Discourse

Prologue

Princeton University: 1984

I sit in the great hall, enclosed by large slabs of dark brown oak walls. The fear sits in my stomach like a pit, and I too feel like the personification of said pit, sitting in this hall, entrapped by the ostentatious surroundings only a collegiate environment with a superiority complex could quite pull off.  It’s so easy to be a bystander, to sit idly by while your comrades ascend the pedestal to their possible slaughter. The safety is incredible. They go up on a stage, standing at a podium and must face the audience, the team, the coach, the question. Part of you recognizes the reality that you will soon be in their shoes. Most of you is too oblivious to the situation to be affected; the fear is numbing. But your time will come, and when it does your stomach feels like a bag has ripped apart it and spilt all the jelly beans.

Finally, my time has come. I am 17 years old, a pimply-faced bookworm from Newark, New Jersey. I enjoy bowling and comic books. I have many acquaintances, mostly my teammates on the high school academic team, but no friends. My coach approaches me, it’s my turn to go up on stage. We are behind by a point. A correct answer will win the State Ethics Championship.

“I need you Billy, we all need you. You get this answer right and we don’t just win the states, we get an automatic bid to nationals. You see those guys up there?”

I look to my left and see a row of distinguished looking gentleman in tweed jackets talking amongst themselves, with an aura that they are better than this event.

“Those are admissions officials from every major school in the state. I’m talking Rutgers, Seton Hall, even Princeton. You get this answer wrong and you’re losing hundreds of thousands of dollars in scholarship offers for your teammates. Do you understand?”

“Yeah.” It seems like the right thing to say. What else is there to say?

“Good, don’t you dare let me down.”

I somehow lift my body from the cold oak bench and emerge on the stage though I can’t remember the walk that took me there. An old academic looking man, white goatee and all stares with cold, unwavering blue eyes behind fragile spectacle lenses. He reads the question.

“Which of the following is not a weakness of pluralism? Is it A) prevention of concentrations of power, B) pursuit of self-interest, C) overlapping goals or D) an emphasis on conflict?

My brain somehow feels unable to process the information. Hundreds of voices come to the forefront of my mind, all clamoring, shouting, thinking. The question is not a difficult one and I see my teammates begin to celebrate. They smile and playfully punch each other on the arms in anticipatory ecstasy; we’ve won, they know it, the coach knows it, the whole damn room knows it. Somehow I’m not so sure.

I begin to analyze the question. Clearly A looks good but something keeps me coming back to C. Overlapping goals make think of a Venn Diagram, shared beliefs, teamwork. I think of my own experience: those two losers, my divorced parents, always too focused on their own failures to give a shit about my successes. All of a sudden the voices in my head are subsiding. I have my answer.

“C overlapping goals.”

There is silence in the hall as people fidget in their seats. The wood creaks as if the room is audible urging us for an answer.

“I’m sorry that is incorrect. That correct answer is A. Congratulations to the team from Princeton, you are the High School Ethics Champion in the State of New Jersey for the year of 1994.”

If 60 % of our bodies are composed of water then by the time the bus pulled back into school I had deflated, or evaporated, or decomposed, or whatever physical word is responsible for explaining that my body had lost copious amounts of water via my tear ducts. No one said a word to me on the bus and didn’t say a word to them.

Manhattan: 2014

That was then and this is now. I used to be a little loser boy, scared of my own shadow. Oh, who am I kidding, I was scared of everyone’s freaking shadow. Well, now, not so much. Now I’m a boss. Well actually, senior associate, but I’m going to made partner any day now, I can just feel it.  My alarm sounds at 4 am but I wake up at 3:58 every morning without it. It’s instinct; sleep is for the weak. I put on some high end athletic gear - Nike, Adidas, it doesn’t matter, I have no brand loyalty – and walk through my lavish New York City penthouse, past plush leather couches and intricately patterned throw rugs of deep, soothingly ostentatious blues and reds. I get to my work out room and I do just that - I get to work, and I work like a freaking animal. I lift heavy ass weights for an hour, then run 3 miles on the treadmill before capping it off with a zero carb protein shake. I am the fucking man.

My driver picks me up in a Bentley promptly at 6:30 so I can get to the office by 7:00. On the way to the office I start to analyze my clothing choice for this morning. Presentation is everything. Having money is about buying, wearing,  and driving things that command respect, that tell people you’re better than they will ever dream of being even without saying it. Of course, I’m not one for subtlety – I usually go ahead and say it for good measure. On this particular morning though, I’m not pleased: these socks and shoes aren’t conjunctively expressing the aesthetic I was going for today. No; I should have went with the black argyles to match these shoes. These pure black socks are too somber for this time of year and my tie- my double Windsor keeps coming unknotted. This stupid seat belt keeps separating the knot from my collar. This is unacceptable. I write a note in my phone reminding me to purchase a new car tomorrow. I will not look like a schlubby IT guy.

