South of Bixby Bridge Read online

  SUNDAY morning, I cruise downtown and watch tourists in Ghirardelli Square. The other zoo is better. Monday I’ll get a job. I’m good at what I do even though I don’t like it.

  ~~~

  College wore me out—a full-time job waiting tables and I was still underwater. My path was to law school and McGeorge accepted me but as graduation loomed, I couldn’t imagine doing another hard three years. Then Edward & Bliss came to campus career day. The recruiter said their average new-hire bought a Range Rover his first year and a house his second year. It only took me one year to buy both. I set the record for new accounts and the head broker Mr. Charles took me to his Granite Bay Country Club for lunch. Charles is his first name but he makes everyone call him Mr. Charles.

  Then the money started pouring in and the other brokers took me out and showed me what I had been missing—VIP entry into hot clubs, after-hours parties, attractive young women, and the best pickup line ever—cocaine!

  Stephanie and I were on-again, off-again. She planned to go on for her master’s in English and money was tight for her so when I bought my house in Folsom, I asked her to move in. I thought it would help settle me down, get me back on track. She said no and broke my heart. It took a lot of convincing, but three months after I moved in she agreed and gave up her room in the dorms. Having her live with me settled me down—for a while.

  PARKING IN FRONT of a coin laundry, I carry my black plastic-garbage bag full of dirty clothes inside and heft it onto the counter. Why do Laundromats always have ugly orange Formica countertops—the same ugly orange Formica countertops?

  An ancient quarter-candy machine collects dust in the corner. It’s nearly empty of the Boston Baked Beans it offers up, which means it’s full of quarters. A cable secures the machine to the wall but there’s plenty of slack. I pick it up, spin it upside down and shake it. The metal housing separates and quarters spill out onto the floor. I scoop up the quarters.

  As I buy a miniature box of Tide from the vending machine, I notice three girls standing outside a bar across the street smoking—they point and laugh at me. I’m tempted to go outside and ask them if I should be separating lights from darks, but the girls stub out their cigarettes and push back into the bar. I load all of my laundry into one washer and run it on cold.

  I flop into a plastic scoop-chair with the employment section from the newspaper. I need a plan. There’s a YMCA on Mission and it’s far enough from the city that parking is free. I can sleep in the Porsche. Shower at the Y. Dress for interviews. Bus into downtown. I have enough cash to drop into a Kinko’s tonight and print off résumés. I’ll use my old address and Barbara’s phone number—should be good enough to get me in the door somewhere. Maybe get an advance. Maybe even hustle a signing bonus.

  It’s not much of a plan but it’s my best plan and it has to work. If it doesn’t, I’m beyond screwed.

  8 It Is What It Is

  I wait outside the Y for the desk clerk to step away. He’s been diligent at his post for almost an hour. I’m about to give up when a homeless guy lumbers past me dragging an orange five-gallon bucket on wheels. He plows right past the desk without stopping and the clerk doesn’t blink—a cardboard cutout welcome to the Y. I follow him and his orange bucket into the locker room.

  I strip and head for a shower. The showers look out on a row of sinks in front of a long mirror. I watch the homeless guy unpack. He spreads an assortment of grooming products on the counter. Then he plugs in clippers and shaves his head, his dark hair piling on the floor around him. He lathers his face and shaves with a straight razor. He plucks nose hairs—clips fingernails, toenails—files a foot corn with a pumice stone. He spits out his dentures, scrubs them with bleach, rinses them and then slurps them back into his mouth. Placing everything in the bucket, he undresses. Layer after layer peels away until he is half the size he was before and his clothes pile two feet high on the bucket. His face, neck, arms, and hands are all brown from the sun but his body is white as porcelain. He inspects every inch of his flesh, rubs a purple bruise on his thigh. Then he drags his bucket past my shower and only a pile of his dark hair remains.

  I smell his stench. I hear his shower turn on. Transfixed, I’ve watched him transform. My fingers are prunes, my feet numb. I kill the water and head to the mirror for my own transformation.

