Chapter
13
Atlas
Belched
Later that day:
By the time I finally
reached my stockbroker, it was far too late to cut my losses. What
used to be stock worth $3,000,000 on Friday had, by Monday morning,
spiraled down to about 300-grand (but only in theory was it worth
even that much, since very few investors were buying at any
price in this panic stricken market). As the world's stock exchanges
plunged to unheard-of depths on that so-called Black Monday, I
mentally castigated myself: Just look at you now,
big shot! You imagined that you were some kind of half-ass heroic
capitalist straight out of an Ayn Rand novel, but now you're
virtually broke and probably don't even have a job anymore!
I
had never felt so stupid in my entire life, for in a span of just a
few months I managed to violate every personal standard of
thriftiness, prudence and humility I ever held, and paid a heavy
financial price for it. I had always despised the unbecoming human
trait of hubris, yet had been just as guilty of hubris as any
stereotypical Captain of Industry or Dallas oil man or Wall Street
investment banker.
My
forlorn prediction about being relegated to the unemployment line
proved to be all too accurate. On Friday, five days after the
markets crashed, Herb informed me that since the company was suddenly
cash-strapped, I was being laid-off from my $36,000-a-year position.
Then he turned around and begged me to work weekends (without pay)
from home on my personal computer until the economy rebounded. With
reluctance I agreed to do so, even while believing that under these
dire circumstances an economic rebound was a year or more down the
road. I thought with glum resignation: Back to the fucking
temp agency!
The
next time I saw my sexy new turbocharged Corvette, the car seemed to
mock me like a high-maintenance trophy-wife whom I could no longer
financially support. There was no way I could afford to keep that
high-powered gas guzzler. However, analogous to a divorce
settlement, even more money would go down the drain if I parted with
“her” at this time.
Having managed to outsmart myself right out of three-million bucks, I now swore that if the opportunity to get-rich-quick ever arose again, I would take the money and run - with alacrity.
* * *
Within a week of my
getting laid-off, Tina suffered the same fate at the Rainier Plaza
Hotel, due to a flood of trade convention cancellations coming in the
wake of the market crash. As for Angie, she had quit her latest
waitress gig at Denny's Restaurant months ago, under the
misapprehension that henceforth I would have an unlimited amount of
cash to burn. Now we were getting-by on unemployment checks,
supplemented to a certain extent by my almost worthless Servercomp
stock.
From late-October until
the end of the holiday season, I, following Angie's example, fell
easily into a life of sloth, sexual debauchery and an overindulgence
of booze - in keeping with this festive time of year. One delightful
benefit (at least for myself) of our collective unemployment: there
were many more opportunities and more time for the three of us to be
in bed together - an uncommon occurrence of late. By Christmastime,
though, our perpetual bacchanalia disintegrated because of the
constant bickering that came with being cooped-up together for such a
long time. Tina got so disgusted with Angie and me that she decided
to spend the week between Christmas and New Year's Eve staying with
various family members around town.
Around noon on Christmas Day, as Angie and I nursed routine hangovers, Tina had some choice parting words for us just before leaving to visit her mother: “I gotta find me a job before I lose my fuckin' mind hangin' 'round here! And as for you muthafuckas, ya better git yer shit together soon or you'll find yerself back at the trailer park - without me!” She then voiced with facetious yuletide cheer: “Happy Holidays!” and, as she normally did when making an exit, slammed the front door behind her.
* * *
January 1988
Seized with post-holiday
boredom (and worried that the disgruntled Tina might decide to
move-out), I obtained an IBM system operator job through my old temp
agency, right after the turn of the new year. To my surprise and
relief, life soon settled down to a semblance of normalcy once again.
And the nation's economy was recovering faster than anyone had
anticipated, rendering the nightmare of Black Monday a disturbing but
quickly fading memory. Even the price of my stock had stabilized,
climbing to over one-dollar per share and gaining a few cents every
week. Investors were apparently beginning to realize that unlike the
other recent high-tech start-ups (many of which were now defunct),
Servercomp was a going concern and had actually turned a respectable
profit the year before.
