Ghosts of Manhattan: A Novel(41)

“Hey, Nick. I see a little gray coming in on the sides. Hadn’t noticed that before.” Jack had followed me outside.

“It’s premature.”

“Yeah. Me too. Very distinguished-looking. You’re not getting too old for all this?”

I wonder if Jack can see through to me. He’s in sales, he must have some knack for picking up on things in people. On the other hand, it may not require any special gift to notice I’m miserable. “Maybe I am.”

“You have any kids? That’s when it really gets tough. I’ve got a kid with my ex-wife.”

“No kids. I’m almost too old to start having kids.”

“There are real advantages to starting at this age.”

“Such as?”

“When you divorce, you can date a gal twenty years younger and she’s still plenty older than your kids.”

“I’ll remember that.” I sip the last of my drink. My lips are numb from the cold air and I can’t feel the liquid but only the sting of the liquor. “Are you getting too old for this?”

Jack heaves a sigh as though he’s already thought about this, and I can see a long trail of his breath blow in the cold night over the street. This is body language I’ve never seen from him before. Maybe he followed me out because he wanted this conversation. “I probably am. But I’ll keep doing it until I’m such a pathetic hack that they force me out the door.” His eyes briefly betray a fear that he’s already a hack. It’s just a flash, as though he may have wanted to talk about it but decided it is best not to be found out. In this moment of hesitation, Jack seems human, like a person who can get sad or confused, not an emotionless runaway train. For the first time I get the sense that he could have been a boy once. Maybe he has always just held up a front. No one wants to go drinking with sad. They want fun and fearless and invincible. Maybe it’s not so easy being Jack Wilson either. Not at this age.

Jack finishes his drink, taking my cue, though now I’m a little interested. “Why don’t you just walk out the door? Under your own power. Go buy a strip joint and run it.”

He rattles the ice in the empty glass and answers me still looking at the ice cubes. “I used to think I would. I might still. Not the strip joint part.” He looks up to me and smiles. “I had a magic number of fifteen million. Once I saved up that much, I’d walk away. The problem is once you get to that point, you’re making so much money every year that it’s hard to walk away. You’re also spending so much that there needs to be some lifestyle changes for fifteen million to be enough to last.”

I’m impressed he’s cleared the fifteen-million mark. When you take out federal, state, and city tax, it takes a while to clear that much. Some people think brokers are second-class, but the good ones make more than most traders. I’m working the calculations. If Julia and I shed our expenses, could we make fifteen million last for the next forty years? With no kids and selling the Sag Harbor place it seems possible, with some belt tightening.

Jack pulls a cube from the glass and throws it like a dart across the balcony and it skids against the door. “So I don’t think five years down the road. There’s no point, it’s too far from today.” He seems to be slipping back into his carefree swagger and even his voice takes on a come-what-may tone.

“You don’t love what we do?” I know the answer but there is a perversion that makes me need to hear it from him.

“Does anyone over thirty?”

“Right.”

“I just make a deal with myself to get to the next New Year’s Eve. When I get there, I can either quit or make a resolution to make it to the next New Year’s Eve. Those are bites I can handle. The same way you eat an elephant. One bite at a time.”

We’re now both holding glasses with nothing but ice cubes in weather that is too cold to melt them without alcohol. “It’s freezing out here. Let’s get another drink.”

I step back inside and the dry heat of the room makes my face flush as it comes back from numbness. Jack and I wordlessly split up like two little kids who have been doing something wrong and shuffle away with averted eyes so as not to get caught.

There have been a few more arrivals of young Chappy brokers full of excitement and pride to be here. They will retell their stories about tonight to their young friends back in their hometowns and dangle them all on a string of awe.

Eminem is playing but at a civilized volume. Probably a request of the hookers. I step through the crowd and more than half the guys here are only a handful of years out of college. The girls are under twenty-five and all professionals. There are the youthful expulsions of energy of a fraternity party, but while college has a jubilant venting of steam, this has already acquired a more sophisticated corruption. I get the feeling I need to throw myself a lifeline to pull myself out of this if I’m ever to have a chance. How can I find this to be an acceptable part of my life? I decide I need to force myself to imagine a different career. Even if it seems impossible, I need to go through the exercise. This weekend I’ll get a pen and paper and draw it up. Maybe just by taking that step, I will make things start to feel more possible.

In the meantime I walk to the self-service bar. More gin. There’s not a single person I’m interested in talking to.

“Hey, Nick!” Woody again from across the room. “I just spoke to Ron. He and William and a few other guys are leaving Scores now and bringing the bachelor party here. They’re bringing a few of the Scores strippers with them.” A few cheers and claps sprinkle the room at the news. I raise my glass in a silent toast. Woody does the same but with a yell and knocks back the rest of his drink. I feel like I need to get out of here and hope to make it through the hotel before Ron and William arrive. I don’t want to seem like the old guy leaving early, but more than that I don’t want to seem like the old guy sticking around not having any fun, and I can’t be around all these kids and hookers.