out however long it took. 
 Truth be told--not that he ever intended to tell it--Kerns had spent virtually the entire week not at a conference about travel budgets, but holed up in an attic. Specifically, the attic of the house he'd moved out of a month ago when he and Katherine had taken up residence in the Dean's traditional home on Federal Street. For ten days, Kerns had sat there in the attic in front of the small, hexagonal attic window, monitoring the campus through a low-powered telescope he'd borrowed from the Native American Observatory. He'd left his window-front post only for meals and to walk Roger, who had stayed faithfully at his side despite the fact that it was rather stuffy in the attic for someone covered in fur, and despite the fact that Kerns had never let him look through the telescope.  
 Kerns couldn't be certain--not without returning to campus--but he suspected that everything had gone just as he'd planned during his absence. This optimism was based largely on his observations of Friday afternoon. Kerns re-checked his notes from that day to be sure. "Friday. 3:25 p.m.: Success. An unruly pack of faculty members is burning Smith in effigy on the quad." At the time Kerns had felt certain that this is what he'd seen. Since then, it had occurred to him that his analysis of the evidence might have been in error. What if it had been Kerns, not Smith, who had been burned in effigy? It was hard to say for sure, effigy craftsmanship being what it is. But Kerns remained optimistic. "It must have been Smith they toasted in proxy," he explained to Roger. "Since Smith wasn't among the crowd setting the fire. And it seems very unlike Smith to miss out on a good mob panic." 
Roger wagged his tail.
 "No point putting it off any longer," Kerns decided. He dropped his dog and suitcase off at the Federal Street house and strolled back to campus. A crowd of faculty members brandishing torches and plastic rakes--none of them owned a pitchfork--spotted him just before he entered the administration building. Kerns had intended to play it cool, but that was before he knew there were garden implements being wielded in anger. Instead he made the snap decision to abandon his cool and sprint to the building. Kerns might not have made it, except that campus security had established a security perimeter around the entry. Once safely inside, Kerns realized that the real danger probably had been minimal, as the faculty members couldn't seem to keep their torches lit, and were thus forced to start from scratch every time they saw someone who looked like he could use a good roasting. 
 After a bit of searching, Kerns found Smith, unshaven and considerably more pungent than he remembered him, hiding behind a potted plant in the building's main meeting room. "Trouble on campus?" Kerns asked casually. 
 "Animals. They're all animals."
 "You mean squirrels, koala bears, that kind of thing?"
 "The faculty. They all want to kill me. They've got torches and plastic rakes, and I think one of them has a Garden Weasel. I just wanted to compromise. It was a good plan. Everybody came out a loser, but in equal amounts. But they just weren't willing to form a consensus, even when I told them they had to."
 "Interesting."
Kerns headed back outside to address the assembled faculty mob from behind the relative safety of the security barricade. 
 "Kerns is trying to merge all the departments," yelled a professor of French Biology.
 "The man's insane," said an associate professor of Computer Science Archaeology. "If you don't return the departments to the way they were, I won't be able to provide my students with the skills they need to go out into the real world and teach archaeology."
 "I understand," Kerns said. "I'll straighten everything out." The promise so surprised the faculty that they stopped trying to light their torches and plastic rakes for the moment and allowed Kerns retreat back into the administration building. Once inside, he promptly arranged meetings with the summer representatives of each of the student groups that now controlled the campus.
 
July 20

"Mr. Gwafinn, I have a plan," I began when I met with my nominal father that Tuesday for lunch. "Actually, I think it might be more of a revelation than a plan. I'm really quite proud of it."
 "Me too, Bob, me too."
 "Thank you," I said. "But how can you be proud of my revelation before you know what it is?" 
 "For the same reason that parents hang their children's drawings on their refrigerators even when they suck," said Gwafinn. "But actually by 'me too' I meant to imply that I, too, had had a revelation, not that I, too, was proud of yours."
 "Really? You had one, too?"
 "You sound surprised."
 "No, no."
 "You don't think me capable of revelations."
 "Oh, it's not that," I said.
 "What then?"
 "Well…"
 "Out with it, my boy."
