Bank Page 6

  “Christ,” he whimpers, getting to his feet.

  The Defeated One is panting from the exertion. “Come on, Postal. You know that shit isn’t going to work around these parts. Stop your whining and let’s go grab some lunch.”

  Five minutes later there’s the familiar electronic chime as we cross the threshold into Han’s Blue Diamond Chinese Gourmet. There’s no line, of course, because nobody in their right mind would subject themselves to this garbage: bins of glistening beef and broccoli, Kung Pao chicken and slithery noodles, our reflections all but visible in the sheen of the MSG coating. The pièce de resistance at Han’s is Lunch Special No. 3 for $3.95. The General Tso chicken. Clumps of batter in an impossibly tangy red sauce enhancing the inner succulence of dubious chicken bits. Unbelievably tasty going in but leaving you an absolute wreck for the rest of the afternoon: fiery hiccups, your heart encased in an outer layer of gristle, the thick red sauce pumping lethargically through your veins.

  The cardinal rule of eating at Han’s Blue Diamond Chinese Gourmet: You must order the Lunch Special No. 3, and extra sauce is mandatory. As the pockmarked teenager behind the counter ladles the General Tso onto a mound of rice, I shake my head.

  “I swear to God, if I ever meet a girl who can finish an entire portion of this, I’ll propose to her on the spot.”

  We settle into one of the cracked leather booths. Han’s doesn’t offer much in the way of atmosphere—oil stains on the linoleum floor, crumpled Fanta cans tossed in a corner, Postal Boy’s elbow flying dangerously close to my jaw—but it’s a tremendous indulgence, this shoveling in General Tso without a monitor blinking nearby and the Utterly Incompetent Assistant bitching about the smell if she’s not out in the parking garage screwing around with the Philandering Managing Director.

  Between mouthfuls of Lunch Special No. 3, the Defeated One imparts his boardroom discovery to Clyde and Postal Boy.

  “We’ve got to get him fired. It’s as simple as that.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Clyde says, then takes a swig of his Dr Pepper.

  The Defeated One glares at him. “Not that bad? Not that bad? He gets to sleep around with Unadulterated Sex, violating a basic doctrine of human decency, and we’re supposed to step back and take it? No fucking way. I mean, something’s gotta be done.”

  “So what’s the plan?” I mumble.

  “Not too sure, gentlemen. I haven’t come up with anything just yet. But we’ll keep it in the back of our heads, figure something out eventually.”

  Postal Boy rubs at his eye. “I don’t want any part of this. He hasn’t done anything to me.”

  The Defeated One sneers in disgust. “He hasn’t done anything to you? Give me a break. Who do you think has to clean up his comps while he’s off screwing your mother?”

  I shake my head. “Hey. Inappropriate.”

  “Fine, fine,” the Defeated One mutters dejectedly. “But you guys are in, right?” Before Postal Boy can protest, he adds, “This is not a debatable issue.”

  He puts out his hand. Clyde puts his hand on top. Then my hand. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, Postal Boy joins our pile of hands. God, I feel like I’m in an episode of Ghostbusters here.

  “Good,” the Defeated One says, nodding. “We have until Christmas to accomplish the deed.”

  We’ve returned to wolfing down our General Tso, when we hear a familiar voice from the front of the restaurant:

  “Lunch Special Number Three, please.”

  We all turn to gape at the Woman With The Scarf standing before the cashier.

  “No way.” Clyde squints in disbelief. “Isn’t that the crazy chick from Starbucks?”

  The pockmarked teenager behind the counter grins. “You special customer. You get extra meat.”

  He ladles a second spoonful of General Tso onto the rice. The Woman With The Scarf carries the heaping plate to a booth closer to the front of the restaurant.

  “Fifty bucks she doesn’t eat more than a third of her lunch,” the Defeated One wagers.

  None of us will take him up on it.

  “Cheap bastards,” he mutters.

  We continue eating without bothering to put up a facade of idle chitchat. All eyes are glued on the Woman With The Scarf, who is angled in such a way that she can barely see us. Even the kid behind the counter is watching her with keen interest. She eats slowly and meticulously, pulling apart the lumps of General Tso with her chopsticks before placing the tiniest morsels between her lips. Her delicacy is incongruous in a place like Han’s; here you’re meant to swallow first, chew later. After fifteen minutes at this pace, she’s made a modest dent in her double portion of meat.

