Alexander’s Fall

Alex knew that the hostess could not possibly be aware of his passion for restauranting when she greeted Frankie and him at the door of Applebee’s. The two stockbrokers fell in line behind her and she led them to the dining area. Alex must have marched this procession with a thousand different hostesses. And where there is a hostess, a waitress soon follows.

“Autumn will be right with you,” she proclaimed, in accord with a distant crunch of thunder.

Alex stroked his straight, light-brown bangs, and they immediately fell back into the original position. Aqua eyes were sunken deeply into his skull surrounded by skin the color of an old stock certificate. A determined jaw stretched forward as if straining to overcome the slight lead the nose had.

He was already imagining what he might say to Autumn. First, he would have to ignite a conversation with her. Next, he would have to get her to talk about herself in order to learn her interests. Then, he must identify with one and solicit an invitation to pursue it with him. Any wavering on her part would have to be met with swift and confident coaxing. If he could obtain her phone number, then he could readily do any further persuading that was needed.

Alex was always quick to use the telephone to his advantage. He never received phone solicitations at work because he had cleverly avoided giving out his phone number to any organization that might sell it to a telemarketing firm. He was proud of that fact. He knew that if one sleazy salesman ever discovered his direct line number then his company would sell it to another company, and that company to another, and so on until his phone line became polluted with a host of hungry salesmen beating down the doors of his soul. ‘I hate salesmen,’ he thought. ‘I’m a broker, not a salesman.’

Frankie’s boisterous red hair and crazy green eyes could sometimes attract a waitress’s attention. His face looked to Alex like someone had spit a mouthful of fruit punch on it to form dozens of red freckles on his skin. The plain black suit he was sporting only brought out the conspicuous redness of his appearance. He wore a permanent smile on his face.

Frankie hadn’t been in a restaurant since MapWorld filed chapter seven. Alex ate at restaurants more than at home and considered himself to be a fairly successful broker. It was not the case that Alex knew more about the market or about analyzing a company’s stock than Frankie. Whenever a broker at Cray Smith had a question about a company’s balance sheet or income statement, he went directly to Frankie, who was always happy to offer help and expected little in return. Frankie was a former C.P.A.

Frankie’s mistake in picking MapWorld had not been just a case of “getting burned by a wet match,” as he had claimed. Frankie had analyzed the financials but failed to assess the integrity of the people managing the small company. “A broker has to look beyond what’s on paper,” Alex often said.

He used a different approach than Frankie in evaluating a company’s stock. He started with the basic financial data and trading history and then looked at the management. The final, most important test was a phone call to the president himself in order to judge his sincerity and general moral commitment to the company. A few minutes into the conversation, Alex could usually discern whether or not the president cared about the company’s long-term growth. Lately, most of them didn’t.

Frankie reached for a lunch menu while Alex strained his eyes attempting to distinguish the faces in the black and white pictures that hung on the wall beside his co-worker. Above the pictures was a big brass tuba. A little wooden canoe hung from the ceiling not far from it. Scores of ferns formed a suspended garden overhead. Against the far wall ahead was a life-size statue of a jet black-haired Indian squaw. Upon seeing this, the feeling of Charlotte blanketed Alex. He lowered his head. Charlotte had had the same dark hair and complexion.

Having been so coldly dumped by her brought to life a power within Alex to spot flaws in a person’s character both in business and social spheres. He called this his Ability. The whole experience had raised his awareness of those who might try to take advantage of him. Anyone was now a potential back-stabber: a girlfriend, co-worker, client, or someone yet unknown. The only qualification was that she be human.

Dealing with the aftermath of Charlotte was a task that Alex had faced daily for over a year. He would sit alone some nights going over and over the events of the relationship, starting with the month he spent convincing her to go out with him. He had said that the two of them might easily visit Mexico or Hawaii or even Europe together. They went to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

They had been in love for eight months when he stopped by her apartment that last time. She had said quite simply, “Leave,” after he refused to pay for her abortion. He was sure that it was another guy’s child. Only a couple of months earlier he had given her a three-karat diamond engagement ring. She sent it back C.O.D. and moved without notice to Belle Chasse, Louisiana, not far from the naval base, to work for an advertising agency. Every day after the market closed, Alex would rush to his mailbox desperately hoping to find an apology from her only to discover another frustrating stack of junk mail.

Revenge was not what he wanted. Simply to affect her in some enormous way would be enough. Each time he called, she hung up on him. Several times he found himself traveling west on Interstate Twenty toward Belle Chasse. On one occasion, after a drinking binge, he awoke in a hotel just thirty miles from the little town. At once, he jumped in his car and headed straight back to Atlanta. He told no one.

