Behold the Dreamers(56)
“Are you kidding me? Was he serious?”
Cheri laughed. “Incredible,” she said. “I didn’t even deign to respond when he said it.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what we need now, right?” Cindy said. “To be cooking and cleaning and doing laundry while we’re losing money and sleep. That would be wonderful!”
The women laughed together.
“But it’s scary how bad this could get,” Cheri said, her tone turning serious as their laughter ebbed. “When people start talking about flying coach and selling vacation homes …”
“It’s scary, but Anna’s not going anywhere, no matter how bad it gets or what everyone else starts doing to survive. I don’t know what I would ever do without her.”
“Rosa’s not going anywhere, either. I guess we just have to be hopeful that everything’s going to be all right, as ugly as it seems.”
Cindy agreed. That was what Clark had said, too, she said. When she’d asked him that night if the impending bankruptcy was going to hurt the economy, he’d said that yes, he believed the economy was going to get really bad; everything was about to change, one way or another, for everyone in the country, at least for some time. When a powerful house like Lehman falls, he’d told her, people start questioning if indeed there is power in the other houses. There was going to be panic in the market. Portfolios losing up to half of their values. Lots of crazy stuff that could destroy the investments and livelihood of millions of good, innocent people. It could be very bad. But they were going to be okay. The likes of them were going to lose money in the short term but they were going to be okay, sooner rather than later, unlike those poor devils on the streets.
“I hope he’s right,” Cheri said. “And I really hope he’s going to be okay soon.”
“I don’t know,” Cindy said, after a pause. “We haven’t spoken much since that night—he’s so stressed out and short-fused I’m almost afraid of saying anything. I went three days without seeing him last week.”
“He’s got to be very busy transitioning to Barclays.”
“I know … that’s what he says. But … you never know. I hope it’s only that and not also because …”
“Come on, Cindy.”
“It’s at times like this, Cher,” Cindy whispered. “This is when they start turning to those …” She cut herself short, perhaps realizing Jende might be listening, which he was, intently.
“You’ve got to stop doing this to yourself,” Cheri said. “Everything’s going to be fine. He’s not the only one dealing with the crisis. We’re not the only ones. There’s a long road ahead, but everyone’s going to be all right. Clark will be all right.”
Jende smiled to himself when Cheri said this, hoping so, too, fervently wishing Mr. Edwards would find his way out of the despondency he’d been enveloped in for months.
The previous night, after work, Clark had called his friend Frank to ponder if it was time for him to get away from the Street. It wasn’t worthwhile anymore, he’d said, and he was getting tired of the bullshit that came with everything else. He’d never cared about what people thought of him but, all of a sudden, he did—he was watching those assholes on MSNBC and agreeing with them, and the fact that the whole country had turned against the likes of him was completely justifiable. He couldn’t help but feel somewhat responsible for the shit that was happening, he told Frank, not because he had personally done anything to hurt anyone but because he was part of the system, and no matter how much he hated to admit it or how much he wished Lehman hadn’t lost its principles or how badly he wished there was more conscience on the Street, he was part of it, and because of his involvement in lots of bullshit he didn’t even agree with, however small his involvement had been, this had happened. He wasn’t sure about a future at Barclays; it wasn’t anything about the bank, it was him. Maybe he was just getting old. Maybe he was beginning to question the meaning of his life. Why was he all of a sudden sounding like Vince?
Hearing Vince’s name had made Jende wonder how the young man was faring in India. He thought about Vince whenever he saw a mention of India in the newspaper, but didn’t think it right to ask Clark about him and open up whatever wounds were still healing.
He thought about Leah, too, in the days after Lehman fell, but had no way of reaching her besides through the number at Lehman. The thought of calling it left him with an eerie feeling, as if doing so would be akin to calling a dead friend at a cemetery. But he worried about her, about her high blood pressure and her swelling feet, and so a few days after returning to work he had called the work number, hoping for a recorded message that would direct him to her.
“Leah!” he said, shocked and elated when she answered the phone. “What are you doing there? I thought … I was afraid …”
“Oh yeah, honey,” she said. “I was canned, too. My last day’s tomorrow. They want me to clean up some things before I leave. Otherwise, I don’t need to be here for one more minute.”
“I am so sorry, Leah.”
“I am, too … but what’re you going to do? Sometimes it’s better when it happens, you know? You spend months losing sleep, fearing for what’s ahead. At least now it’s happened and it’s over and … I don’t know … I can finally sleep well and get the hell out of this shitty place.”