You’re probably wondering what exactly it is I do, i.e. in what way do I make my millions? Hopefully by now you have surmised that I am in fact not an IT loser. No, I am an estate attorney, but unlike most of my counterparts who idle away their time as servants to clients under the all powerful billable hour, I take the profession into my own hands. I’m not some lawyer to be shopped around: I do the shopping, or the hunting shall I say.

I take the elevator up to the top floor, and yes, I do prefer being on top if you were interested. My receptionist – I’d rather not say her name; to do that would be to admit that she’s human – sees me and makes eye contact. I hate this.

“Good morning Billy”

“How many times do I have to tell you? My name is William!”

Ugh, no one’s called me Billy since high school. I am convinced that social situations like speaking to dumbass over here may be the very thing that one day sets into motion the catalcylismic events that shall see my demise: my best guess is cranial implosion. Then again, while I do have a general distrust and loathing for most living creatures, I don’t hate talking to all of them. In fact, I’ve made my fortune from it.

What I do is quite obviously really, at least to someone smart enough to know its obvious. I look through wealthy housing directories in the New York area and then find the elderly. They’re so easy to prey on. Here, come with and I’ll show you, just give me a second as I change my socks. Ah, argyle – much better.

I step up to the front door of a beautiful cherry oak door. It looks familiar but I can’t remember why. Something about the sight of it I makes me feel nervous. The door creaks open and I throw all that aside. An elderly gentleman opens the door with the aid of a cane. He looks flummoxed to see me. Perfect.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mr. Kirshner, how are you today?”

“I’m fine, can I help you?”

“Well actually, sir I was hoping I could help you. How much do you think your apartment is worth?

Mr. Kirshner’s home is worth in the ballpark of 2.2 million. I’ll bet you he has no idea.

“Uhm well, I don’t know maybe a million bucks.”

See, what I mean?

“Well Mr. Kirshner, I’m sure you know all about the housing crises – about how hard it’s become to buy and sell homes in this stagnant economic climate.”

“Oh, sure, sure.”

“So if someone came to you and said that they would buy your home for whatever price you thought it was worth, what would you think of that person?”

“I’d say he’s either a fool, or a very rich fool.”

“Well sir, today is your lucky day because I’m both stupid and very rich and I’m prepared to draft up papers that will make you one million dollars richer.”

Now at this point the old man or woman is usually stunned. Don’t forget, most of these people grew up during the Great Depression, and while they might realize the potential worth of their home, they could never have dreamed of such a pay day. Nevermind that some of these people’s homes may be worth three million dollars, something about seeing a check made out for a million buckaroos with their name on it is somehow more valuable to them. Or maybe they’re just senile. I honestly don’t care. It works. Nearly every time.

“You’re going to pay me a million bucks?! There has to be some catch.”

“No catch. You get to liquidate your home at its full worth. You‘re then free to give it to your children tax free. Think of this as a being proactive.”

I give a big toothy grin. I am such an asshole.

I stride back into the office feeling like a champion. Unfortunately it’s time to do the real work my firm actually pays me for. Whatever. The high from closing my latest deal will take me at least through next week when I’ll seek out my new fix.

I’m so happy I even give the receptionist a smile. This is the highlight of her day. Shit, maybe I’ll even talk to her.

“So, how was the weekend?”

“Oh, just great. I got to spend time with the kids.”

“Ah, okay”

She looks disconcerted, like it’s socially reprehensible that I didn’t jump for joy that she set loose two grotesque offspring into this world. And here I am, trying to be a nice guy.

“When are you going to settle down and get kids of your own anyway.”

“Maybe when I stop valuing my sanity.”

She smiles, thinking I’m sarcastic. I’m not.

“The boss wants to see you by the way.”

“Ah, excellent. Probably wants to congratulate me after my stunning work on the Fox estate.”

I walk into my boss’ office, poised for the recognition I’m doubtless to receive. The guy looks like a talking moustache in an outdated three-piece suit.

“Hey boss, you wanted to see me.”

“Sit down William, please.”

I let my body sink into the red leather chair. This is what success feels like.

“Great chair sir.”

“Yes, it is, and do you know how I got it? Through hard work, discipline, scruples. The jig is up William.”