Immediately after the scandal, Alex held the notion that the words “female” and “slut” must be roughly synonymous. Sincerity was something that could be worn, washed, and reworn. In Charlotte’s case it had been discarded. Alex liked to think of her as the opposite of a philanthropist, but she did love men–lots of them, he had discovered. She had sold her virtue at a discount to her best customer: the male gender.

Alex soon began to realize the scope of his new Ability. He thwarted the attempted theft of his pencil sharpener in broad daylight by a broker nicknamed “Scratchy,” a drifter from firm to firm. The incident prompted Alex to padlock his filing cabinet.

Next, a broker named Ballsely, who was now with a different investment company, tried to break into the secured filing cabinet containing Alex’s client list. Alex had perceived Ballsely’s guile and had waited night after night to snare him. Finally, Ballsely appeared with his toolbox. Alex poised himself until he had the cabinet opened, then, utterly surprising him with a shriek, he threw four or five well placed punches that put the would-be account thief in a state of shock. The next day everyone in the office watched two strange men wheel a small black safe into Alex’s office.

Each quarter after that, Alex encountered Ballsely at the Stockbroker Conference, and each time, without failure, the two ended up in a fistfight outside the hotel. This occurred with such regularity that the fights became a tradition. The other brokers would all gather in a circle to watch, placing bets on the outcome. Alex thought of his own willingness to do battle as a service to mankind: his charitable sacrifice to upright executives everywhere for upholding the impossible standard of clean but profitable business.

In spite of all this, Alex enjoyed working at Cray Smith. Commission payout was good, and the trading department seemed as fair as could be expected. The only drawback was having to work with so few female employees. There were several elderly ladies in operations and only a handful of women who were brokers. Alex wasn’t interested in them because they were all either married or fat or blonde or some distressing combination of the three. He longed to escape to the restaurant/bar arena of wine, waitress, and song. There, he would feel the atmosphere lift the burden of hundreds of portfolios from him as gently as his fork raised a French-fry. Since Charlotte left Alex, every girl that he went out with had been a waitress.

Alex watched with disgruntlement as Frankie studied the menu and attempted to figure out the most cost-effective way to use his coupons. Alex held this to be improper stockbroker etiquette, but remained silent. He hadn’t noticed the menu. He was staring into the wood grain of the table, musing. Alex knew what he wanted before they had even driven into the parking lot. He had the menu practically memorized.

“Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?”

The voice pierced through Alex’s thoughts. He raised his head straight up and looked for a second or two at Frankie, whose own head was tilted to the side at an angle–mouth partially opened, eyes fixed upon Autumn. Alex turned slowly toward her so as to conceal the suspense he felt.

He surveyed her beauty with a sullen reverence. She had long wavy hair which was the color of ground coffee. Her eyes were the same shade of brown but glossier, as if the coffee had been brewed into two little glass pots. Silvery-white skin with a brilliance like mother-of-pearl seemed glued to her body. The burgundy uniform shirt was freshly tucked into khaki shorts. Her nametag was protruding outwardly at a precious distance due to its proximity to her bosom. A green change belt encircled her waist. She stood with her hand on her hip and one knee bent, revealing a muscular calf. The other hand held a wooden kitchen spoon. Her fingernails were unpainted, and there was no evidence of any gaudy jewelry that could cheapen a waitress’s look. Alex couldn’t even tell if she were wearing makeup. Her body, undeceiving and free from the falsity of adornments, spoke for itself.

Normally Alex could study a waitress and discover at least one physical (and later mental) weakness. He was confused by his failure to detect any obvious imperfection in Autumn’s appearance. Frisking her with his eyes made him absolutely sure of one thing: the girl was no ordinary waitress.

He hadn’t realized that while he was examining Autumn, Frankie had given his drink order and the two of them were now looking at him expectantly. “I’d like a gallon of iced tea,” Alex said, recovering from his state of restrained awe. He would have to rely on the strength of his wit since he and Frankie might be construed by some waitresses as equal in physical appearance. “I’ve never seen you here before. Are you part-time?”

She glanced behind her shoulder toward the bar and then swung her gaze back at Alex as if her head were a tank turret. “I practically live here,” she responded showing only a half smile.

“Need a roommate?”

“No thanks, but you can stay and help me fold napkins later.” Her smile broadened so that Alex could observe the symmetry of her teeth.

“I’m good at folding,” he said, tipping his chair back at a precarious angle. “Especially in poker games.”

