JANUARY
The towers stood.
Unblinking.
Granite and glass, steel ribs sunk deep into bedrock. They did not care for quarters, for bonuses, for promotions. They did not care for tourists or garlands. They absorbed the light, reflected it back, and remained unchanged.
They had been raised by men who were gone. They would outlast the men who now filled them. Silent. Patient. Unmoved.
And beneath them: movement. Rushing, jostling, colliding.
Wool coats brushing wool coats. Heels snapping across pavement. Bags dangling, hands heavy with boxes bright with ribbons.
A voice raised, another answering, louder. Both swallowed by the horns of cabs and the din of the street.
Eyes darting to glowing rectangles. Mouths forming promises that dissolved in the cold.
The crush and scatter of bodies, each convinced of purpose, each blind to the sameness of the others.
Programmed and tireless, they followed paths already trodden. Trails scented not by instinct but by advertisement. They carried what they were told to carry. They desired what others desired before them. And they called it choice.
The park stood bare, branches black against the sky. The lights above Fifth Avenue glittered as if signaling joy, though joy seemed nowhere to be found. The air smelled of diesel, roasted nuts, and the perfume of breathless ambition.
The towers watched.
The people scurried.
And beneath it all, silence. Lives tallied on the ledgers of others. Prayers mouthed in temples not their own.
Brian sat me down the first week of January. A few weeks after my downsized bonus had landed like distant radar blips, Soviet bombers inbound.
DEFCON 3.
I was still reeling from the one-two punch: the bonus, and Karen’s Yuletide goring.
The conversation was predictable. I’d heard versions of it delivered to former colleagues on their way out.
“You’ve done great work for us over the years. Have you ever thought about a leadership role in Ops? I hear there may be an opening once Christie’s kid graduates in May.”
Middle office exile. The polite way of saying he couldn’t keep me on his team.
I didn’t bother responding.
Brian smiled, trying to appear apologetic. “I know, I know. But we’ve got a lot of strong young folks coming up. I’m not much older than you, and it’s awful you’re caught in the middle. I’m trying to keep you here.”
He wasn’t trying to keep me here. This was the part where I was supposed to start calling friends. Counterparties. Anyone who would take my call.
He raised both hands, palms open. “Maybe I’m just reading between the lines, but let’s talk again next week. I’ll try to run it by the IC.”
Next week I’d get the severance offer. Probably Friday before lunch.
DEFCON 2.
I walked back to my desk. Didn’t feel the chair when I slumped into it. Sat still for a long moment, not touching anything.
Instead of logging in, I swept my jacket off the chair and walked toward the elevator lobby.
I wasn’t angry. Not really. Just tired. Like the city had been letting me go in slow motion, and I was the last one to notice.
When was I going to tell Jessica?
As much as we’d kept up appearances, enabling the inertia of years, this was something we’d actually have to talk about.
The elevator opened onto the ground floor.
By the time I stepped into the January gusts, that pit in my chest had settled low in my gut.
The cold hit my cheeks and nose. I welcomed it. At least it woke me up.
Without thinking, I turned toward Central Park. No one works the first week of January. Might as well get some steps in.
After all, I was getting fired in a week.
And worse, I had to find a way to tell my wife.
A blue northern wind had blown in that day.
Not a cloud in the sky, but the air sat well below freezing. Sharp sunlight broke through the windows on the 21st floor when Brian summoned me to his office.
As foretold.
Work had been slow. Granite hadn’t closed yet. The diligence teams and transaction coordinators were tightening the screws, prepping the last loan-level pricing sheets. The Mikes could finish without me.
When Brian had given the preamble a week earlier, the charade, the gentle setup, I’d decided to tell Jessica that evening. We walked in Central Park.
I didn’t tell her well. Stumbled. Mumbled. Over-explained and under-stressed everything that mattered.
She still understood. She always did.
I tried to prepare her for what it would mean. What would come next, for me. For us.
She didn’t respond like someone undergoing a major life change. Didn’t look at me like she was holding back words. Or holding on to me.
We went out for a meal around the corner. It was quiet.
Inertia kept surprising me. How hard it was to stop.
I had sent a few half-hearted feelers to people at other shops. Still hoping, maybe, that someone on the IC would take a second look at what I had said. What I had put in the Granite memo. The loan tape. The data room. The truth I thought I’d already proven.
They didn’t.
Brian kept it crisp. Professional. According to the clock behind him, I was in and out in six minutes.
I had been a terrific member of the team. He was proud of the work I’d done. They wished they had a spot for me. But AUM growth was constrained, deployment pace was slowing, other teams needed headcount. Etcetera.
He’d spoken with the IC. They were “deeply grateful.” And to show that appreciation, they wanted me to land somewhere that could make “full use of my talents.”
Twelve months of gardening leave. Full salary. Health coverage. A six-month appreciation bonus.
The appreciation bonus brought my total comp back to what I would have hit anyway. Funny how that worked out.
All I had to do was sign. Non-disclosure. No disparagement, public or private.
Of course.
Non-solicit. No approaching Waypoint employees or LPs for two years.
Of course.
Then Brian wrapped it up with a dagger.
“Look, you don’t have to take this offer. If you’d prefer, you can keep your seat. But I can’t guarantee you’ll get another offer like this. If we trim again, you may get nothing.”
There it was. The freedom they gave you always came with a string.
I confirmed it to Jessica that night. Officially out.
Going through this for the first time, I found a strange gratitude for the charade the week before. That warning shot had softened the sting.
She took it well. Dutiful. Empathetic. Like someone who had also been preparing.
I mentioned some half-formed idea about not looking for work right away. Taking time. Figuring out next steps. Maybe I wouldn’t lateral to a competitor. Maybe I’d try something new.
She stiffened.
“And do what?”
I didn’t know.
What I knew was that I was tired. Even after a slow week, hollowed out. I just wanted to rest. A very long rest.
She mentioned, offhand, that she had brunch with her mom the next day. Meant to tell me sooner.
Just the girls. I could stay home and rest.
Fine by me. Meals with Karen were an eggshell waltz anyway.
I slept until 10:30 and still woke up exhausted. Jessica was halfway out the door as I dragged myself to the coffee.
Brunch stretched until 4:30. She got home just before dinner.
That didn’t feel important until four days later, when she called to say she was filing for divorce. I had just walked onto the 21st floor when I saw her name on my phone. I ducked into one of the ratty conference rooms meant for analysts and ops.
I got notified of divorce in a windowless room with beige carpet and stained ceiling tiles. A whiteboard with writing that hadn’t fully been erased.
Two different people, she said. Heading in different directions. For a long time.
Yeah. Maybe so.
By the time I got home, half her stuff was already gone.
At her mom’s.
Of course.