Chapter 24

After a month and a half on Lesser Morrell Island, the size and pace of Greater Morrell Island was almost too much for Dana to take. This quite surprised her, as Greater Morrell Island's size, frankly, wasn't very big and its pace, in all honesty, wasn't very fast. 
 An old pickup truck sped by at a speed approaching 25 miles an hour. Then it sped by again in the other direction. There was just the one road. The only options when you reached the end were to turn around or start a new life there. The population of Greater Morrell Island City, the only city on Greater Morrell Island, was officially 264--and there were those who suspected that the census taker had accidentally counted himself twice, or, some claimed, three times. At least 20% of that population must have been out on the street that morning, even if you only counted the census taker once. And that was more people than Dana had seen at any one time since she'd left Hawaii. She fought against that panicky feeling that prairie dogs get when they realize all the other prairie dogs have ducked back into their holes and something smells an awful lot like coyote breath. Dana reminded herself that she was a cosmopolitan person who only months earlier had felt right at home in New York City, except maybe when attempting to merge in traffic. Anyway, she had to remain strong; this wasn't a pleasure trip, it was a matter of life and death. Dana had convinced Sarah to join her for twice-monthly ferry trips to Greater Morrell Island. There were all sorts of things here on the larger island to dislike. 
 "Look, Sarah. I'll bet that truck doesn't get twenty miles to the gallon. And that policeman--he's carrying a baton."
But Sarah didn't need any encouragement. She dashed off to unionize the cashier at the local market, and wasn't about to be deterred by his argument that he owned the place. Dana decided to find the island's post office to see if there was any word waiting for her from One Planet, Bob, or her family. Her magazine subscriptions also had gone missing, but Dana considered this of secondary importance.
 The Greater Morrell post office was a refreshing change from the hectic street. It was indoors--really indoors, mind you, not the in-tent or in-hut that she had come to consider indoors on Lesser Morrell Island. And like post offices worldwide, it offered exactly the sort of languid torpor that can be a pleasant respite from the fast-paced world. Dana breathed in the inertia. 
 Only someone coming from Lesser Morrell Island would have considered the post office at all remarkable. Like most post offices, it was in fact a utilitarian space. The building consisted of a single smallish room divided in half by a curtain. Dana's side of the curtain featured nothing but a wall of post-office boxes, a poster warning of an upcoming increase in the price of stamps, a deli-style number dispenser, a table, and a postal employee.
 "Are you holding any mail for me?" Dana asked the employee.
 "You'll have to take a number," the postal employee said, gesturing towards the number dispenser.
 "But I'm the only one here." 
 "I'm here," he argued.
 "I'm the only customer here, then."
 "How can I be sure of that if you don't have the lowest number?"
So Dana took a number. It was 18. "I've got 18," she said. "Can you help me now?"
 "I'm not sure," the man admitted, ashamed. "We don't have the funds for a digital number display, and I lost count a week ago."
 "It seems like if there was someone with a lower number, they'd have to be around here someplace. We're the only ones in the building."
 "Did you look under the front steps?" the man asked.
 "Not specifically."
 "Perhaps you should."
 "How about if I promise that if someone comes in with a lower number before we're done, I'll let them go ahead of me."
The man thought for a moment, then nodded his head. "That is acceptable."
 "Wonderful. I was just curious if you were holding any mail for me."
 "One moment, I'll check," the postal employee said, and stepped behind the curtain into the sorting room. He returned six minutes later. "I don't think so, but I can't be sure, since I didn't know your name."
 "It's Dana Davis," said Dana. "I'm living on Lesser Morrell Island."
The man didn't move. 
 "What's the matter now?"
 "If you have a second request, you'll have to move to the back of the line."
 "But…it's the same request…and there is no line."
The postal employee didn't budge.
Dana took another number. "I have number 19. Can you help me now?"
 "I'm not certain. The odds that someone will show up with a lower number increase each time your number gets higher."
 "Not really," Dana said. "I just had number 18, and now that you've helped number 18, we can establish beyond the point of doubt that it's time for you to help number 19."
 "Ahhh," said the man. "You are correct. If I helped number 18, then it is now time to help number 19. The question of the numbers has haunted my dreams for many nights. I am in your debt. As a small gesture of my gratitude I will name my next child after you. What was your name again?"
 "Dana Davis."
 "Dana Davis Mallosopolloutu. It is a wonderful name for a child. Now I am off to sleep with my wife to get started on that child for you. Please come back tomorrow."