“Don’t lean back in that chair,” she said, raising the spoon in her hand for emphasis, “I’m not bluffing.” She turned and walked toward the kitchen, the rope of her change belt swaying with each stride. The two brokers watched her disappear into a thin cloud of Cajun chicken smoke.

“Backdoored ‘er,” Frankie said, suppressing a guffaw.

“She was in control,” Alex confessed.

“You gonna try to pick her up?”

“You don’t ‘pick up’ a girl like Autumn,” he said, realizing now that her wit had raised the ante. “If you could, she wouldn’t be worth having. That’s part of who she is.” Alex felt his Ability stirring within him.

Frankie was silent for a moment. He then twisted the conversation to the subject of work, which he had a habit of doing at times when matters of play were at hand. “It’s like when the Western Union Boys and I bought up the entire float of CurtainTech.” His expression smacked of pride.

An analogy involving Autumn with a penny stock deal seemed ludicrous. Frankie was liable to compare just about anything to his only love: the business. “Oh yeah,” Alex leaned forward, “I remember those two guys from California who worked together at the firm for a while. They were shysters.” He was careful not to include Frankie in his pronouncement.

“We ran the stock up eighty percent but couldn’t take profits for our clients because it wasn’t liquid at those levels.”

“Catch-22.”

“Yeah, you run it up on buying pressure, the guy’s at a profit, but the minute he tries to capture it, the stock heads south.”
“At best, he ends up with a profit on paper.”

“And you have a commission in your pocket.” The look of satisfaction that had been building on Frankie’s face reached its annoying zenith.

Alex drew back. His lips tightened. “That is sleazy business.”

“It’s a numbers game,” Frankie said flatly, only repeating what the firm’s national sales manager, Smitty, had said just before his heart attack. “The more calls you make, the more orders you take.” Smitty told the brokers that they should consider it a bonus if the stocks went up.

This was just the attitude that Alex’s biggest client, Alfred Mulcraney, had accused him of having when Alex called him early that morning and insisted he purchase shares of Mustang Ranch at the market price. Alex remembered the crude, brief rejection that he had received from Mulcraney that day.

“Let’s get ten thousand shares,” Alex had said.

“Let’s don’t,” Mulcraney had said.

“It’s golden at these levels. Go five thousand,” Alex had said.

“No, I don’t like the company,” Mulcraney had said, and before Alex could drop him to one thousand shares he added, “I thought that you were different, but you’re just like all the others. You’re a sales jock.” He paused no more than a second then delivered the final blow: “Why, you’re no better than a used car salesman.” Then Alex heard a familiar click.

The conversation left Alex irritated beyond measure. He wrestled with his Ability. Had he pushed Mulcraney too far in explaining the necessity of owning the stock, or had his client turned against him suddenly, without cause, as Charlotte had done? The Ability insisted that Mulcraney had secretly been awaiting the opportunity to spite Alex. Common sense said no. That was the first time Alex questioned his Ability. Mulcraney’s lingering words haunted him.

The storm grew closer, the thunder louder. Alex caught sight of a few flashes of lightning. His thoughts returned to Autumn. He felt like a child about to open a Christmas present. He began looking over his shoulder at thirty-second intervals. Frankie’s mind was still draped in the CurtainTech scam–certainly his conversation was. He seemed unaffected by the tumultuous weather, even to like it.

Alex was between intervals when a pale arm came into view with the hand clutching a pitcher containing what he estimated to be nearly one gallon of iced tea.

“She’s taking care of her accounts,” Frankie declared.

Autumn did not respond but continued her work, placing a glass of ice before each broker. She poured the tea with finesse and positioned the pitcher in the middle of the table.

“What would you two like in the way of food today?” She assumed her patented waitress stance: hand on hip, one knee bent. Her gaze settled on Alex.

“I’d like the farmers’ market salad with French dressing,” he said and paused as if to emphasize the next part of the order, “and a full order of chicken fajita quesadillas.”

“Oh, those are excellent,” she said with unquestionable sincerity.

‘The girl likes Mexican food–that’s it,’ Alex thought. His best line was, “So you like Mexican food?” From there it was simple improvisation.

“I want the shrimp special,” Frankie asserted.

“Is that going to be enough for you?” She asked him obliquely, as if to question man’s ancient ability to gather food.

“Yes,” he replied, his undying smile absent.

“Well, it would be fatuous of you to overeat,” she conceded. “Your lunch will be out shortly.” She darted to the kitchen again before either broker could say anything further.

