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Balthazar
He could not remember a time before Roger, or for that matter, a particular
place before this miniature sea world, or a depth where light that failed to
penetrate to the ocean floor left an inky blindness to mask the origin of his
kind. But in spite of this, or maybe because of this, he knew this place was
not his birthplace, yet he was content though sometimes lonely as solitary fish
can be. He blinked his side-cannon eyes at the man sprawled on the couch and
wondered how much longer before he would wake up and sprinkle bits of dried
food onto the surface of the water, so that he could swim up and suck in the
good soft matter and feel his stomach swell and his gills become heavy, and
then seek sanctuary in the purple-pink treasure chest attached to plastic ferns.
There he would sleep and dream of other fish just like him, but female, floating
in sapphire water as fresh and fragrant as a rain forest in the continent of
his birth.
The man stirred, letting out a soft moan, then muttered expletives in rapid
succession, his voice growing more and more exasperated at his apparent inability
to stand erect. He wore a ripped yellowed T-shirt, boxer shorts with a haphazard
pattern of geometric shapes, and his stubble face was still swollen from last
night’s excesses. An ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts clanked to the
floor as he kicked his feet out from underneath him and tried unsuccessfully
to hoist himself up with one arm. For a moment he thought to give up, but then
remembered the half-full bottle of scotch on the table within easy reach and
reached for a swig to quench his thirst and banish the mothball taste in his
mouth. The liquor felt good going down--like mother’s milk, and it revived him
to the extent that he was now able to stumble off to the bathroom, groping for
the reassuring vertical lines of plaster walls along the way.
He splashed ice-cold water onto his face and hair, shaking his curly black
head back and forth like a dog after a swim to rid himself of the excess, then
slowly opened his eyes to the mirror as if afraid of what he might find there.
A great swollen mound of red flesh, already turning purple, appeared just below
his hairline and fortunately for him, far enough away from his eyes that he
was still able to see. This discovery brought on a whole new collection of expletives,
peppered with occasional references to a girl named Gina, and self-recriminations
for the fool that he was and always would be. He eyed the shower briefly, deciding
it was too much trouble for the moment and instead settled for new underwear
and a tube of hemorrhoid cream which he applied liberally to his swollen forehead,
mistaking it for antibiotic ointment. This accomplished, he returned to the
one other room in his apartment and went about preparing his version of breakfast,
which included among other things: pickled herring and a cold sweating bottle
of English stout.
Balthazar swam to the far end of his coffee table-sized tank and watched
Roger’s every move, certain that after he finished eating he would remember
to feed him and remove and clean the pastel-colored stones that had become overrun
with muck, turning the water a sickly greenish tint. He watched as Roger reached
for a metal box, flipped open the top and removed a smaller box, which he opened,
pulling out a slim glass vial three quarters full of white powder, and then
emptying half of this onto a pocket mirror where he drew three perfect lines
with a matchbook cover to snort up his nose through a funnel of rolled rice
paper. First a sneeze, then a long sniff, and Roger sat back in his chair with
a jolt, his eyes bulging and his throat muscles working back and forth in a
reflex pattern before smoothing out like a warm iron on silk to the pulsating
rush of endorphins working overtime.
"Hello and rock your socks good morning." Roger stood before Balthazar,
waggling his finger back and forth on the glass with a flourish.
Balthazar became excited. Now he saw him. Now he would remember.
"You look happy to see me, little wise one," Roger continued on in an affectionate
tone. "The only one too," this being said rather regretfully and quickly replaced
by a sing-song voice: "...but loyal to the end." He picked up the box of fish
food and sprinkled a liberal amount on the surface of the water. Balthazar darted
quickly to the top where he gorged on the tasty morsels until he could feel
himself sinking slowly down to the bottom where the last bits of food lay lodged
in-between stones. For later, he thought, staring sweetly out at Roger who was
now revived and ready to start his day. "Shower," he said out loud and shut
the bathroom door. Balthazar was in a half-state of wakefulness when he returned,
clean-shaven and pink from the hot water. Roger then selected his dark gray
Armani suit complemented by a one-of-a-kind Italian silk tie and fine Egyptian
cotton shirt with silver and black onyx cufflinks. When he had finished dressing,
he reached for the finishing touches: a stainless steel Movado watch and a platinum
and diamond pinkie ring. "Time for work," he said to Balthazar on his way out.
"I’ll take care of that slime problem tonight when I get home."
Balthazar wasn’t so sure. Things had a way of progressing.