  I MAKE THE ROUNDS with my new résumé and door after door closes behind me. Most places won’t even take the résumé, they just tell me straight away that they’re not hiring and then wish me luck with plastic grins. Looks like everyone is beginning to downsize.

  My last stop for the day is Citigroup. A cute coed receptionist greets me. She glances at my résumé. You went to Slack State, huh?

  You must be an Aggie then, I say.

  Ugh! Davis? No way. I’m a Berkeley girl. I’m just answering phones here while I study for my broker license.

  I lean in and drop my voice to almost a whisper. Can I tell you something?

  She looks around, confused but curious. She nods. I say,

  You’ll rake in a fortune. Do you know what a rare combination intelligence and beauty are? In this biz? And you’ve got both. Come on, Berkeley plus your smile? You won’t have to bother dragging your résumé around like I am.

  She blushes. You’re just saying that, she says.

  Hey, I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true.

  She searches my face to see if I’m lying. I smile.

  We’re not really hiring, she says, but I know Miss Winters has one slot open.

  The engraved gold plaque on Miss Winters’ office door says MANAGING BROKER. I knock and a commanding female voice calls from inside, Permission to enter.

  The office is all business and so is Miss Winters. She wears a dark blue suit with wide lapels and gold buttons. She has hair pulled back and bound so tight that when I hand her my résumé, she has trouble getting her reading glasses on over her ears. She reviews my résumé with military posture.

  After enough time for her to read it twice, she says,

  So, you have your Series 7?

  Yes. Series 3, 9, and 34 too.

  Impressive. Do you have a book of business to bring over?

  No. I’ve been out for a little while now.

  Miss Winters looks at me over the rim of her reading glasses. The skin beneath her eyes is thin and blue veins show through her makeup. She reminds me of my third-grade teacher. She says,

  Why have you been out?

  Just some family problems you know.

  She sets my résumé down, pats it with her palm. No, I don’t know, she says. Why don’t you tell me?

  I’m ready to get back to work, I say.

  Miss Winters strips off her glasses and pinches her brow. When she removes her fingers, the indentations stay. She says,

  We’re only hiring brokers with clients of their own. I’m afraid I can’t do anything for you.

  TUESDAY morning I call on Merrill Lynch. The old-timer slouching behind the desk says he’s filling in for their receptionist who’s been out for a week with mono, which he says she got from some other broker named Bing. I hand him my résumé. He scans it and says,

  Sacramento kid, eh? Welcome to the big city. It must be your lucky day. A broker just bailed for Schwab. Couldn’t cut it full fee. That means Weaver’s got a desk to fill. Follow me.

  He walks me down the hall to the branch manager’s office, but he stops short at the door and hands me back my résumé. He says,

  I’m supposed to be covering the phones so just go on in.

  Well what’s his name? I say.

  Mr. Weaver, he says as he beats feet back the way we came.

  I knock on the door. A high-pitched voice calls,

  Come in, come in.

  I push the door open and step in. The office is filled with bulls. Mean market-making bulls, bulls with bowed heads and big horns. Statues of bulls, paintings of bulls. Mounted on the far wall, with a white muzzle and black-tipped horns, is a real stuffed bull’s hea
d. Beneath the bull’s head, swallowed by an enormous desk, sits a sheepish little fellow with watery eyes and a comb-over. He must be somebody’s relative. I step to the desk. I say,

  Mr. Weaver?

  Yes, indeed. That’s me.

  I’m here to fill your open desk, I say handing him my résumé.

  He turns my résumé over again and again in small, nervous hands until I wonder if he expects something to appear on the backside in invisible ink. Then he lets the résumé fall to his desk with a sigh. He says,

  You have a bullish résumé here—bullish!

  Thank you, sir. I’m very proud of it.

  Yes, of course you are, he says. But I’m just afraid we’re not hiring at the moment.

  But the guy who brought me in here said you have a desk that needs filling.

  Yes, well, you see—it’s just that I’m new here and I came from another branch of the firm and so, you see, this is their way of breaking me in here is all.

  Breaking you in?