  “I have to get back,” Postal Boy says, beginning to panic. “The Ice Queen is going to have my head on a platter.”

  The Defeated One waves him off. “Look, she’s showing no signs of fading.”

  At the twenty-minute mark, she’s halfway there.

  The Defeated One whistles. “Jesus, she’s gone through a whole portion of Lunch Special Number Three, a whole frickin’ portion, and not only is she not projectile-vomiting all over the walls but, look at that, she keeps on ticking. Gentlemen, we may be this close to witnessing a miraculous feat of human perseverance.”

  The Woman With The Scarf has devoured two-thirds of the plate, when there’s a sudden grimace, a hand rushing to her mouth.

  “Oh no!” The Defeated One giggles excitedly. “Thar she blows!”

  The kid behind the counter is looking nervous, his hand already straying toward the handle of a mop.

  And there it is: a hiccup. Perhaps a muffled burp. Either way, once it’s expelled from her system, she’s back to pulling apart the last few nuggets of General Tso.

  The Defeated One shakes his head. “My god, she’s on the homestretch now.”

  A few minutes later and the Woman With The Scarf has somehow managed the impossible. Plowing through a double portion is a feat worthy of spontaneous applause as raucous as Irish rugby hooligans’, a thunderous standing ovation from every passerby on the street. The pockmarked teenager leaves the mop by the wall and slumps against the counter in relieved disbelief.

  The Defeated One pushes me out of the booth.

  “It’s your turn to shine, big boy.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  The Defeated One turns to Clyde and Postal Boy.

  “Didn’t our young colleague just promise he’d propose to any fine lady who could eat her way through a portion of General Tso?”

  Turning back to me, he adds, “That was double meat, Mumbles. No way you’re pussying out on this one.”

  The Woman With The Scarf is dabbing at her lips with a napkin and doesn’t notice my approach until I’m already standing over her booth. She eyes me quizzically.

  “Yes?”

  “I, um, I mean . . .”

  The mumbling is out in full force now. I smile sheepishly. She’s not smiling back. I hear the Defeated One snickering somewhere in the background.

  “I’m not sure if you would remember me. A couple weeks ago, at Starbucks. You were in front of me in the line. I kind of, um, lost my cool.”

  She remains as impassive as a gargoyle.

  “Anyway, I wanted to apologize. If you remember it, that is. I mean, it was just, uh, I was having this really terrible day. Didn’t sleep well the night before. Didn’t sleep at all, actually. And yeah, you were having a horrible day as well. I mean, I’m really not an asshole, at least not most of the time, it’s just that I hate my job—”

  “You can stop now.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re rambling.”

  “Yeah.”

  Then she makes this strange laugh. More of a grunt, really. Leaning back in the booth, tucking a strand of hair behind an ear, she sighs.

  “I wasn’t always like this, you know,” she says.

  She’s looking not at me but straight ahead at a small black-and-white television playing an episode of The Dukes of
Hazzard. Or maybe it’s the dusty bottles of chili sauce lining the wall.

  “I used to like rambling. I mean guys who rambled. Whatever. Awkwardness as a sign of sensitivity.”

  I expect there to be more to this tangent, but that’s it; the conversation has reached a standstill. After an uncomfortable silence, I think to say, “That was pretty impressive just now.”

  “What?”

  “Getting through the double portion of General Tso. We”—I shrug back at the trio of yokels raising their glasses of water to us—“didn’t think you’d be able to manage it.”

  She smiles. It’s a feeble smile, no warmth behind it.

  “Look, I know you meant well coming over here and apologizing—” She laughs nervously, wiping a spot of sauce from her chin. “I have no idea how I was going to finish that sentence. I guess what I’m trying to say is, well, I’m just really, really tired. And I don’t know what you want from me, whether you’re just being friendly or you’re expecting something else—”

  “Just being friendly.” I nod profusely. “Hey, don’t worry about it.”

  I look over at the Defeated One; he gestures to indicate they’re ready to leave.

  “Anyway, I’m really sorry for the whole Starbucks debacle. Well, it was nice running into you again.”

