Page 4 of Somewhere Along The Line
Being anonymous sounds a hell of a lot better than being James Newhouse right now, especially after that embarrassing show of disinterest—or maybe annoyance or awkwardness, I’m not sure which one—in front of the woman on the train.
It’s not often I find myself intrigued by someone, much less wanting to make a decent impression. But since I first saw her several weeks back, I can’t keep my eyes to myself.
Each morning, she boards the train like she’s one banana peel away from slipping legs over head, her stuff threatening to float through the car like millennial confetti. I find myself wondering, every ride, how she can own so many vintage t-shirts, each one grazing the curve of her collarbone and hanging loosely at her waist.
More practically, what kind of downtown job allows a woman with faded Bob Marley t-shirts and an ever-changing hairstyle to do meaningful work?
If there was any hope of learning more about this woman, of coming to understand how she seems to exist so concerned and unconcerned at the same time, it’s gone now. It disappeared the second I stared her down for scuffing my shoe like I’m some sort of meathead.
Damn it.
My focus snaps to the buzz in my pocket, a merciful distraction that stops me from dwelling on my behavior with the woman this morning. A surge of cortisol travels my nerves as I spot a text from Hunter, my boss and Trion’s CFO. I’m sure of the text’s contents before I read it; each one is some version of the same:
“Get your ass in here. This sell-side process has turned into a fire drill and our investors are going to shit themselves if we don’t sort this out today.”
Is it really a fire drill ifeverythingis a fire drill? I don’t think so, but my thoughts on the matter aren’t welcome. Hunter’s made that clear.
My bag digs into my shoulder as I increase the speed of my steps. I steel myself for whatever lies ahead of the revolving door that spits me into the lobby. The turnstile clicks as I pass my keycard over the sensor, letting me through to the elevators.
I try to soak in these last moments of silence before the workday erupts in front of me, knowing that lava will nip at my toes the second I reach my desk.
“Jamessssss,” my co-worker Kyle shouts as he does a half spin on his chair and shoots me a nod of greeting. “How’d it go with your dad this weekend? Everything good?”
I don’t have the time nor the energy to go into detail about the mess that was my weekend. Helping my dad begin pack up my childhood home was hell, but I’m not going to cry about it in the office.
“Yeah man, it was good to be with him but better to be gone, you know?”
Kyle nods, spinning a pen on top of his thumb before tucking it between his ear and his shaggy blond mop. He turns back to his spreadsheet.
I’m positive Kyledoesn’t know, not the half of it, but other than reminiscing about our first jobs and sharing hot sauce in the company’s kitchen, Kyle and I aren’t friends. Not tell-you-my-family’s-baggage kind of friends.
The smooth leather of my chair—an ergonomic model I requested in a detailed proposal to HR—greets my ass as I boot up my computer. Spreadsheets appear across two monitors with my calendar on the third. Evaluating the day’s needs, I’m not sure how to fit Hunter’s fire drill into the ten free minutes I have between meetings.
We both know that’s not his problem. The work will get done because it always gets done. It has to, so I’ll be the one to do it.
There are no feelings or boundaries at Trion, the premier investment bank in the city. No “me” that exists as an embodied human within these walls. Instead, I'm a cog in a wheel, a James-sized piece that cranks and cranks to keep the rest of the bits moving.
It suits me, this sort of detachment. Ever since Mom died it’s easier this way, existing with an emotional range that’s purposefully narrow. I’ve truncated the ends of the spectrum, shielded myself from feelings other than “fine.” Keeping myself from caring about anything or anyone avoids a slide into “bad” territory.
Unfortunately, this practice means I never inch up to “good” either, but that’s a price I’m willing to pay. I stay neutral and focused, letting everything roll off my back while I keep my feelings at arm’s length. It’s kept me upright so far.
This self-preservation strategy, which typically works well, is why my penchant for admiring the woman on the train is so unnerving. I see the internal warning signs (Slow down! Curve ahead! Stop!), but I can’t seem to heed them.
Every morning, I’m tangled up with one feeling or another as she boards, stands or sits, reads or looks out the window and thinks. I never know what mystery feeling will spring up into my belly or throat to catch me by surprise. Sometimes it’s anticipation, sometimes it’s attraction, sometimes it’s curiosity, and often, to my dismay, it feels a little like hope.
Like there could be awhat ifbetween us if only I permit myself the risk of discovering it.
Instead, I spend my time on the train staring at my phone, or at my shoes, pretending to be busy with something important. I’d rather assess what she’s wearing, how her strawberry blonde hair is fixed, or what she’s eating for breakfast which looks, if I’m not mistaken, like Bisquick sausage balls.
That’s her breakfast every day on repeat.
God, I need to get a life, I think with resignation. My work requires every inch of my brain, and reserving space to contemplate sausage balls is not prudent.
I try to set the thought aside and focus on my monitors. It works for three seconds before a tab stuck to the folder next to my mouse brings up a memory of the first time I saw her three weeks ago.
She boarded the train with her hair held back by a Rosie the Riveter-style bandana. Equal parts put together and messy, she was wearing the type of outfit that happens when you’re working on something and lose track of time. When the minutes spent untangling a problem and finding a solution matter more than picking out cohesive clothing. She was that image personified, the carefree nature of it in contrast to the stress she also wore that day.
Her eyes—a deep brown—seemed worried, the corners of her eyebrows pulled in and her mouth spread tight in a line. She bounced her knee with a speed that betrayed anxiety as she flipped between her phone and a notebook every other minute of the ride.