For Roger, a short walk lead to the bus station where he hopped a connector
to the subway, then rode the subway uptown where the vast majority of financial
institutions housed their headquarters in concrete and steel monstrosities that
dwarfed the historical buildings, including the one where he worked: Bromwell
and Baskins, Inc., founded in 1803, the oldest and most respected of New York
investment houses. He knew better than to risk the subway from his neighborhood.
No one at work knew where he lived. They assumed he leased an art deco loft
where the new breed of E-traders usually wound up. He lived so far below their
assumptions, it was a matter of self-respect that no one discover the truth.
This morning he was fired up--buy-outs, hold-outs, sell-outs--all riding on
a tricky tech-stock venture he was into so deep he felt as if he was clawing
his way up through quicksand with hundred pound weights strapped to his arms.
Roger was like a computer software program gone awry; he functioned for the
most part in high efficiency mode, but when a glitch developed, his circuitry
rerouted itself connecting to another Roger, the one who raced through a tunnel
only to find that it connected to another and then another, so that he was always
looking for a way out.
He logged onto his computer, typed in the password, encrypted the security
net, and set it for voice recognition. He was in no mood to type. "Set up UEA’s
numbers for the last thirty days." He viewed the graph, then punched in his
secretary. "Get Brody on the floor. We’re moving." His day flew by at the speed
of sound: numbers and estimates and large sums of money changing hands quicker
than the time it takes for a handshake, all of it wearing on his nerves until
they felt as taut as a bowstring. The back of his neck ached, his shoulders
felt like steel girders, and his muscles spasmed in protest. At the end of the
day he had made his clients more than thirteen million dollars.
On his way home, he stopped off at Constantine’s for a drink and a quick
bite at the bar. Lauren would probably be there with her girlfriends, all successful
and so in love with themselves he wondered why they bothered with men at all.
They liked to decorate the far end of the long copper bar with their collective
beauty: heads of brass, wheat, and sand sculpted and painted to order at Elizabeth
Arden, the three of them equally disarming; together they moved with a liquid
sensuousness that invited an enviable number of gratis drinks on any given evening.
Roger gravitated to the opposite end of the bar and waited. Lauren entered first,
dressed in a standard black pantsuit, but with a tailored flair that showed
her good taste, expensive, even by city standards. Her hair fell in wispy tufts
to her shoulders and a double strand of graduated Mikimoto pearls framed her
peacock neck. Diamond and mobe pearl earrings flirted with the low lighting
when she moved, and the smile that framed her perfectly capped teeth was genuine.
Roger tried not to stare and the more he tried, the more he couldn’t help himself,
and after the second scotch he didn’t care anymore and made his way through
the maze of people, three deep by now at the bar, coming up behind her and putting
his hands on her waist. He leaned in close and said, "I can’t seem to stay away
from you."
She turned, taking in his face with a careless dismissal that cut him deeply
and asked, "How long have you been here?"
"Long enough to fall in love all over again."
"How many drinks have you had?" Her eyes flashed.
"Only two."
"I don't believe you."
"I swear."
"Fine. Now what?"
"I was wondering--"
"Don’t start, please. Go bother Constance. She’s off Mark Rivers again."
"That moron. I heard he hocked his parking space for a loser at Saratoga.
When’s she going to learn? Besides, you’re all the woman I’ll ever need." He
called for a round of drinks and missed the looks that passed between all three
girls.
"So how are you?" He really wanted to know.
"Fine. I’m fine. You?"
"Don’t know, really. Sometimes I wish I paid more attention, you know,
like the way you want me to, but I can’t seem to shake the feeling that I don’t
belong in this business. I miss you." He whispered the last part in her ear.
She looked down at the ground and said, "Saying it doesn’t change anything."
"I know." He gulped his drink and said, "You feel like getting out of here?
I’d like to take you somewhere quiet to talk. How about it? I’ll even consider
Thai."
"I can’t. I’m meeting someone."
"Of course." He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice. "Well...see
you later." He tried to sneak a kiss, but she turned her head and he ended up
grazing her chin.
"Thanks for the drink." It was a dismissal. He settled his bill and caught
the subway, then the bus, landing back on his couch by nine.
Balthazar was sleeping when he came through the door, but quickly woke
up with the lights and the noise, darting madly back and forth in his excitement.
Roger did not disappoint. "Jesus, look at that water." He filled a cup from
the tank and fished out Balthazar, placing him in his temporary coffee cup home.
Then he dumped the remaining water down the sink and washed the tank and its
accompanying pre-fabricated landscape before testing the fresh water temperature
to insure he wouldn’t find Balthazar floating on the surface the next morning.