“Excuse me sir, I don’t understand.”

“I received a call today from Henry Kirshner; you know, the city D.A.? He tells me his father called him earlier today about getting an unexpected visit from you – saying you could liquidate his house for him!”

The mustache stares at me, judging me. I am so fucked.

“Sir, I can explain, I …”

“I don’t want an explanation. I don’t want to know anything about it. It’s pretty obvious that anyone in their right mind would fire your ass over shit like this. But I’m not going to do that. Do you know why?

I have no clue but this is very good news. Oh my god praise Jesus, praise Allah, praise the Lord!

“Is it because you believe in me sir?”

“No! It’s because I think you’re troubled and I care about you.”

Well this has taken an interesting turn.

            “You’ve done a lot for this company and I can’t turn a blind eye to that. So here’s the deal: you’ve lost your moral compass. It happens, but there was once a time when you knew what ethics were all about. Rumor has it you were one of the best ethics students in Jersey back in the 90’s?”

            “Yeah, well I…”

            “I reached out to a friend of mine, a high school principal in New Jersey and he’s been nice enough to find you a position as the coach for Hoboken High School’s Ethics team.”

            “No, no way. I will literally do anything else, just please not that.”

            “I’m giving you a leave of absence. You either accept the terms, or lose your job. Don’t be an ungrateful idiot. Finish up the season, repair your moral compass and come back a better lawyer.”

            “All right fine, is that all?”

            “Yeah, practice is tonight at 7:00. Oh and one other thing.”

            “Yeah?”

            “The team sucks. Now get the hell out of here.”

I get off the ferry boat and set foot in Hoboken, right across the Hudson River from Manhattan. I turn back to see the skyline towering above me. I forgot how beautiful the city looks from Jersey.  I walk into the school. I’m not impressed. The building is a boring 1950’s piece of crap. Yawn. I pull out a twinky in a last ditch effort to at the very least distract my taste buds from the foul stench that seems to emanate from every crevice. When I get to the auditorium there is a note taped to the wall: Welcome Mr. Walker. I rip it off and use it as a napkin, wiping the excess Twinky from my lips. I might as well have wiped my ass with it.

As the doors to the auditorium open I see them, a group of four socially awkward adolescents. It’s time for these turds to meet the ass from which they came.

            “Allright listen up. I’m your new coach. From the looks of your pathetic record you don’t care about winning which is good ‘cause I don’t care about coaching. Look at that, we already have something in common – I think we’re going to get a long just famously. So I’m just going to sit here and watch porn or go to sleep or whatever, so just do your thing and don’t bother me.”

The kids just look at me, stunned but they were far too bewildered to question my authority. They open up a computer and start reading questions of off it. Good, they don’t need me. I settle into a comfy position and try searching some porn but a warning message comes up saying the school has blocked my request and that if I do it again I’ll be reported. This is going to be an absolute nightmare. Kenny Wu, an Asian kid with glasses raises his hand. This better be good.

            “What do you want nerd?”

            “Uhm, William, when is first match?”

            “It’s tomorrow night against Weehaken. Now no more stupid questions.”

            “But how is that a stupid question?”

            “See, there you go again. That one was even dumber than the first. Now shut up and learn.”

I walk into the first match looking like a straight up baller. Armani suit, Gucci shades and brand new John Varvados shoes I bought just for the occasion. My team on the other hand, you remember those IT schlubs I described earlier? Yeah, that about sums it up. Now I should probably tell you about the team, I’m sorry I neglected that earlier but I was honestly too disgusted by their haggard appearance and my constrained internet privileges to even get into it. So you already know, Wu: nerd, Asian, tall and skinny, glasses, soft speaking voice, you know the guy. Then there are the McNally twins: George and Susan. George looks less like Curious George and more like mighty Kong. He is large and loud, fat and proud. Susan is similar. They are both gingers, go figure. Last but not least, there’s Gordon Conway. He’s actually fairly normal which is refreshing.

            “Don’t make me look like an idiot guys. Just go up there and try not to make fools out of yourselves.”

            “Oh wow, great advice,” said George.

            “Dude, just stop.”

For the next two hours I witnessed a truly brutal beat down of epic proportions. These kids were absolutely clueless. To be honest, I wonder why they even decided to be on this team in this first place. I had given very simple instructions: don’t act like idiots, but they disobeyed me. I was pissed. I gathered up the team and stormed towards them. I let me voice catapult towards them with fury of Tropical Storm Estoban. Is that even a real storm? Who

            “Guys, do you have fucking ears? There is one eternal truth that guides planet earth. “

            “Is it gravitational pull?”