 "Wait," Dana said. "I can't come back tomorrow. I'm living on Lesser Morrell Island, and the ferry only makes the trip back and forth twice a month, plus whenever someone offers the ferry captain $10 for a special trip. And anytime someone gives the ferry captain $10 he just uses it to get drunk and tells them to come back for the next scheduled run. I really would appreciate it if you could check to see if I have any mail waiting for me."
The man didn't move. Dana just nodded her head and took another number. "20" she said.
 "Very good. You're next. How can I help you?"
 "Is there any mail for me?"
 "Name please?"
 "Dana Davis," Dana said one more time.
 "No, no mail," the man said. 
 "You're sure?"
 "Of course I'm sure. I certainly would remember if there was any mail for someone who shared a name with my future child."
Then the phone rang, startling Dana, who had not heard a phone ring in some time, and startling the postal employee, who was easily startled. "It's like a madhouse here today," the postal employee said to Dana. "Three customers in ten minutes and now the phone rings." He took a deep breath and answered. 
 "Post Office," he said. Dana couldn't hear the other end of the conversation.
 "Yes this is Greater Morrell Island."
 "No, no one by that name lives here."
 "Yes, I am sure. I would remember if there was someone living on Greater Morrell Island who shares a name with my future child and the woman she's named after on Lesser Morrell Island."
Dana now was intrigued enough by the half of the conversation she could hear to attempt to inquire about the other side of the debate, but the postal employee put her off with a decisive waggle of his index finger. He couldn't be expected to help two people at once.
 "No, there is no way to call the one who lives on Lesser Morrell Island. There is no phone on Lesser Morrell Island. And if you want to speak to the one who is my child, you'll have to wait a minimum of nine months…and then another two to three years at least if you expect any sort of meaningful response. Perhaps even four or five years if the child is dim like its brothers."
Dana tried to snatch the phone away, but the postal employee was stronger than he looked.
 "No, there is no mail service to Lesser Morrell Island either. You can arrange to have a message delivered on the ferry, but you must pay a special $10 ferry fee. Just send the letter along with the $10 to Greater Morrell Island Post Office Special Deliv…ooof." The postal employee suddenly dropped to the ground, curled up in a ball and struggled to catch his breath. Dana, seeing her opportunity, picked up the fallen receiver.
 "I'm sorry, the postal employee can't talk right now. Someone has just crept up behind him and kneed him in the groin. But maybe I help you. I'm Dana Davis."
 "Dana! It's really you?," I said. "It's me, Gwaf." I suppose I should have had something more profound to say after two months apart. But in my defense, I had been speaking to a government employee only moments before, which does tend to dull the senses.
 My poor opening aside, we had exactly the conversation I'd hoped for. I told Dana about selling stocks on Wall Street, omitting certain relevant sections of my procedure for obtaining other firms' client lists. Dana told me about counting fruit bats and uncommonly clever monkeys on Lesser Morrell Island, and if she omitted any details of a similar nature, she hasn't fessed up to them yet. I was a bit put off by the fact that she had apparently taken to kneeing people in the groin, which wasn't the Dana I had known, but she promised she didn't intend to make a habit of it. We both agreed that living the life one had always wanted wasn't everything it was cracked up to be. The postal carrier then interrupted to ask Dana to relay to me that it might be a little longer than nine months before I could talk to Greater Morrell Island's Dana Davis, on account of the fact he didn't feel up to getting things rolling with his wife that afternoon. Then he excused himself to throw up.
 I told Dana I'd work on a solution to her Sarah problem, and that in the meantime I'd remind One Planet where they'd sent her, and tell her parents not to bother with any further search parties to Spanish Guyana. In return, Dana swore she'd return to Greater Morrell Island to phone me every fortnight when the ferry made its run. 
 Our conversation was cut short when the ferry whistle signaled that it was time for the return trip. "Bob's right," Dana thought as she left the post office. "I never used to be the sort of person that kneed other people in the groin. That was always one of the things everyone liked about me. Men in particular. Now I'm not only kneeing people in the groin, I'm very much enjoying it, and considering doing so again should the opportunity present itself. Maybe I have changed." But Dana's train of thought was interrupted by a Greater Morrell Islander holding a slip of paper labeled "17." "Do you know if I've missed my turn?" the man asked. "I was sitting under the front stairs." Dana kneed the man in the groin then hurried to join a somewhat reinvigorated Sarah on the ferry. It was definitely time to head back home to Lesser Morrell Island. Issues involving number dispensers were exactly the sort of thing that could push a mailman over the edge.