 "It's just that I've had only a relatively small number of revelations in my life, and most of the ones I have up to this point have concerned what I'd previously been doing wrong with girls. It's a bit deflating to bring one's first top-notch business-oriented revelation to a bi-weekly Tuesday lunch and find out that they're as commonplace as the napkins."
 "I see your point," Gwafinn said. "Tell you what. If it will make you feel any better, we can call mine a 'key strategy decision,' as opposed to an out-and-out revelation. Would that help any?"
 "Actually I think it might," I said, brightening. "So would you like to hear about my revelation?"
 "No, let's talk about my 'key strategy decision' instead. It's much more important…" Gwafinn proceeded to tell me all about his 'key strategy decision' in a barely audible whisper, having recently become concerned about the possibility of spies in the cafeteria. He leaned so far towards me over the table that his lapel joined his tie in his soup. 
 "What do you think?" he asked finally.
 "That depends," I hedged. "I'm not certain I heard properly. Did you say 'monkeys'?"
 "Yes, yes, of course monkeys," Gwafinn said. "But for God's sake keep your voice down."
 "And is 'monkeys' a Wall Street Acronym like those Spiders that aren't really spiders or that Sally Mae girl that everyone's always talking about but no one's actually slept with." 
 "No, no, no. Actual living, breathing monkeys, Bob, presuming moneys breathe…I'm no animal expert," Gwafinn said. "Don't you understand? Monkeys are where this industry is headed. There's no escaping it. There was a time when investors insisted on the sort of analysis that only human beings could provide. But those days are over. Today's investor wants low expenses. We can't cut our expenses any more and still pay the kind of wages human stock analysts expect--well, not the sort of wages human employees expect on Wall Street, anyway. Monkeys are the obvious solution."
 "But I still don't think low wages alone can explain this. What do monkeys have to do with stock picking?"
 "Plenty, as I understand it. I just read this study that's getting a lot of attention in the press. I'll have Gloria send you a copy. It turns out that over the past ten years, we could have done just as well having monkeys throw darts at the Wall Street Journal we did by trusting our research department." 
 "But…" I protested.
 "Yes?"
 "But…" I tried again.
 "Isn't nature incredible," Gwafinn continued. "If you'd asked me last week what we should do with the monkeys, I'd have said 'Get rid of them, they're obsolete. Humans are better.' Turns out they have this natural ability with darts--or maybe it's a natural ability with stock picking. It's difficult to say. Could be one of those things we'll just never know, like how flies develop from spoiled food or why Saran Wrap sticks like that…"
 "But…"
 "Really makes you think"
 "But Mr. Gwaf…I mean Dad," Gwafinn smiled like a proud parent whenever I called him Dad. "I think if you read the fine print on that study you'll see that those monkeys are pretty much hypothetical. They might have beaten our research department, but the monkeys still don't beat the average stock. The study's point is just that it's hard to do better than random chance."
Mr. Gwafinn was getting exasperated. "Well, of course if you're looking at all monkeys together they'll only be average," he whispered as forcefully as it's possible to whisper. "But we're going to get the very best monkeys."
There followed an uncomfortable silence as I waited for one of those punch lines that never seemed to come. "You want the monkeys who are best with darts?"
 "Absolutely. There must be rankings published somewhere."
 "You're going to fire the entire research department, and replace them with chimps trained at pub games."
 "No, no, not the entire research department. At least not at first. We'll fire a few, bring in the chimps, and most of the rest will see which way the wind is blowing and leave on their own. We'll save a bundle on severance pay that way. Besides, it'll probably be a while before the monkeys are up to handling some of the more complicated derivatives and currency markets. Tricky stuff, that." 
Gwafinn looked at me for agreement, but I just stared back.
"Honestly, Bob, I'm a little concerned that you're not seeing this my way. I need to know I can count on you to keep the sales department in my corner. That's why I had a son in the first place. Anyway, you have to agree with me. It's in your contract."
 "Do I have to agree with you, or just agree with you?"
 "You have to agree with me."
 "I was afraid of that."
 "So I can count on you? If we can't count on family, we're no better than animals."