            “No Wu, it’s the thing that allows assholes like me to shove physics related insults up the asses of losers like you. It’s called winning. But did I ask that of you? Did I tell the team they had to win? No. I made it easy for you. I knew you couldn’t win before I even met any of you. So I tried, I really tried to make it easy for you. I wanted to give you a moral victory. I said: don’t make me look like and idiot. A translation of that if you were wondering is: lose with some honor.

            “We did try,” said Susan.

            “Oh, oh you tried you fat sack of shit? What did you try to do, get humiliated? Because if that was your goal then you succeeded to the point that I’m ashamed to even have to smell your rancorous odor of defeat.” That’s all I have to say. I wish I never had to see anyone of you again but unfortunately that’s not possible so I’ll see you on Thursday for practice.”

I turn to leave and as I do I can’t believe what I see. It’s my old creative writing teacher Mr. Harvey. Then out of nowhere Gordon steps us behind me and turns me around.

            “Hey man, don’t you dare talk to us like that. I hope you don’t show up next week at all you piece of shit. Come on guys, let’s go”

I stagger back, confused by what’s just happened, and while I’m surprised by Gordon’s outburst, I can’t get Mr. Harvey out of my mind. It stay that for the next day until I decided to go back to my home town of Newark to visit him. I sit outside the school in my car. It’s 3:29 in the afternoon. Wait for it, wait for it…the bell rings and the once dormant exterior of the school is abruptly filled with a drastic influx of bodies, voices, backpacks, car engines. I wait a little while longer before making my way inside. I still remember the room, 223, and my legs take me there as if it holds the rest of my body its captive. My mind and soul are at their command. And there I am, at 223. And there he is, standing at the lecturn, as if he’d been awaiting my arrival all these years.

            “Ah, Billy Walker. What brings you back to your old stomping grounds after all these years?” There’s a twinkle in his eye as he says it.

            “I saw you last night, at the Ethics competition. You didn’t say hello. Why?”

            “Well, you seemed busy yelling at your team. I didn’t want to interrupt a positive learning experience for the youngsters.”

            “Right.”

            “Well, you’re here now. I’m glad you stopped by. You were always one of my favorite creative writing students. Remember how you used to stay after class, long after the bell rang so you could work on your stories?”

            “Oh wow, yeah, I did didn’t I?”

            “You really had talent. What was it that you’ve become – an accountant?”

            “No, a lawyer actually. I deal in estates.”

            “Do you like it?”

            “I make a lot of money at it.”

Mr. Harvey looks at me with this magical twinkle in his eye.

            “That’s not what I asked.” He smiles and winks. “You know, it’s good that you came back here; it’s important to remember your past.”

            “Yeah well my past wasn’t all so great if you remember. I’ve spent my whole life since high school trying to get as far away from the person I was, and all of a sudden I feel like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole and landed right smack dab where I left off when I was a shy 18 year old loser.”

            “Well if it makes you feel any better, I really liked that shy 18 year old loser, and I don’t think it would hurt to tap into him, for your team’s sake and your own. I think you could learn a lot from taking this coaching thing seriously.”

I didn’t know what to say so I told him I was busy and got the hell out of there. I was concerned. Something was happening inside of me. I was changing, and I wasn’t sure I liked it. Where once dwelled a callous soul now was compassion. Compassion? What the fuck man! This was not going to be a good career development. All of sudden I snapped back to reality where I found myself in the heart of my old neighborhood. I had no good reason for being there, but just like showing up at Mr. Harvey’s room 223, it was as if a subconscious energy had brought me there, like my body had taken over and gave my rational mind a vacation.

Then, just like that, my brain was back, but it had returned with a mission, and so I followed it. This is the only reasonable explanation I can give for how I arrived at the doorstep of Gordon Conway’s apartment. I knock on the door in the same melodic rhythm I use when approaching elderly people’s homes.  I recognize the pattern and for the first time I feel ashamed. The door opens a sliver, the inner chain still locked in place and Gordon’s face emerges. He scowls, like actually scowls. Have you ever seen a person scowl before? It isn’t pleasant; it makes me feel despised, which is bad, but not nearly as bad as feeling insignificant. At least this way he still cares what I have to say. Nothing shows you care about something like anger.

            “Look, I came here to talk about yesterday.”

            “Yeah you were a real douche bag.”

            “Now that’s the best compliment I’ve received all day.”