 I put down my receiver and stared out my apartment window at the train station. There was something about what Dana had said. The pieces were all there, I was sure of it. I just had to put them together…
 
There must be another, Smith thought. Maybe a survivor from some long-lost Antarctican tribe living down near the south pole. Maybe Santa Claus's evil twin. Someone who looked more Antarctican, anyway. Someone who could fill in for that worthless, unexceptional Roberto who had ruined Smith's perfect plan. There just had to be another one. His grand administrative dreams couldn't end like this. But neither the directory-information operator nor the college reference librarian could find a phone listing for anyone in Antarctica. Smith would have to go right to the source. Flights to Antarctica were closely regulated, a travel agent explained. In fact, all travel on the continent was severely restricted. Antarctic visitors are expected to have a worthwhile scientific objective. At very least, they're supposed to be billionaire adventurers attempting to ski across the thing to prove their superiority over all the other billionaires who had circumnavigated the globe in hot air balloons and now wouldn't shut up about it. 
 These restrictions would be an impediment to Smith's current objective, but he couldn't bring himself to be angry. Smith was in favor of regulation in all its forms, and was in fact quite impressed that an entire continent could be administered so closely. Antarctica must be an administrative nirvana, he thought. Clearly, this was somewhere Smith was meant to be. He arranged transit to Tierra del Fuego, the southern-most tip of Argentina. From there, he could find his way. 
 
August 4

"Mr. Gwafinn, could we move our Thursday Tuesday lunch up to this morning?" I'd talked my way past Gwafinn's assistant Gloria. She'd been willing to look the other way since I was, after all, a relative. 
Gwafinn checked his watch. It was 8:30 in the morning. "I'm really not ready for lunch just now, Bob. I just ate breakfast."
 "We don't have to eat lunch. But I have a good idea that I need to discuss with you." 
 "I simply don't have time right now."
 "Okay, then let me rephrase. I don't just have a good idea. I have a good idea about how to get the most out of your good idea."
 "Well why didn't you say so in the first place? Come in, sit down." Gwafinn always had time for really good ideas, by which he meant his own. I spent the next five minutes laying out the details, then leaned back in my chair to await Gwafinn's response.
 "So when you say 'Uncommonly Clever Monkeys'…" 
 "Rumor is they're the most intelligent monkeys in the world," I said. "And they live only on this one small island out in the middle of the Pacific."
 "And you think we could lure them here to Johnston Brothers?"
 "Not a chance. They like it where they are. It's a quality of life issue for them."
 "You're sure?"
 "It would be like trying to lure Louie Anderson out of an all-you-can-eat restaurant before closing time."
 "So what are you proposing?"
 "Why don't we go to the source. Set up an office on their turf, and sign them to exclusive contracts. We wouldn't have to pay New York City wages that way, and our analysts wouldn't get caught up in quarantine."
 "Interesting."
 "And there's an added bonus. I'm told their island straddles the international dateline. That means if the monkeys make stock picks that don't work out, we can just move a few feet east to where it's still yesterday and the recommendations never happened."
 "Are you sure that's how a dateline works?"
 "Are you sure it isn't?"
 "Fair enough. But would the monkeys agree to this sort of thing?"
 "Just between us, I've cultivated a relationship with the only living human who knows each and every one of these monkeys personally--that is, if you can know a monkey personally. Maybe she knows them monkeyally. But that's just semantics. Either way I have a feeling they'll listen to her."
Gwafinn stood and turned his back to the office, looking out his window and up Wall Street. "Bob, I'm going to be honest with you…I love it," he said. "But we have to move fast or someone else is sure to get wind of it. You're the one with connections, you'll have to take the lead."
 "No problem."
 "It means transferring to Lesser Morrell Island to run the branch office."
 "I'm always willing to do my part."
 "Glad to see you're such a team player."
 "Just give me a raise, a five-year extension on my contract, and a golden parachute large enough to land an African elephant and I'm your man."
 "That's my boy," Gwafinn said selling with pride. "Never forget the golden parachute. I agree to it all. Now, you take these files on our current analysts" he pushed a stack of manila folders across his desk "and see if any of our current crop of dullard monkeys are worth keeping before we sell off the lot of them for medical experiments. Gloria will call you when your new contract and the travel plans are ready to go." 
Gwafinn buzzed Gloria while I grabbed the monkey files a few at a time and tucked them under my arm, stumbling over Gwafinn's antique rolodex stand in the process. When I caught my balance, I noticed that a piece of scrap paper previously stuck between two of the files had fluttered to the floor at my feet.
 "There's more to life than Wall Street," I read. "That's an odd note to find on Wall Street," I thought. Then it struck me. "It's you," I said, looking at Gwafinn.
 "What's me?" he asked, taking his finger off the intercom button. 