What was the reasonable thing to do here, I wondered. Stand up for one's beliefs and Johnston Brothers' investors, or be true to one's contractual agreements, adopted father and career ambitions. Finally I settled on a response: "Is the sales department safe?" 
 "Absolutely."
 "Then I'm with you all the way."
 "I knew I could count on you to see things clearly," Gwafinn responded, a smile spreading across his face. "So what was yours?"
 "What was my what?"
 "Your revelation."
 "Oh, that. Well, nothing so dramatic as yours. I mean, all the principle players are likely to be human."
 "That's okay, Bob, many fine plans rely on humans."
 "Well, I just figured I could get my hands on client lists from other firms, call them up and tell them they're being churned and present myself as the trustworthy, non-churning investment alternative."
 "Interesting. Are you confident you can get your hands on these client lists?"
 "I have an idea or two."
 "Maybe the chimps could help out somehow."
 "I'll look into that."
 "But you're still on board with my monkey plan?"
 "For the sake of argument, let's say I am."
 "Fine, fine. Then proceed with your idea too if you like."
 
July 21

"Guys, I've got something to tell you that's equal parts confidential and absurd," I said to the equity sales staff. "But before I begin, I need to ask you to treat this with the highest possible degree of discretion and credulousness. Agreed?"
I got a few nonchalant nods in response. Callesse had a hard enough time getting these guys to put down their phones for the once-a-week morning meeting. Asking them to listen to a rookie salesman was pushing the limit. Waiting for polite responses to my questions would have been a total waste of time.
 "It has come to my attention through certain unofficial channels that Johnston Brothers will soon fire the bulk of its research department," I said. "They will be replaced with a room full of chimps armed with darts and copies of the Wall Street Journal."
At least I had their attention. At least I assumed I had their attention. Two or three of the salesmen--the younger salesmen--did show their surprise by momentarily glancing up from their coffee. But the more seasoned salesmen would have offered no outward expression and gone right on sipping their coffee even if I'd just told them that their coffee had been poisoned. To show surprise is to make a tacit admission that one didn't already have the information that has been conveyed. No successful Wall Street operator ever admitted ignorance of any crucial piece of information, even those that were false. When I made the monkey announcement, a few of the better salesmen had even nodded silently, to create the impression that they'd expected just such a development all along, and in fact already had factored it into their fourth-quarter portfolio recommendations. I admired their skills. "Well, that's about it," I said. "Any questions?"
There was the customary ten-second pause while everyone made it a point to act uninterested. 
Dan Levine, the dean of the sales staff, broke the silence. "So they're finally making the move to chimps with darts, eh?" he grunted in his well-practiced off-hand manner. 
 "That's about the size of it, Dan, yes."
 "'Bout time," said Levine. 
 "So everyone's okay with this?" I asked.
Everyone went right on acting nonchalant. They munched their Danish and sipped their coffee just as they would at any Wednesday-morning meeting. A comment was made about the quality of the day's Danish, and another about the size of the ass of a particular female trader from the Treasuries desk, who, it seemed, already was familiar with the many virtues of Danish. But there was something different about the salesmen…After a minute or two I was able to put my finger on it: they were quiet. It was the first time I'd ever seen many of them with their mouths shut for such a length of time. Normally they were shouting at customers, at the research staff, at each other, at their assistants, or at no one in particular, just to keep in practice. 
 "Okay with it?" said Levine finally. "It's tremendous." 
 "It is?" I asked.
 "Well, the sales staff is safe, isn't it?"
 "Apparently."
 "Then think about it. With the market the way it is, we were looking at staff reductions in both sales and research. But now it looks like research is taking the whole hit. Better yet, we used to have to split our sales commissions with the analysts. But monkeys don't expect year-end bonuses, and who cares if they do, cause they're not getting them. Fuck the monkeys."
A cheer went up from the sales floor. High-fives were exchanged. Backs were slapped. Deposits were put on expensive cars that this year's anticipated bonuses would not otherwise have justified. Champagne somehow appeared, and toasts were made. Someone hired a stripper. The news spread from equity sales to fixed income sales and outward to the furthest reaches of the Johnston Brothers' sales empire. There was jubilation. "But no one tell the research department." I shouted. "This is confidential."