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 grass about how they took every game in singular quantities 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 entitlement, but…”
“It is difficult to raise children under any circumstances,” 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 classes. 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 night
chitchat = conversation used in a social environment to fill up silence
freaking out = panic
lighten up = relax
my bad = it is my fault/error
nosebleeds = inexpensive seats that render the sitter vulnerable to nosebleeds
score = record statistical events for a baseball game
scrounge 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 spacious 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 class 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 advertisements, and the color is pleasing, and I do look sexier 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?