I put the piece of paper on his desk. "You're the Ghost of Johnston Brothers. You're the one who's been leaving these notes for people all this time. No one's noticed because you slip the notes between files so they only appear on desks when things get reshuffled."
 "Okay, you got me. But don't tell anyone."
 "But why? If you wanted to change the way people act on Wall Street, why not just say and do what you believe, instead of leaving difficult-to-interpret notes for us to find?'
 "Why not be more direct? I tried. Once. A long time ago. It was back when I was just a rookie research analyst. I was supposed to evaluate a re-hot Nifty Fifty company that made widgets. I knew the market for widgets was disappearing, and this company didn't even make a particularly high-quality widget to begin with. So I gave the stock a "Sell" rating. It cost me my career. I had to change my name and start over."
 "Then the legends are true. Well, except for the part about you killing yourself and your corpse being hidden in the building's ventilation system."
 "No, that's just dead rats you smell."
 "And the notes are a last stab at providing guidance to young investment bankers."
 "I had to do something to maintain my sanity. My other options were to give in and play along, or go ahead and kill myself."
 "It's nice to have options," I noted. "And now you're doing this monkey project to show Wall Street how little sense it makes."
 "No, I'm doing the monkey plan to get fired so I can pocket a bundle off my severance package. How was I to know people would think it's a good idea?"
 "Can't you just quit?"
 "Nope. I don't get the golden parachute unless I'm fired."
 "Is it that nice of a golden parachute?"
 "It's the best there is."
 "Surly there's a better way than this to get fired."
"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But the board of directors is so desperate to keep the Johnston family out of power that they're willing to put up with anything from me. I've tried inappropriate sexual behavior, nepotistic hiring practices, extravagant spending on corporate accounts, and incompetence in each of its many flavors. They were all non-starters. Truth is, most of that is more or less expected from Wall Street executives. Total insanity was my last hope."
 "Only instead of being declared insane, you were hailed as a visionary genius."
 "I never have been a lucky man."
 "But why try to get fired in the first place. I thought you driven Wall Street types kept working right up to the day you had heart attacks and died in your well-appointed corner offices."
 "The driven Wall Street types, maybe. But that's not me. I only got into investment banking in the first place because I'd graduated from a small, liberal arts college without any particular skills, and with the simple goal of becoming fabulously wealthy. Wall Street seemed like my best bet."
 "I think I know where you're coming from."
 "You will keep quiet about all this, won't you?" 
 "No problem," I said. "But one more question: why did you change your name to Gwafinn of all things?"
 "Gwafinn was my mother's maiden name--plus it was such a terrible name, I figured no one would think it was phony."
I took another step out the door. "Where was your mother's family from?"
 "Midwest someplace."
 "Kansas?"
 "Maybe. Why?"
 "I called my father the other day. Turns out my family used to spell it with two 'n's, too. They lopped off the extra one a couple generations back because they thought it was too ostentatious."
 "Interesting," Gwafinn said, in a voice that implied he didn't really find it tremendously interesting. I took the monkey files started back to my desk. 
 "Oh Bob, one more thing," Gwafinn called before I reached the door. "If we're using Uncommonly Clever Monkeys as research analysts, what am I supposed to do with the 20 gorillas I hired yesterday?"
 "Put them in management. Gorillas are well suited to leadership."
 "Oooh, good idea. Gorillas run amok in the executive offices could be just the thing to get me fired."
 
By lunch everything was in place. My travel plans were set. My new contract was signed. My cardboard box was nearly filled with the varied and inconsequential personal items that had found their way to my office desk. My client list had been sold to Keller for a very reasonable percentage of future commissions. All that remained was to answer my phone, which had decided it wasn't going to let me leave without a fight.
 "Former office of Bob Gwafin," I said in lieu of a greeting.
 "Former? He's gone."
 "Any minute now. Who may I tell me is calling?"
 "It's Roger's owner."
 "Roger's owner, the one dog's owner I don't mind speaking to right about now," I said. "How's everything going?"
 "Swimmingly. I rule with an iron fist. I crush those who question my authority. I am the lord and master of all that I survey. I am a God. And thank you for asking."
 "No, really."
 "Well, I'm no longer pretending that I don't speak English when my office phone rings--and I seem to have earned the respect of my dog, Roger."
 "Congratulations. That's astounding progress."
 "Thanks. I owe it all to you. Well, you and Roger."
 "How did things work out with your wife?"
 "Extremely well. Turns out she was acting oddly because she thought I was cheating on her."
 "So everything's back to normal on the home front?"
 "Even better than normal. I'd had no idea that Katherine thought me capable of having an affair. I don't mind telling you it was a big boost to my confidence to learn my wife thought I was juggling two women when I'd thought myself only marginally capable of juggling one."