Balthazar breathed deeply, invigorated by the clean water and wanting to show
his gratitude to Roger by gliding in a figure eight pattern through his horizontal
periphery, fins fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird. His coloring was
yellow and black, apian, a bumblebee, but with the addition of white stripes
that made him appear more like a psychedelic zebra with binocular bulging eyes
and a cap of orange weevil rind. Roger thought him far too cute to live alone,
but the store clerk had assured him this was the best way to assure his longevity,
if the life of an exotic fish can be measured by human standards, quickly succumbing
to disease or over-indulgence, all too-human faults.
"Did you ever wish for something so hard you thought you could make it
happen just by wishing?" Roger poised the question to him.
Balthazar thought about the liquid light that sliced through his glass
prism in the late morning, his favorite time of day, when its brilliance blinded
him until his eyes adjusted and he could see himself mirrored in that other
world, an endless plane where he could breathe without gills, swim without water,
and find his way back to genesis. Just yesterday, a sensation had come over
him, of another light that warmed the shallows, of long grasses that tickled
his fins, bubbles rising, a vast expanse of land and sea and sky.
There was a knock at the door, persistent and angry. Roger stepped toward
it, calling out: "Who is it?" en route.
"Just open the door, you sad sorry fuck," came the response.
Roger cringed. "Hey, Diablo, my main man."
"Cut the bullshit and open up fast before I break the lock off."
Roger opened the door. "What’s up?"
"What’s up. You’re gonna ask me what’s up. Your ass is what’s up--napalm,
unless you got it."
"Take it easy, I got it."
"Now." The voice came hard and gritty, like a hacksaw on maple.
Roger went for his wallet and pulled out a stack of hundreds.
The man’s face went slack, waxed to a permanent scowl; his hisperfidious
eyes taking in everything within a ninety degree peripheral radius. "Lucky for
you. Need more?"
"Of course I need more. When do I not need more?"
"How much?"
"Ten grams."
"Ten grams, ten bills. Let’s see it first."
"Here. Is this good enough for you?" He handed him the money.
Diablo counted the bills before pulling out ten vials from a Velcro holster
inside his shirt. "Don’t ask me to front no more. I can’t do it."
"Sure, sure." Roger was apathetic this time. He could afford to be.
The man left without another word and Roger watched from the window while
he climbed in a classic seventies Buick Riviera complete with white leather
upholstery and a professional jaw-breaker lounging in the back seat.
Ten grams, he thought. Ten grams for ten days--all he needed to make his
comeback. He’d been hanging on by his balls these last few months, borrowing
from bogus accounts he’d set up, waiting for the market to turn around. And
now it had. He could turn twenty-thousand into two-hundred thousand in a day
if he had to. The trick was to make things happen fast, get out before it turned,
steal time when you had to, go for broke with your instincts. He had a knack
for the game. That’s all it was to him. Another way to pay for a habit that
had cost him the price of a townhouse, a habit that had taken Lauren away--Lauren
and his family and God knows who else, but he didn’t care most of the time,
except maybe early in the morning when he couldn’t sleep and his brain cleared
temporarily so he could actually feel long enough to miss her soft breathing
and warm body.
Roger set up a couple of lines just for the hell of it. After all, he had
to check out the goods. Good stuff. Now he was wired and ready to work. He pulled
piles of blankets and junk that he used for camouflage off a line of three computer
screens and their terminals (just in case someone broke in while he was away),
complete with three separate phone lines to the net and an emergency credit
line. Since after-hours trading had taken off, unscrupulous backers had sprung
up all over Manhattan, offering instant credit lines in exchange for obscene
interest rates. He’d only had to go to one once, and it had taken him six hard
months to pay the damn thing off. These guys weren’t bankers; they cut off your
appendages one by one until you paid. He hit the juice and a whirring sound
filled the room. "Check this out," he said to Balthazar with a wide dopey grin.
"You’re about to witness genius." In minutes he had his stocks up and running,
the NASDAQ and DOW numbers fluctuating
madly in the lower right-hand corner of the screens and a list of buying possibilities
scanning on either side. "Dinner is served," he said deadpan, and gave himself
up to the screens in a trance so intense he operated in another dimension, like
spinning roulette wheels on five-thousand dollar chips to the sounds of Count
Basey and his orchestra.
"My ears are popping. Like a rock, baby, like a rock..." he sang at the
top of his lungs when a move that delighted him closed. "After hours is where
it’s at," he told Balthazar, who was not happy at being kept awake. "I can make
more money in two hours than I can make in that shithole in a week. And I don’t
have to kiss putrid ass to do it. Investment bankers: they get on my nerves,
so uptight, the bunch of them should be force-fed Prozac, just as a courtesy
to the rest of the world." So far, so good. Maybe tonight was the night. You
never knew when it would hit--more like a feeling when everything started to
click and the numbers just kept on climbing until six digits replaced five;
one day he’d get to seven--it was just a matter of time.