  Making me deliver bad news. I hate delivering bad news, of course, you see.

  Just give me a shot, Mr. Weaver. You won’t regret it.

  I like your attitude, I do—it’s bullish. However, you see we’re just not hiring. No one is hiring.

  Won’t you just give me a chance, sir? Please.

  He holds his hand to his mouth and simpers an apology. No, no, dear me I wish I could, he says. So, so sorry you see. You have my word though. And you can count on me. Things will change. The bulls will be back. We’ll give you a jingle.

  After I leave Mr. Weaver in his office polishing his bronze desktop bull paperweight with his silk handkerchief and mumbling about how bullish it was of me to try, I hit wall after wall of rejections until I can’t take anymore.

  The bus drops me on Mission Street in front of a discount bakery. I buy a box of day-old donuts for a buck and a half and carry them to my parked car.

  WEDNESDAY and I got a belly full of leftover donuts and my best bright-blue tie on. I’m playing my only card left today—I’m going to see Jack Strawberry.

  When I started landing accounts at Edward & Bliss, Mr. Charles invited me to lunch at the private Granite Bay Country Club. When I screwed up, he fired me. He fired me for making excessive trades to earn commissions, trades that Mr. Charles told me to make. I went over his head. I left message after message with his boss Jack Strawberry. I was waiting for Mr. Strawberry’s call when I drank my wine collection and lost my house. Mr. Strawberry never called, but who wouldn’t back their head broker when the guy he fired is gone and the clients are happy because somebody took the fall?

  The San Francisco branch of Edward & Bliss is on the 12th floor of a tower overlooking Union Square. The lobby is drab and minimalist with two old elevators. Hordes of office workers squeeze in and out. I get off on five different floors to let passengers behind me exit. By the time the elevator hits 12, the mob has thinned and I can breathe again.

  The doors open onto an opulent lobby with money-green carpet and wood-paneled walls. A fountain trickles, green plants spring from every corner. The receptionist is much older than I am and she looks very proper in a white blouse and blue pants. She smiles and says,

  May I help you today, sir?

  Yes, I’m here to see Mr. Strawberry.

  You’re in luck, she says. He’s just back from Palm Springs. His office is right there on the left.

  Will you tell him Trevor Roberts is here?

  She waves her hand. Oh no, she says, Mr. Strawberry has an open-door policy—just go right on in, dear.

  I can’t believe how easy that was. All week I’ve been fighting gatekeepers with wit and charm and fake confidence and here is Martha Stewart ushering me in from the cold for hot tea and butter tarts. I should have come here on Monday.

  Mr. Strawberry sits behind his desk reading a Wall Street Journal. I’ve heard his voice on our weekly market conference calls and he looks exactly like he sounds—slick and self-assured. His gray hair thick and well cut, his suit conservative and well made. I tap on the door. He folds the paper and smiles up at me. Can I help you?

  I’m here about a job.

  Well, he says, the way the market’s heading, I was just looking in the Journal for a job myself. Shall we look together?

  Smile lines surround Mr. Strawberry’s bright-blue eyes. I’m just joshing, he says. Never did have any comedic timing. Have a seat. Please. How is it you come to see me about a job, young man?

  I’m Trevor Roberts.

  He shakes my hand. Oh, yes, he says. How rude of me, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Jack Strawberry.

  I know. I used to work for Mr. Charles in Sacramento.

  Mr. Strawberry releases my hand when I mention Mr. Charles. His smile lines disappear. He says,

  Yes, how can I help you?

  I called you several times.

  I did get a message or two, yes. I’m sorry but I just can’t attend to every concern. That’s why we hire managers.

  Like Mr. Charles?

  Yes, like Mr. Charles.

  He told me to make those trades, sir.

  Come on, Trevor, you know you’re responsible for following the rules. This isn’t kindergarten here.

  I know that, Mr. Strawberry. But you have to give me another shot. You just have to let me prove to you that I’ve changed.

  I’m afraid I can’t.

  You mean you won’t.

  No, I can’t.