 "That is an ego inflater."
 "I might even go ahead and have an affair just to prove to myself that I'm up to the job."
 "Mind some advice?"
 "I'd love some."
 "Don't."
 "Okay, consider it done. Or consider it not done, if you prefer. You know, we make a good team. Let me know if you ever want to leave Wall Street. I'm certain I can find something for you in college administration. The money's terrible, but I think you'll find that the hours are a considerable improvement."
 "Thanks. Maybe one day I'll take you up on that. But as it happens I've just today made a change of my own."
 "Let me know if there's anything I can do."
 "Since you mention it, there might be one thing."
 "Name it."
 "I'm talking off the top of my head here, but if there were some Lesser Morrell Islanders looking to enroll in college, would Bucklin be interested?"
 "Sure, we'd take them. I was considering going in another direction with the student body, but I suppose I was getting a bit ahead of myself."
 "What were you thinking of?"
 "Well, there's this group here on campus claiming they deserve reparations because five or six generations back their ancestors were slaves. I figure I'd have all the students vote on it, then I'd expel the ones who vote against it, for their racial insensitivity. And right after I did done that, I'd expel the ones who voted in favor of it, for their insensitivity. Seems to me that anyone who thought being the distant descendants of slaves made them the victim of slavery would be guilty of diminishing the victimhood of those who actually were enslaved. And better to take the high road where insensitivity's involved, I always say."
 "You'd be left in charge of a college with no students, of course."
 "No faculty, either. I'd have them take part in the vote. You can fire even a tenured professor for insensitivity."
 "Wouldn't not having students cut into the school's cash flow?"
 "Oddly, no. Turns out the whole education thing has been something of a money loser for the college. We get a better return from the profits on our endowment investments."
 "Don't you think you'd get lonely there on campus all by yourself."
 "Yea, the students do kind of liven up the place. Like I said, it was just an idea. Maybe I'll have the vote, but put them all on probation instead of actually expelling them. The point is I could do it if I wanted to. It's a wonderful thing this self-confidence. I'm so glad you gave it to me." 
 I packed the last few personal items from my desk, waved goodbye to Keller, who was in the middle of a call and didn't bother to wave back, and boarded the elevator to begin my last commute to the suburbs. I'd only made it one floor when the elevator stopped and Rob Johnston got on board with his own cardboard box.
 "Get replaced by a monkey?" I asked with what I hoped was sufficient compassion.
 "Nah, I wasn't fired. I just couldn't take any more of the shrieking and biting."
 "That's tough."
 "It's okay. I'm not sure I was going to make it on Wall Street anyway. I thought if I had a good job at Johnston Brothers, all my problems would be solved. Turns out the only problem that was solved was the not-having-a-job problem. And once you have a job, you realize there are plenty of other problems that you hadn't previously considered. Like the problem that people expect you to be good at your job, and the problem that you can't stand your job."
 "Yea, I see your point. So what are you going to do now?"
 "Not sure. Maybe I'll teach. I've always wanted to teach. Or do woodworking. I've always liked woodworking. I'm pretty good at it, too."
 "Maybe you could teach woodworking."
Rob brightened. "That's a great idea. Maybe I'll do that. So how about you? If I'm any judge of crap-filled cardboard boxes, it looks like you're leaving, too."
 "I'm leaving New York, not the company."
 "A transfer? Where are you headed?"
 "I'm supposed to open a new branch office between the Toyko and Los Angeles offices," I said, a bit ashamed to be talking about a move up the pay scale while Rob's career was ending.
Rob picked up on my hesitance. "You don't have to be embarrassed about getting such a quick promotion, Gwaf. Not around me of all people. I might be a bit out of the loop sometimes, but eventually I put the names together and figured out how you got your job here without going through the training program. Don't worry, though, I won't hold it against you. It's not any different from how I got my job here."
 "Rob, there's something I've got to confess to someone," I said. "But I need you to keep it quiet. Can I trust you?"
 "No problem."
 "I'm not really a Gwafinn. I'm just a Gwafin, one 'n'."
 "Don't worry about it, Gwaf. Just between you and me, we haven't always been Johnstons. We used to be common, gutter-variety Johnsons, just like millions of other people. My great-great grandfather added the "t" so we'd stand out. That's when the family's fortunes really took off."
Our elevator reached the ground floor.
 "Want to go grab a beer?" Rob asked.
 "I better not. I've got a plane to catch and an apartment lease to break."
 "Well, see you around," Rob said, because that's what people said, even when they wouldn't.