By February, my most
worrisome problems were behind me - just in time for new problems to
develop. First came the weird phone calls I began to receive at home:
a male voice on the line asked, “Denny?”
He sounded a lot like a
friend of mine who lived in the apartment below. “Yeah - Dan?
Hey, I just found out that I'm on-call tonight, so I won't be able to
go to the game after all.”
“I'm afraid this isn't
a game, Denny.”
“Whoa - what?
Who the hell is this?”
“Just a friend.”
“Is that so. Well, I
could always use another friend, but something tells me it wouldn't
work out.”
“That's too bad - I
merely wanted to do you a favor by saving you a ton of money.”
“For a telemarketer,
you sure got a strange sales pitch.”
“No, I'm not trying to
sell you anything. I just called to let you know that it would be
advisable for you to unload all of your stock in the computer company
you own - before it's too late. There are certain potential legal
problems associated with that company, problems which have drawn the
interest of the FBI.”
“Bullshit. And why
would you help me, anyhow? What's in it for you? Oh I
get it now - you work for a brokerage house and you're trying to
scare me into selling cheap. Man, I'm gonna kick my broker's ass if
if I find out that he gave you my home number.” Before he could
explain anything, I said just before hanging up, “Just forget it,
okay? And don't ever call me here again!”
Not long after that, I
dropped by the downtown offices of Barnum & Barnum for a
face-to-face talk with a friendly young guy named Doug Feld, my
stockbroker, who was leaving his office as I arrived there. He said,
while shaking my hand, “Oh, hi Mister Smith. Anything I can do for
you? Um, I was just going down the block to get something to eat -
care to join me?”
“No thanks, I already
ate. I just wanted to ask you a quick question. Let's take a walk.”
We spoke briefly on the way to a fast-food place on the corner. I
told him about the odd phone call, leaving out the part about
“certain potential legal problems” with the FBI. “...and he
mentioned inside information about the company - which obviously I
can't tell you about - otherwise I wouldn't take him seriously. The
only thing I wanna know is, did anyone at your office happen to give
this guy my home number?”
Startled, yet at the
same time looking unperturbed, he replied firmly, “Oh no, I never
reveal my clients' personal info, and I'm the only who has access to
it. So, you think somebody wants you to dump your stock so he can
snatch it up at a bargain basement price, eh? If he's that
eager to acquire so many shares, perhaps you should buy some.”
“That's not a bad
idea, now that I'm working again. I'll call you later this afternoon
and we can discuss it.”
Although still desiring
to know who had called me and why, I was much more interested in
knowing whether or not his claim of an FBI investigation of
Servercomp was true. Therefore, after parting ways with Feld in
front of a deliciously aromatic teriyaki joint, I drove a few miles
to Servercomp's modest two-story headquarters building, where I had
hardly set foot since getting laid-off. There I chatted with Joey
and Herb and with the few office staffers still on the payroll, such
as my old friend Shelly. While talking to Shelly and her co-workers,
I casually fished for any bad news or scurrilous rumors about the
company - without revealing anything myself. As far as I could
ascertain from our conversations, nothing was out of the ordinary.
And Joey appeared to be in a good mood for a change, probably because
the price of company stock had risen 10 cents that day, closing at a
dollar-fifty.
I wanted to believe that
the anonymous caller had lied about an FBI investigation. But if he
had been on the level, then how would he get access to such
information? The only ones I knew that had serious connections
within government were the guys who for years had tried to recruit me
to work for an unnamed federal agency.
A week later, around the
beginning of March, I received another upsetting call, while working
my computer temp job for the Seattle School District. I answered the
phone, “Information Services, Denny speaking.”
“While there's still
time, you need to break all ties with those sick perverts who run the
company, before you lose everything.”
“Oh, jeez. What the
fuck are you talking about? Who's a pervert?”
Copyright 2015 by K.D. Bishop
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