  I’ve already turned around, heading back to our booth, when she calls out.

  “Wait a minute.”

  She rummages around in her handbag and comes up with a business card. She leans out of the booth and hands it to me.

  “If ever our hectic schedules allow for it, we could go for coffee or something. At least I’ll be assured you’re not going to go apeshit on me in the line.”

  Despite the Defeated One’s jeering on the walk back to the office and Clyde’s attempts to snatch the card from my pocket, I’m left with a testosterone-fueled halo of triumph. The three of them, they’re mere boys building tree forts in the backyard. I, on the other hand, I’m your genuine, swaggering, chest-thumping alpha male. That is, until I return to my desk and find a Post-it Note stuck to my chair:

  12:45 now. Checked with the Utterly Incompetent Assistant and she doesn’t have a clue where you are. This is not good at all. Come see me as soon as you get in.

  The Sycophant’s note is from right before we left; the pitch must have ended early. Looking at the clock on my phone, I’ve been MIA for over an hour and a half.

  Two words: Instant Emasculation.

  Four

  It takes two weeks for the Defeated One to hatch our plan against the Prodigal Son, and it’s Lulu Heifenschliefen who catalyzes the process.

  Excluding our Gang of Four, Frau Heifenschliefen is the only Bank employee I genuinely like. Lulu hails from across the Atlantic—Poland, the Netherlands, I forget which—and she’s built like an ostrich: a long neck leading up to a blond, unruly mane; a small, puckered face with the exception of a prominent beak nose; a squat torso perched on two spindly legs. You know Lulu is coming down the corridor because her peculiar laugh, a shrill chortle capped off with a sneeze, always precedes her. And when she arrives, ruddy-cheeked and wearing her polka dots, a plastic flower struggling in the crow’s nest of her hair, you’re filled with an overwhelming sense of goodness. Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and sun-kissed meadows and all that.

  It’s brought on by Lulu’s naïveté, I think. While the Philandering Managing Director’s getting tied up and spanked on the weekend and the Sycophant is pressing his face up against the TV to decipher grainy porn on the pay-per-view channels, you know Lulu Heifenschliefen’s out and about on her brand-new shiny red bike, ringing her bell, her colored streamers flying in the breeze, a basket of fresh turnips up front, all the while laughing and sneezing and transcending this city’s notion that you have to be kinky and achingly sophisticated to have a good time.

  Lulu is technically the Events Coordinator, meaning she’s responsible for organizing all of the Bank’s corporate functions and retreats. Nonetheless, because the Coldest Fish In The Pond is a notorious tightwad, rumored to periodically inspect expense reports for any lavish transgressions, her official duties are minimal at best. There is the annual holiday party, for one, and the analyst orientation during the summer.

  “Hello, my piglets,” she coos, slipping into our office.

  She’s flushed and excited and wearing woolen boots despite the fact it’s not all that cold outside. Minus the eccentricity, she gives you the familiar feeling of being greeted by your favorite aunt. Even the Defeated One breaks into a giddy smile, a stretching of his cheek muscles that looks like it’s hurting his face. Lulu settles into the spare chair and pats down the creases of her orange-and-maroon-striped taffeta skirt.

  She motions to something on my desk.

  “Be a good boy-chick and pass me a tissue.”

  I hand it to her reverently, and she accepts it with a batting of her fake eyelashes. She blows her nose twice, deposits the tissue in a fold of her skirt, and beams at us with a beatific smile, her pupils as shiny as flecks of ebony. We’ve all swiveled around to face her, the tired gentry of Lulu’s court. She holds a hand to her chest, releases a single brittle cough, and scrunches up her puckered face.

  “Ach, this change in seasons always affects me like this. I trust you have all been in fine health?”

  “Yeah, things have been all right,” the Defeated One says, nodding.

  It’s not a very convincing response, and Lulu frowns, a tsk-tsk clucked under her breath.

  “They work you too hard in this little department. Too much work and not enough play, nein?”

  We stare at her in brooding silence.

  “Nein?”

  “All right,” the Defeated One concedes, hanging his head. “It’s been pretty bad.”

  “My poor little piglets,” Lulu sighs.

  “And what about on your end? How has the Toad been?”