He pauses for a moment, then closes the door in my face. The chain unlocks and the door reopens. The apartment is sparsely decorated and the old wooden floorboards creak loudly under my feet. The place has an unsettling resemblance to my old childhood home. I shiver just thinking about it. The room features a single cloth couch with a large slab of duck tape covering what I could guess what a gaping hole or large slash. The tape’s metallic gray bears a strikingly sickening contrast with the beige colored couch. We sit down and I sink into the cushions, feeling trapped. Gordon stares me down, still weighing his verdict.

            “Let’s cut to the chase. I acted like an asshole, because that’s what I am, I’m an asshole and I’m damn proud of that. I wasn’t always like this, I used to be a little measly bitch like you. But through sacrifice and hard work I was able to shed myself of my loser skin and tap into the Viper beneath. That’s what I want for you.”

            “Okay Viper, why should we listen to you after you treated us like shit?”

            “Because ten years ago I was the top ranked ethics competitor in the state. I know what it takes to win and I ca show you the YANG.”

All of a sudden I had his interest.

            “The yang?”

            “It’s the ancient Japanese art of tapping into your inner asshole to become a winner. Talk to the team, I expect a new attitude from you fart bags at our next practice”

           

Before the next practice we agreed to a few terms. No more complaining about me making fun of Wu for being Asian or for the twins being fat gingers. Just like that, we started working together. Would it be outlandish if I told you we started winning? Would it be corny if I told you for the first time in my life I was truly happy? Finally I was learning to use my superhuman assholishness for good. I felt invincible. Before we knew it, we found ourselves one game away from making the state playoffs. That’s when I got a call from my boss. He needs to see me immediately.

So here I am again, sitting in that red leather chair that so unceremoniously signaled what I thought was my demise. The moustache stared at me once again, peering into my soul.

            “So you’ve been doing a good job, a very good job. Better than expected actually. So I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that your efforts won’t be necessary any longer.”

            “Excuse me, I’m not sure I follow.”

            “I told you I contacted my friend, a New Jersey principal, but I never told you what school he was from.”

            “Well I assumed it was the one from Hoboken High.”

            “Of course you did. Well, I actually was notified of the opening by the principal of Princeton High School. You see, we had an agreement: we needed a coach to make sure that the team was eligible to compete. They were practically an automatic win. But now you’re winning, and that’s a problem.”

            “So what are you asking me to do?”

            “I’m not asking – I’m telling you: quit the team so that they can’t compete.”

            “I can’t do that to these kids!”

            “This isn’t a matter of pride William, there’s hundreds of thousands of dollars on the line here and I need Princeton to win!”

            “Oh, so the rich get richer, huh? Fuck this.”

            “I’ll make this very clear: you either leave the team or you lose your job at this firm. I thought you were selfish; I thought you were a winner. You’re being a little bitch.”

            “Good, I’ve always liked bitches.”

I get up and walk towards the door like the man that I am. You fuck on me, I fuck on you.

            “You put your hand to that door knob and walk out this room and I swear by the Lord Almighty you will never work in this industry again.”

I stop short.    

            “Oh, is that so?”

I walk back to his desk, rip the leather chair off the ground and carry it towards the door.

            “What the hell are you doing?!”

The mustache is trembling now.

            “Don’t worry, my hands won’t touch the door so you won’t have to fire me. I quit you old fart.”

I pick up the chair and swing it like a battle ax. It slams into the door with a furious rage. It only takes a few more swings for light to seep through the cracks, and just a few more after that to bust the whole thing to shit. God, do I love finding loopholes. I turn around to the boss, blow him a kiss and then make the loudest farting noise I can with my mouth. I walk through the hole in the door, wink at the receptionist and kick the door open, hitting an intern who falls on his ass. Life is good.

From then on out I sit on the red leather chair. It’s my voodoo station, my reminder, my championship trophy. The winning continues. Maybe we’ll win the championship, maybe we won’t. Oh who am I kidding, we’ll win, even if I have to rupture my laranx from screaming so loud. I’ll whip these kids into shape. Ultimately though, these kid’s have something more powerful than that: the heart of the champion. Sure, most of the team’s we face from the rich schools have a smug confidence but they’re no better than a pack of slimy cockroaches. They think they’re impervious to death because they can survive a nuclear holocaust. Oh yeah? Well just wait till we come up and slam your whole body to smithereens with a rolled up newspaper, you pieces of shit. My team’s the newspaper, and I’m the hand that cracks the whip. And you know what – I think I like it here. Now I just gotta see if there are any open teaching positions, preferably a school with lot’s of hot single teachers. It’s time to do high school right.