So when the head of IT asked me how the firm’s culture influenced results, I knew what he was really asking. The question reflected his concern that a stodgy management was slow to adapt with the times and spend money on new technologies.
“A firm that does not evolve constrains its long-term viability,” I began. “The challenge is,” (there are no problems, just challenges) “to make the hard decisions now, as unpopular as they may seem in the moment, that will pay off in the future.”
I thought the man, he with his ever-shrinking budget and zero respect internally for the thankless job he performed admirably day-in and day-out, was going to leap across the table and kiss me. I might have said nothing, but he found an ally.
I did this dance for hours and I loved every minute of it. It was as close as I could get to that feeling athletes have when the game is slowed down, where they see every move before it happens. I was making shit up left-and-right and it all went down as easily as soft-serve ice cream. And with each interview I slowly began to convince myself that I might have a chance at this job after all.
During the lunch portion, I purposely avoided carbs and caffeine. I didn’t need a post-sugar crash to mess with my rhythm. I ran into a little trouble at the two o’clock portion with the head of administrative assistants where we got sideways on my approach to associate development (for dead-end jobs) but I quickly rescued it with a clever turn of a phrase involving “stepping-stones” and “paths to career fulfillment.”
The three and four o’clock interviews with the Head of Operations and Chief Compliance Officer respectively were victories before they even began. It was as if they sensed when they entered the room that they were about to talk to the man who had the job. I didn’t let hubris get the better of me and I battled in those sessions with equal vigor. By the time they were over I felt like I could go twelve more rounds.
The final interview was with Pat Faber. The room was now stuffy from the late afternoon sun pouring in and from all the hot air puffed over the last seven hours. I bounced out of my chair to greet him by the door. We each attempted to out-pump the other with a handshake, and I gleefully registered the disappointment on his face. He expected an exhausted man. Instead, he saw someone who was ready to uppercut him into oblivion. Pat rose to the challenge.
“What does failure look like?”
“A man who accepts things as ‘good enough’.”
“What’s the one thing you would change about yourself?”
“Nothing. The first step is recognizing your faults then figuring out how to succeed despite them.”
“What would you change about me?”
“Ask easier questions.”
“Why shouldn’t we select Paul for the job?”
“I want to be selected on my strengths, not on another man’s weaknesses.”
They kept coming, and I kept knocking them down. I took the best he had, and Pat knew it. By the end of it he looked more tired than I felt. He leaned back and offered up one more, a true softball if there ever was one.
“What will be your legacy?” he asked.
All I had to do was come up with a pithy reply about generational change and throw in some anecdote to seal it. Victory sat right in front of me. But I didn’t take it. I just sat there and said nothing. An uneasiness settled over the room. I detected a trace of glee as Pat watched me struggle.
The simple question had the effect of smelling-salts under my nose. I was suddenly overcome with the clarity that comes from complete detachment. We were talking, after all, about a legacy of a body of work that had no meaning. And then I remembered Bob Gershon, the gentle giant who learned that fact too late in his career to do anything about it. I saw his face as if he were there in the room with me. I watched him disappear behind the elevator doors.
One can only fake it for so long. I shook off my stupor and focused in on Pat.
“I probably won’t have one,” I answered, which was the first bit of honesty I muttered all day. “And if I were ever fortunate enough to have a legacy, I hope to God it wouldn’t be for this job.”
***
I noticed it first. I was on my way to lunch and spotted the black sedan parked in the loading zone in front of my building. These were common vehicles for executives getting rides to the airport but there was something about this one that caught my attention. In similar situations the drivers would do a quick pick-up or drop-off and linger for no more than the time it took to get the luggage out of the trunk. For those who had to wait for a dawdling CEO, the driver would usually fill the time polishing the windows. But this sedan sat idling, the tinted windows obscuring whoever was behind the glass.
I was foolish to let myself believe it was Hector inside there. His legal issues were far from over and there was no way he would be back into his old routine of driving Valenti around the city. I did secretly wish it was him. I wanted to see if he was okay. I also had many questions to ask him.
I circled around the sedan and went the long way to the sandwich shop across the street. Returning to the office, I saw the sedan still idling. As I started to cross the street, a voice called out.
“Can we talk?” Valenti asked. I went around to the other side and joined him in the front seat. He caught my bemused look at the image of him driving his own car. “I drove a truck when I was younger,” he shot back. “I’m not that completely out of touch with the real world.”
The air conditioner was pumping a steady stream of cold air that made the hair on my forearms stand up. As if sensing this, he lowered it to a gentle breeze.
“Anything I can do to help smooth things over at work?” he offered. “I could place a call.”
Even Valenti’s influence couldn’t undo all the damage I had done. I declined his offer. “I like to think I got myself into this situation and it’s on me to get myself out.”
“Still have that chip on your shoulder,” said Valenti.
“How’s Hector?” I asked.
“Hector will be fine.” Then appended, “legally, that is.”
“Has he been released?”
“Yes, he is out but has some charges lingering that we can hopefully get cleared up soon.” There was paternal pride in his voice. “We have the right folks working on it.”
I didn’t have a delicate way of broaching the subject of Jeanette and decided to just ask it outright.
“Have you heard from her?”
The man deflated. His only response came in the form of a barely-perceptible shrug. Faced with an outcome he didn’t want to accept, I got the sense he was here as part of a last-ditch effort to find some scrap of hope to keep him from avoiding the inevitable. I was tempted to oblige but couldn’t seem to muster up a lie.
“I’m sorry,” I said instead.
He turned away from me and placed his hand on the shifter. I took that as the signal that our brief encounter was finished.
“Who’s going to take care of this old man?” he asked absently.
All this talk about fortunes and inheritances and cycles of wealth suddenly felt insignificant. The old man was now an elderly man with elderly concerns.
As I stepped out of the car, he said behind me, “I’ll always remember the last time I saw her. Never let that happen to you.”
It was a personal admonishment framed as advice. But it was the worst form of advice — the kind given after it was too late to do anything about it.
I went back to the office and called Detective Ricohr. I was losing sense of why I made the decisions I did other than this one just felt like the right thing to do. I needed to know some things about Jeanette.
He called me back later in the afternoon. He was more cheerful than I anticipated. I had caused this man nothing short of grief with my amateurish meddling. I would have swatted me away a long time before, but Detective Ricohr had a far deeper reserve of patience than I ever did.