Kapitoil_ A Novel Part 8

Now that I've already said a little, I decide I should express the complete idea, so I explain it to Mr. Schrub.

"Hmm" is all he says.

Tino Martinez hits a ball to the first baseman. It angles off his foot and two runs score for the Yankees. Then another Yankees player singles and Williams scores, which was possible only because the Braves walked him.

When the inning is over, Mr. Schrub introduces me to his friend and adds, "Karim's one of our brightest young minds downtown. And I don't count a single error in that statement."

Those words will go in my archive of important recordings.

Mr. Schrub also teaches me how to "score" the game, which is why he was recording notes on a specialized paper. It is similar to tracking the stock market with various indices, and I learn quickly.

In the fourth inning Mr. Schrub says to me, "I could use some real ball-game food-none of this sushi c.r.a.p. What do you say to a couple of dogs?"

I know "dogs" are not real canines, but I'm uncertain what they are, so I nod. He turns and waves from his seat to the black man in the tuxedo inside.

"Can you scrounge up two hot dogs?" Mr. Schrub asks as he pays the man $20, and now I recognize the term from street vendors.

The man leaves, and later he returns with two sausages in elongated bread inside a paper box. "Keep the change," Mr. Schrub says as he transfers one of the sausages to me.

I look at the red cylinder of meat in my hands. Of course I can't eat it, but I also don't want to offend Mr. Schrub and his gift.

I bring the hot dog closer to inspect it. The scent is like something burning flavorfully, and my stomach wants me to consume it, and my tongue wants me to taste it, and even my eyes find it delicious, and maybe Allah will be careless of a solitary offense.

But I can't do it.

Then Mr. Schrub says, "My G.o.d, what was I thinking?" He takes the hot dog from me. "I'm sorry, Karim. I can't believe I forgot."

He gives me a napkin so I can clean my hands. "I've got an idea," he says, and he waves to the black man again. He hands him another $20 bill. "A bag of Cracker Jack," he says. "Actually, make it two."

He puts his own hot dog in the box and sets it on the concrete. "This probably isn't the healthiest option anyway," he says. "Who knows where this meat came from."

The Cracker Jack is like sweet rocks that divide easily when I bite and I'm pleased I'm not offending anyone, although at the end I wish I didn't eat it so rapidly.

For the rest of the game Mr. Schrub introduces me to some of his other friends, who are all more friendly to me than the man with mirroring hair. When we are alone again, Mr. Schrub whispers to me, "Nice people, but most of them could give a d.a.m.n about who's out on the field."

The Yankees win, as I predicted, as they have the best and most expensive team. The players crash into each other and all the fans dance and Mr. Schrub and some of his male friends hug and clap and cheer. Then the friend with the silver hair says, "We have to sign a bigger bat in left field next year." He and Mr. Schrub consult about other ways to enhance the team. In some ways they're not enjoying their team's success right now, but that's also why Mr. Schrub is so successful: He's never satisfied with mere achievement and is always thinking outside the box.

The Yankees player Paul O'Neill, who did not perform well in the game, covers his face as he walks off the field because he is crying.

Mr. Schrub is also watching Paul O'Neill, and as the other men around us talk he appears to be unfocused, but then someone asks him something and he resumes talking.

While the Yankees players and manager and their employer make speeches on the gra.s.s about how they took every game in singular quant.i.ties and labored at over the 100% efficiency threshold, which is illogical but no one corrects them, Mr. Schrub says we should defeat the traffic and invites me to ride home in his car.

Mr. Schrub's car is an actual limo. His driver, who is white, which surprises me, because every salaried driver I've seen in New York is not white, opens the door for us. Mr. Schrub says, "How was the seat, Patrick? Good view?"

"Very good, Mr. Schrub," he says.

Mr. Schrub and I sit on opposite sides, and I'm the one riding backward, which I've never done in a car. It feels like I'm disappearing from the baseball game and the crowd, which is positive, because I was feeling bottlenecked and the bottoms of my shoes have much food and gum attached to them. Even guests in the luxury suite deposit their trash on the ground.

Mr. Schrub asks if I enjoyed the game. "I did. Thank you for inviting me, Mr. Schrub." Then I add, "I apologize for not thanking you before."

He smiles. "You're very polite, aren't you?" I don't know how to respond to this without in fact sounding impolite, so I only reciprocate a smile. "I wish my sons were like that. I tried my hardest to raise them without a sense of ent.i.tlement, but..."

"It is difficult to raise children under any circ.u.mstances," I say. "I suppose," he says. "Maybe it's my fault. No one could accuse me of spending too much time at home while they grew up. Looks like your parents did a good job, though."

"It was difficult for them as well."

"How so?"

I don't want to stimulate pity from him, or from anyone, but I think maybe telling him this will make him feel enhanced about his own family, so I say, "My mother died when I was younger, so my father raised my sister and me independently."

His mouth opens a fraction, and it looks like he's trying to make words but can't. Finally he looks out the window and says, "I'm very sorry to hear that, Karim."

"It is not your fault," I say, which is how I always respond.

We are quiet for a few minutes as the lights on the side of the highway flash periodically. We arrive at his home first and he directs Patrick to take me home. I decide not to tell anyone else here about my mother, although I don't know anyone else who might want to know about it.

When I get home, I remember I never called Barron, and when I call his telephone I don't access him, so I record an apology.

But I keep thinking about making him wait for three hours for no reason, when he could have gone home to his family and eaten a real dinner. I dial another number.

Zahira picks up and says she only has a few minutes before she leaves for university. She asks what I have been doing lately. For some reason I do not tell her about the baseball game, and instead I ask her about her cla.s.ses. Then she says, "I want to talk, but I have to go, Karim."

"Wait," I say.

"What?"