  Lulu shrugs. “The Toad, he is still the same pipsqueak. He thinks because we work in the same department, he can get all hussy-fussy on me. But I tell you, kittens”—here she smacks her palms together—“Lulu is having none of it.”

  “What a jackass,” the Defeated One snorts.

  “Language,” Lulu scolds.

  The Toad is the Toad for a reason: small and cute in a platonic pudgy way but filled with sacs of lethal toxins that enter your bloodstream and leave you brain-dead five minutes later. No antidote, no best friend sucking out the poison and bragging about it afterward on a talk show.

  Aside from his HR duties, the Toad is the analyst liaison with senior management. Nonetheless, the Toad despises us lowly peons. If the Toad had his way, he’d want the Bank run as a Viking slave ship. Tied to our computers, peeing into plastic pipes, with nutrients injected into our forearms three times a day. Multi-tasking janitors lashing us across the shoulders. The Toad would all the while promise us raises, an extra five bucks for our dinner allowance, spewing forth his endless rhetoric that we’re the most valuable asset in the Bank’s hierarchal pyramid.

  “Anyway, what brings you around today?” I ask.

  She winks at me before snorting into the tissue.

  “What, am I to be denied the pleasure of coming by and gazing at three strapping young boy-chicks like yourselves? Doesn’t an old bag deserve a little fun?”

  “Can it, Lulu. You’re what, forty-five? Definitely under fifty?”

  “Ach, if you say so. Fifty-seven as of last week.”

  We go around and dispense our birthday wishes. As Lulu checks her purse for a cough drop, the Defeated One motions for me to close the door. After it’s shut, the Defeated One draws his chair close beside Lulu, and the two of them start whispering conspiratorially. This is Lulu’s unofficial duty at the Bank: professional gossipmonger. Because Lulu is so off-kilter, her eccentricity incongruous among the immaculate professionalism of Ivy League MBA grads, people have no idea how to react to her. During these heightened moments of confusion, while you’re distracted perhaps by the clunky
rhinestone pendant swinging across her ample bosom, she’ll peer at you with glassy honest eyes, and very soon you’re seeking comfort for the crappy bonus you just received, your suspicions the wife may have more than just a passing relationship with the landscaper, for how the assistant you were screwing around with earlier in the month gave you an itchy present down below.

  Yet it’s a known fact: While all of the Bank’s dirty little secrets have at some point filtered through Lulu Heifenschliefen’s eardrums, she knows to propagate them with utmost discretion. All the heavy stuff, anything with the potential to wreak havoc if left to fester out in the open, is locked up in some secure chamber of her cerebellum. Everything else, though, the frivolous triviality with loads of entertainment mileage, is fair game.

  “The Sycophant, it is just sooo terrible; the man wears tighty whities! Even in Europe the men would not dare it!” she whispers ecstatically, putting a hand to her mouth to stifle a fit of giggles.

  Lulu knows all our nicknames, a meager trade-off for her wealth of knowledge. The Defeated One snickers.

  “How’d you figure that one out?”

  “Eyes, chickie,” Lulu says as she shakes a bejeweled finger at him. “A crumpled-up pair sticking out of his gym bag.”

  “It’s a darn good thing they weren’t modeled for you directly. That would have been some scary shit.”

  Lulu Heifenschliefen snorts devilishly. She’s definitely in her element. In a hushed tone, she continues:

  “This is nothing compared to the Philandering Managing Director. That man is veeery naughty, yes, into far more filthy undergarments.”

  “Oh god, you’ve got to tell us!” giggles the Star.

  “Patience, boy-chick.” Lulu rubs her hands together in glee. “First I require a juicy morsel or two to widen my big fat mouth.”

  The three of us stare at each other and shrug. Then the Defeated One leans in close beside Lulu’s ear. I can’t really make out his whispering, but I think I hear it punctuated with the names of the Prodigal Son, then Unadulterated Sex.

  “Are you sure that’s such a good idea?” I interrupt.

  The Defeated One scowls and waves it off. Lulu listens attentively, nodding her head slowly. When the Defeated One is finished, she purses her lips together and absentmindedly wipes at her forehead with the snot-soaked tissue. I hand her a fresh one.