  You’re the regional boss, why can’t you?

  Because we’re a family company and the founders believe in allowing management a say in running it. Every manager has veto rights over rehires and Mr. Charles vetoed you.

  Pardon me, sir, but this is bullshit!

  It is what it is. Everything is what it is. If you learn that now and stop fighting you’ll be 20 years ahead of Mr. Charles, son.

  I really, really need a job, Mr. Strawberry. I’m out of places to interview and this firing is following me.

  How old are you Trevor?

  Thirty in March, sir.

  Mr. Strawberry leans back in his chair and looks down his long nose at me. His left index finger taps the folded Journal lying on his desk. Then he leans forward and spins his rolodex. He says,

  I’m an old-fashioned man, Trevor. See my rolodex? I know people. You’re a good kid. Ha! I say kid but when I was 30, my kids were nine and six already. You should have kids you know. Makes this other stuff seem silly. Here it is.

  He stops his rolodex, pulls out a card and says,

  No promises, but I’ll call Mr. Feldman for you. He’s a bit rough around the edges but he runs a thriving wealth management business. Mostly just a feeder fund.

  Feeder fund?

  Yes, he says, Feldman has access to an anonymous master fund with hot returns. Big-money types line up begging to be fed into it. Feldman’s always hungry for young brokers to handle the traffic.

  9 Excuse Me, Sir

  Mr. Feldman’s firm is called Strategic Capital Inc. His young receptionist looks like a souped-up model you’d rent from a temp agency to work a booth at a car show. When I tell her my name, she looks at me like an unwanted chore that showed up too soon. She hurries me back to a large office filled with smoke and introduces me to Mr. Feldman.

  He’s a no-neck thug in a suit. The late morning light fights its way through smoke-covered windows and glistens on Mr. Feldman’s baldhead. He’s not wearing a tie, his top three shirt buttons open showing off his shaved, puffed-up pecs. His cheap cologne manages to penetrate the smell of his cigar smoke.

  He sets his fat Cohiba down in a crystal ashtray and squeezes my hand until it hurts. I pass him my résumé. He reviews it for about 10 seconds before wadding it up in his steroid-pumped fist and throwing it at the trash can. He misses and my résumé bounces off the lip and rolls to the middle of the floor. It sits there crumpled into a ball and I want to tell him he owes me a buck-50 but I just sit there crumpled too.

  Mr. Feldman smiles, his rou
nd face scrunches up like a pig in pain. Impressive résumé, son, he says. But résumés ain’t worth the paper to wipe your ass. Old Strawberry said something on the phone about you taking six months off for personal reasons. What reasons were those?

  Mr. Feldman picks up his Cohiba and crams it in his mouth, puffing to no avail. Damn things go out the second you set them down, he says. He clinks open a gold Dunhill lighter and puffs the cigar lit again. He blows a thick, gray cloud of smoke at me and when it clears, he says,

  I asked you a question, son.

  Beating around the bush isn’t working, so I try outright lying. Wanted to give something back, I say. Did some deep soul searching. Joined a church. Went to Peru. Helped build a poor village school.

  Sure you did, kid. Why doesn’t Strawberry take you back over there at Edward & Bliss then? He likes do-gooders.

  He wanted me back, I say, but he’s more like a mentor than anything to me and he said your firm would be a better opportunity.

  Feldman puffs his cigar, blows smoke out his nose. You’re a good liar, kid, he says, but not a great one.

  The phone on Mr. Feldman’s desk chirps and the receptionist comes on its speaker—Sir, Paul is on line one.

  Mr. Feldman holds his hand up, signaling me to be quiet. Then he jerks the phone off the cradle. Hey there, big guy. Whataya know?

  He leans back in his chair, the phone against his ear, listening. He puffs on his cigar and blows a smoke ring. Well you know the market’s down, he says. Folks are getting margin calls. They’re scared. And your fund’s as good as a gold. Good as a money market. It’s the first place they turn for liquidity. That’s all. Don’t worry about us—I’m working on a new fund for you. Seeded it myself.