The toggling lights of Times Square mirror on my blank television. "You do not remember the song mother used to sing to us before sleep, do you?" I ask.

"No. You have asked me this before."

"It was a Beatles song."

"How could I remember it?" she says. "I was four years old."

"I thought possibly you might," I say, although our father trashed all the Beatles records after she died, which would make it even more difficult for Zahira to remember.

"Why are you asking about this now?" she asks.

On the street people are celebrating and cars are honking again even louder than when the Mets won their game. "I don't know," I say. "I was thinking about it."

She says, "It's not good to always think about these things."

"I don't always," I say.

"I don't have time to discuss this now," she says. "You can call me tonight."

We disconnect. I don't remind her that I can't call tonight because our time zones are so divided.

burn the midnight oil = work late into the nightchitchat = conversation used in a social environment to fill up silencefreaking out = paniclighten up = relaxmy bad = it is my fault/errornosebleeds = inexpensive seats that render the sitter vulnerable to nosebleedsscore = record statistical events for a baseball gamescrounge up = search for and retrieve

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: OCTOBER 28.

When I arrive at my pod, my computer is missing from my desk. Only Dan is present. "Is this a joke?" I ask him.

He denies responsibility. I log in to Rebecca's computer. Maybe I offended Mr. Schrub last night and I am no longer working in the pod.

There is an email from Mr. Ray asking me to meet him on his floor. Now I am truly fearful.

When I find him, he tells me to come with and leads me downstairs again. We walk past the kitchen and into another hallway where some of the senior employees have private offices. He swipes his ID card on the reader of a door and opens it.

It is a s.p.a.cious room, with a blue carpet on the entire floor and two leather chairs on our side of a black wood desk and a chair with netting on the other side. The entire wall also has windows with a view of the Statue of Liberty. The computer has two adjacent monitors: One is a standard horizontal monitor and one is vertical for enhanced observation when programming.

And in the middle of the desk is a name bar: KARIM ISSAR.

Before Mr. Ray leaves, he touches one of the leather chairs and says to himself, "Nicer than my office."

I spend a few minutes sitting in my chair and reclining against the strong netting and observing out the window. Then I swipe my ID card several times and watch the light convert from red to green. Finally I remember they are not paying me all this money and providing me with such a luxurious office merely to recreate.

Rebecca knocks on my door after lunch.

"So you're no longer in the tech ghetto," she says as she scans my office. "What nefarious schemes are you masterminding in here?"

"I am working on futures," I say.

Then we do not say anything for a few seconds, and she says, "Don't be a stranger," and leaves.

In the afternoon I start thinking that if I have a private office, I should look like I work in one. I email Jefferson for advice on where to purchase clothing. I don't want to ask Rebecca, because she might not know where good men's clothing is, and also it's not in her cla.s.s of interests. Her clothing looks nice on her but it's not very expensive. And Dan's clothing looks expensive but is not attractive and never fits him well, e.g., he always reminds me of what I looked like in my first suit I bought for work at age 18.

After work I visit the first store on Jefferson's list, Barneys. I've been inside stores like this in Doha, but of course the items are always too expensive for me. I examine an attractive dark blue suit. A female in a black dress as restricting as a tie walks over and says, "That's a gorgeous suit. Do you want to try it on?"

I try it on in a dressing room and observe myself in the mirror. It fits my body like suits do in advertis.e.m.e.nts, and the color is pleasing, and I do look s.e.xier than normal in it. Then I see the price tag. It's greater than my former weekly salary. This is my most major purchasing decision ever, and after I consider the cons, I evaluate the pros:

1. Previously, if I had to purchase a new suit, I would have spent a large percentage of my weekly salary, so why should I not do that now? Previously, if I had to purchase a new suit, I would have spent a large percentage of my weekly salary, so why should I not do that now?

2. I am working extremely long hours; if I do not get to enjoy at least some of the financial compensation, I will not be motivated to continue working so much, because the output is less than the input. I am working extremely long hours; if I do not get to enjoy at least some of the financial compensation, I will not be motivated to continue working so much, because the output is less than the input.

3. Quality clothing will help me in future business transactions. Quality clothing will help me in future business transactions.

4. My purchase will stimulate the economy. My purchase will stimulate the economy.

5. I will still have much money left over for Zahira. I will still have much money left over for Zahira.

I tell the female I will buy it, and a Greek man who smells like mints and soap takes my measurements so they can tailor it and deliver it later. At the counter, the dollar value appears in green digits on the cash register and she swipes my credit card, and my heart spikes and charges my entire body and I feel like when I drank alcohol with Jefferson and Dan.

Then she says, "Did you want to get some shirts and ties to go with that?"

She is correct, as I should not wear a new suit with old shirts and ties. She helps me select some shirts and recommends buying five so I can wear a new one each day.

Two of the shirts are white and look like each other, so I decide to take only one. I examine them for differences in quality, but I truly cannot distinguish them, as they both feel soft and durable and are attractive. The tag on one reads "Made in Italy" and the other reads "Made in Philippines." I discard the second shirt.

I buy the five shirts and five ties and am again electrified when she swipes my credit card. Then after I leave Barneys, I consider that I can't wear the same suit daily even if my shirts and ties are different, and I go into the nearby Saks Fifth Avenue store. I also can't buy another suit that is less gorgeous than my Barneys suit, so I find one that costs nearly the same amount, and then buy three others of equal quality.

"May I tailor the others and bring one of these home with me now?" I ask the salesman as I point to one that is gray with blue stripes that already fits me well.

I am now carrying several heavy bags, and it is fortunate that I do push-ups and have inflated triceps. I set them down outside on the sidewalk to signal for a taxi, but it is rush hour. While I wait, I withdraw all the store receipts from my wallet and add them.