Yeah, I’m all right. Don’t worry.
I’m all right. Fortunately,
the ground broke my fall
-
Nightshift
Tré was in trouble.
The financial mess left in the wake of his wild clubbing days just would
not be resolved. He’d maxed out
his credit card and failed to pay his rent for three months. Since he stopped clubbing, he’d managed
to pay his rent every month, but couldn’t catch up on the months he
hadn’t. If he paid extra to his
landlord, he didn’t pay enough on his credit card. Debt collectors were calling. So he stopped paying his phone bill. But even with that extra money and
without those calls, he was still really stressed. He was desperate to clamber out of his financial hole.
Rosie still spent most of her nights at Tré’s apartment, but
their relationship was slowly drifting into this weird amorphous thing where
they passed each other and exchanged cordialities on their respective ways in
and out. Rosie got home from the
clubs shortly before, and sometimes after, Tré was waking up for work. When Tré got home, Rosie was barely
awake, thinking about her look for the evening, just getting started. Rosie spent a great deal of time honing
the fine art of being Rosie. And she was getting really good at it.
She liked her weekend DJ shifts at The March. She spun very cool records, bantered
wittily with the crowd, looked fabulous, and was turning The March into the place to be for cool (but not as
cool as Rosie) Chicago youth. She
was making a name for herself and turning The March into a very different bar
than it had been. At least on
Friday and Saturday nights.
Rosie had never really grokked Tré’s financial mess. Such is the nature of a child of
privilege. There was always money
to be had. Tré couldn’t stand to
talk to her about it anymore. He
just let it go. On the days when
Tré woke up to find Rosie asleep next to him, all he wanted to do was to lie
there with her and soak up the comfort of her warm body in bed. He wanted to wake her up, pleasantly,
and think of other things than the money he owed, the mistakes he’d made. Neither of them wanted to talk about
money anymore. And so they didn’t.
But pressing
debt will not be starved by silence.
And on one of those pleasant mornings, as Tré left his apartment with a
little spring in his step, he was accosted by his landlord about the rent he
was due. The landlord harangued
Tré in a thick Polish accent as other tenants hurried past, embarrassed or
amused.
It was so humiliating.
Tré strode down the street on his way to work, fiercely thinking about a
solution. He had to do something
to get this greedy, grappling landlord off his back.
It wasn’t a happy idea, but he did have one. He could ask Bulstrode for a loan, an
advance on his salary. If
Bulstrode could give him two months salary in advance, he could make things
right with his landlord and could then pay Bulstrode back over the next couple
of months. He’d been doing right
by Bulstrode. Good, solid work.
Bulstrode had to say “yes.” Sure,
Tré would have to suffer through some patriarchal advice, some benevolently
disappointed headshakes. Tré would
have to call him “sir” and look grateful.
But Tré could play obsequious as well as the next guy. And the idea of satisfying his greasy,
rapacious landlord was tantalizing.
Tré was determined to make the request.
As Tré was walking to work and trying to figure out how best
to phrase his request, Bulstrode was sequestered in his office with Rafferty,
who was insisting on another thousand dollar payment.
“I can’t keep doing this, Karl,” said Bulstrode. “You’re bleeding me dry.”
“I think you got a ways to go before dry,” said Raff. “You’re a rich man.”
“When does it end, Raff?”
“I got some ideas,” said Bulstrode. “I got some ideas. I’m just working them out. Besides I like watching you squirm. Makes me feel better about all them
years I spent downstate.”
“You’re a twisted little fuck, Rafferty,” said Bulstrode.
“One day…”
“Yeah, one day,” said Rafferty. “Whatever. I’ll
see you around, Bully.”
When Rafferty left, Bulstrode pulled a pack of cigarettes
out of his desk drawer and lit one.
Another bad habit, he thought. Something else that I thought I’d left in
my past.
Tré knocked on Bulstrode’s door a bit later and was waved
in. Bulstrode was sitting behind
his desk, scanning through management schedules, looking for salaried employees
who were working less than 50 hours a week. That was taking advantage, Bulstrode thought. And Bulstrode did not like being taken
advantage of.
Tré cleared his throat and began, “Mr. Bulstrode, this is
embarrassing, but I have a favor to ask.”
“What is it,” said Bulstrode, without looking up.
“Well, I’ve run into some money troubles and I was wondering
if you could see your way to a two month salary advance. If you reduce my salary after that by a
third, then I can be right with you by the end of the summer.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Bulstrode. “Does everyone think I’m made of fucking money?”
Tré responded with a stunned silence.
Bulstrode reined himself in, took a deep breath and
continued. “I apologize for the outburst, Tré. You’re looking for two months salary in advance.”
“Yes sir,” said Tré.
“I made a couple of bad decisions and am having some difficulty getting
clear of them.”
“You were not engaged in any criminal activity, I trust,”
said Bulstrode. “I won’t be
involved with that.”
“No sir,” said Tré, feeling hopeful “Nothing criminal. I overspent on social events and got
behind on a lot of bills.”
Bulstrode looked up at Tré’s young and hopeful face. He knew how embarrassing this was for
him.
And he knew how much Tré must
have needed the money to ask him like this. So he made a decision.
“I don’t think I can help you,” he said, looking down at his
papers. “You’ve gotten yourself into trouble and, like people your age do, you
expect someone else to bail you out.
I’m afraid that won’t be me.
How can I even be sure you’ll be drawing a salary from me in six months
time?”
“I thought you were happy with my work,” said Tré.
“I am now,” said Bulstrode. “But there was a period there where you were less
professional. I have no way of
knowing whether or not you’ll stay on the straight and narrow. No, I think we’ll keep our arrangement
as it stands. Now, do you have the schedule together for the bar closings
throughout the rebrand initiatives?”
“Yes,” said Tré, seething. “I put them in your box last night on my way out.”
“Thank you,” said Bulstrode. “Hmmm, looks like Don over at FourSouth in the Loop is only
putting in 45 hours a week. He’s
going to need to stop treating his employment like a country club. He can be replaced.”
Bulstrode didn’t look up, but heard Tré leave. He found himself smiling. It felt like the first time he’d smiled
in a while.
Tré sat in his office, so angry he trembled.
Bulstrode had plans to meet Susan for lunch that day in the
Walnut Room at Marshall Fields.
When he got to the 7th floor of the department store, he
paused as the host stand for a moment and took it all in. His internal inventory: He was in good
health. He still had a lot of
money. He’d be an elder in the church any day now. By the end of the year, dozens of bars and restaurants
across the city would bear his logo, authoritatively declaring him a major
player on the Chicago scene. He
had a beautiful, sophisticated wife, whom he loved dearly. And there she was, sitting at a table,
sipping white wine and examining an Hermes scarf she’d purchased that day.
He was loved. He was rich. He would find some way out of
this situation with Rafferty. He was bound to.
Bulstrode decided to have a steak for lunch and drank two
glasses of good wine with Susan.
He slept well that night for the first time in months.
Tré began grinding his teeth in his sleep. He woke up with a terrible headache.
Raff didn’t sleep at all that night. He spent it blowing through the piles
of cocaine he’d purchased with Bulstrode’s money.