Just when things started popping the buzzer sounded. "Shit," he said. "Go
away," he yelled to whoever was at the other side of his door.
"It’s me, Lauren," came a voice as sweet as clover honey.
"Just a minute. I’ll be right there." He finished a transaction in progress
and slid back the chair, scooting over to the door. "Come in."
Lauren looked around the apartment before entering, standing near the door,
taking in his set-up. "Busy, I see."
"Yeah...if you could wait just a sec..." Roger quickly closed down another
fund. Damn. Why did she have to pick this time to come over? Why not yesterday
or the day before--why now, when he was on a roll. He needed this boost.
Needed it for his head stash and his rent and his goddamn designer suit he had
charged to make a good impression at work. All that blow wasted.
Balthazar watched as she took off her coat and matching gloves of soft
gray suede and sat on the chair closest to his tank. "I see you still have him.
Frankly, I didn’t think he’d still be alive. He looks lonely."
"Balthazar? You’ve got to be kidding. He’s my best buddy."
"Your best buddy, huh...you must really be having hard times."
"For your information, I was riding the big wave when you came through
the door, so I’m asking do you want me to continue, and the deal is: if I win,
I’ll buy you something nice, a diamond bracelet or something. What do you say?"
"Are you wired? Because if you are I want nothing to do with you. Do you
know what time it is?"
"I know. Cut me some slack, will you? I’m not wired, just a little pumped
because I made ten G’s on the last trade."
"Fine. Do your trading, or whatever it is you do all night when normal
people are sleeping."
"I sleep."
"Yeah, like a cat trapped inside a room full of Dobermans. Like you are
now."
"Now, nothing." Roger continued to banter back and forth, barely paying
attention to what she was saying while he finished up.
The numbers were starting to move up fast. Two stocks that had been undervalued
were rising ridiculously high; if he held onto them he could make a bundle--or
loose it all if there was a sell-off in the morning. Don’t take any unnecessary
risks, he told himself. Just stay with what you know; don't get greedy. Slow
down, slow down... He needed another boost to make this decision. He let his
eyes wander to the shelf where he kept the metal box. How to get to it without
Lauren noticing. "Could you make me a cup of tea?" he asked.
"Since when do you drink tea?"
"Since you left."
"Fine." She got up and moved to the kitchenette, stopping to look at Balthazar
for a minute. "You’re so cute. You’re just about the cutest fish I ever saw."
She ran her fingers across the top of the water, causing Balthazar much excitement.
Maybe she’ll feed me, he thought, or maybe she’ll bring the light.
Balthazar watched as Roger sprang for the box the minute her back was turned,
loping over to the bathroom with it tucked inside his shirt. "I’ll be right
back," he called to Lauren.
Inside the bathroom Roger felt great. His girl was back, his stocks were
looking good; it was just a matter of time before he was back on top where he
belonged. Everyone recognized his talent. Even Mr. Kitchings, that stoic who
seemed to enjoy riding the junior associates, had e-mailed him congratulations
on the Van Winkle account. With this break he could afford to move back to the
townhouse where he and Lauren had first made a home together, and can this shit
hole that had broken them apart.
All he needed was one line. One line to get him up for the biggest gamble
of his life. And when it paid off, there’d be champagne flowing. He’d take Lauren
on a vacation: the Acapulco Princess, a canary yellow diamond ring, a Hum V
for himself and all those crazy bastards on the road. He could do it. He had
the guts. No one had nerves like him. He snorted one line and then another because
the first one felt so good, like a warm caress from within, stroking--leading
him; that’s why it called to him to do one more, just a tiny bit more. And he
did.
Lauren banged on the door. "Come on, Roger, that’s enough goofing for one
night. Open the damn door; you’re scaring me." There was no answer. Not even
when she started crying because she knew what had happened. She ran downstairs
and woke the landlord. He swore at her when he finally broke the lock and found
Roger sprawled out on the tile floor with his eyes rolled up in the back of
his head and slivers of glass stuck in his hand where he had tried to stop himself
from falling.
"I gotta call the cops." He was emphatic.
She didn’t answer him. All she could think of were the numbers on the screen
whirring away, Roger’s great plans for their future. They had talked about it
often enough and for a while she had believed him. She walked over to the screens
and pulled the plug. Then she fished Balthazar up with the little net and moved
him to a plastic bag for travel.
He did not remember a time before Lauren, or for that matter, a place before
this miniature sea world, or a dream of freedom. What he did remember was entering
the light and when it withdrew, there came another fish, just like him but female,
floating in water as pure and sweet as the continent of his birth.
Nan Leslie
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