Alex sensed the building of an inner crescendo. He was now consciously thinking of work, in particular, the Mulcraney incident as well as the unusual waitress who served them. The two subjects were totally unrelated. He tried to concentrate on Autumn. Her words had wiped away Frankie’s silly, dogged grin as if it had been a stain on his face. This delighted Alex at first, but he now found himself quelling an almost sympathetic feeling for Frankie. Autumn had smiled and possibly even winked in Alex’s direction as she walked away. He looked up at the stained plastic overhead lamp and into its umbrella-shaped shade. Someone had lightly painted an apple-colored butterfly inside it. Or was it just a reflection of some sort?

“Did you hear Zig Ziglar’s positive thinking seminar at the last conference?” Frankie asked. His cheeks began to widen.

“No, I missed that one,” Alex said grudgingly, bracing himself for more talk about work.

“I suspect you were in the ring with Ballsely at the time.”

“Ziglar never appealed to me because he’s not a portfolio manager. He knows nothing about the psychology of the market. He’s a salesman, not a broker.”

“What’s the difference?”

“A great deal, I hope. There’s a fine line between sales and lies, and Ziglar walks it. I don’t have to sell, just give good advice.” Alex felt more righteous than ever as he explained this to Frankie.

“I don’t mind sales at all. It’s a challenge. It’s much different than accounting. I feel so alive.” Frankie spread his arms enthusiastically, indicating the degree of love he felt for his career.

“Trading stocks is exciting all right; never a dull moment. You’re always either making or losing clients’ money,” Alex said, mockingly.

“A guy’s gotta have a crazy streak in him to stay in this business,” Frankie said with authority.

“You have to sacrifice a little part of your life to do what we do,” Alex added.

“It’s the same way with accounting or any other job.”

“No, I mean a different part.” Alex felt like he was talking to himself.

The server arrived with the food, and the two brokers began eating at a leisurely pace. Neither one said a word until Autumn showed up with a fresh pitcher of tea.

“If you’ve finished grazing on that salad, I’ll take your plate,” Autumn announced.

Alex nodded. His mouth was full.

She poured them more tea and replaced the pitcher. Frankie removed a thick slice of lemon from his plate and squeezed it high above his glass.

“Let me get a fresh lemon for you,” she said quickly, looking at Alex. “He certainly likes them.” She nodded toward Frankie.

“Oh, that’s quite all right,” Alex said politely. “No thank-you.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” she insisted, as she retreated to the kitchen again.

Autumn returned and held the fruit before Alex. He accepted. His heart was speeding like a ticker tape machine. He had let a lot of waitresses slip through his fingers. Not Autumn. He must act. Alex thought he would even compromise his moral principles if necessary. He would cajole, tease, or even outright lie to win her. The thought was mortifying. He guided his vision in a perfect path, undeflected, into Autumn’s dark eyes.

“So you like Mexican food?” The ticker tape machine was becoming one big tick.

“I lust after it.” She smiled and leaned against the table.

“Let’s–”

“Guess what we do for a living?” Frankie blurted out, smirking.

Alex frowned.

She fixed her eyes at some mysterious point in space, equidistant from both the brokers’ shoulders. “Uh…let’s see now…definitely white collar.” After a few more seconds of pondering, a gleam suddenly appeared on her face. “You’re in sales,” she said, grinning.

Alex leaned back in his chair as if in a trance. He saw himself sitting helplessly in an electric chair with wires attached to his body. He was surrounded by every manner of salesperson which he had ever withstood, from panhandlers to real-estate agents, even the cute little Girl Scouts and those equally pushy prostitutes, all with their eager hands on the lever that would send him his high voltage death. ‘My crime,’ he thought. ‘Must have been that I let one of them seduce me.’

Something like the sound of wood and flesh exploding jolted Alex. The vibrations started at the back of his head and shot like tiny lightning bolts throughout his limbs. His pulse slowed. His body went limp. He was cold. The underside of the table was coming into focus. He thought that he saw four or five shoes below with feet in them. He thrust away a sharp splintered object from his back which was making him more aware of the newly destroyed chair and the unorthodox position in which he was lying on the restaurant floor.

“Honey, are you all right?” Autumn grasped Alex. She wiped the rainwater from his brow, apparently from a leak in the ceiling.

“Let’s go to Rio Bravo tonight–just the two of us,” he suggested in a surprisingly steady voice.

“Let’s do,” she said.

For the first time since he lost Charlotte, Alex was unable to judge a girl’s sincerity. It felt good. He must learn to trust again. The reality of an inner casualty and a resulting freedom was becoming clear. He was at peace, no longer concerned about what he might become in his cutthroat business. As the autumn clouds began to part, the world was magnified–full of more people and opportunities. Alex knew that he would go back to his office at Cray Smith, pick up the phone, and sell and sell.

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