The Charm Bracelet (4 page)

It
wasn’t as if he was bad at his job. Over his eight years as a broker he had amassed plenty of money: money that had bought trips, a nice apartment, expensive dinners, the whole shebang.

But, frankly, he was burned out. His eyes were red at the end of the day from staring at the computer screen, his heartbeat accelerated from tracking all of his investments, for himself and his clients, and his free time was … nonexistent. Depending on his trades he could be up and out at three to five a.m., and not be home till late at night. He knew it would have to be this way for at least another ten years if he were to have a career like his father’s; he had built his own stockbrok
erage from scratch. But Greg had already made a tidy sum (and was on every fancy gala list and main event in the city as a result) and he found the job a fruitless, endless effort in the pursuit of money for clients who already had enough.

Greg bit his lip. He just hoped people would understand, his dad especially. Unlike Jeff Matthews, Greg had grown to loathe standing in the pit, and most of his clients hated to hear from him anyway the way the economy was going. No joy on his customer’s faces. More like panic, or disgust. 

Smiling gently, he thought of his mother; she would definitely be supportive about it, was always urging him to follow his dreams, and do something he was passionate about.

What’s more, after three years together, he and Karen could finally begin concentrating on what was important. The rest of their lives.

Yes, Greg knew it was time for him to make a choice that he was sure would make him happy when he looked back and recounted his life.

He shuffled some papers around, finally creating a neat pile. His stomach felt as if it was tied in a knot. Maybe he should have spoken to someone about it before today, just to make sure that he was doing the right thing?

He shook his head. ‘No, it’s my life.’ And he thought of his mother once again.

Cristina had been such an inspiration
to him for as long as he could remember. And it wasn’t that he was a mama’s boy. Far from it. His mother always said that thirty-six years ago when she found out that she was having a baby she’d been hoping for a boy, because she could raise him to be a man. She had always been intent on teaching him to be strong, honourable and brave. ‘No matter what, never compromise on your morals or ideals,’ she would say. ‘Those things make you who you are.’

He knew that she hadn’t wanted him to return to the firm after 9/11 and it wasn’t just that she was scared of the ‘what if’ that had been on many people’s minds that day. Rather, she had believed
– correctly - that life was too short to spend it working in a cube but had respected his choice to play the role of the young corporate maverick. Even when she knew about the hobby he had had since childhood that had turned into a full-blown passion of his.

Photography.

Greg loved New York as much as he loved anything, and had spent countless hours and days exploring this city, photographing everything – from day-to-day life in the boroughs, to the magnificence of the Manhattan buildings that seemed to become one with the sky. He loved it all. Earlier this year he’d even sold an arty shot of the Flatiron Building to a downtown art gallery, something his mother had been intensely proud of, and a piece of his past that he considered a fierce accomplishment. It had given him a renewed sense of faith.

Then the week before, the
Ninth Precinct had let him ride with them as they made their rounds in Queens. Greg had put in the request months ago in the hope of capturing drama in the city at night through a lens.

He was thrilled when they finally got back to him, and he had spent the entire night tagging along with the cops as they not only saved lives, but in some cases just put lives back on track.

He had got some great shots of a relieved mother staring gratefully into the eyes of her three year old who had just recovered from an asthma attack. Of a drunk teenager being pulled out of an elevator shaft he had tumbled into, and of an elderly man being pushed in a wheelchair to the local church because there was no heat in his apartment. It was part of a ‘People of the City’ portfolio he was working on. He had just finished a series on the construction downtown, focusing on St Paul’s Church and the work on the Freedom Tower and the other newer buildings at Ground Zero. While he always loved to photograph the cityscape, he felt he had overdosed a bit on the buildings recently, and had been looking forward to getting some faces in front of his lens again.

That morning, walking by
Zuccotti Park had made up his mind for good. He’d been wearing his suit and carrying his briefcase, and slowed down as he passed. There were people of all kinds just milling around talking with each other. It looked like a modern-day Rome. The businessman exchanging ideas with the woman with dreadlocks and a baby strapped to her chest. The student with bare feet in an intense debate with the concrete worker on his lunch break. Greg felt frustrated he didn’t have his camera. His fingers itched to adjust the lens and he felt like a junkie without a fix. The suit he was wearing suddenly felt heavy and the briefcase like a shackle, even though his camera equipment was ten times heavier. It was at that moment that he had felt complete clarification. He wanted to run back to his apartment, get into a pair of jeans, grab his photography gear and get back there, quickly, before it all went away.

Sure, this was
New York and there were plenty of photographers everywhere, but Greg knew he had talent, and what’s more he had passion. Passion that had led to his decision today. And while his new career might not be anything like as lucrative as being a broker, he was certain that it would pay tenfold in happiness.

Steeling himself, he ran his fingers through his closely cropped dark brown hair.

It was a Monday morning. The markets were long open, and trading was in full swing. He glanced at his friend Mark who sat in the cube across from him. His face was flushed and his eyes bulged as he studied figures on three computer monitors and yelled into the phone, placing an order to the trading floor of the stock exchange.

Mark suddenly became aware of Greg’s presence and turned to face him in a full-blown panic.

‘Matthews, what are you doing? Don’t you
see
what’s happening? There’s another goddamn issue with the euro and oil prices are going nuts because some new shit-storm is brewing in the Middle East! You’d better get on the phone with Carmichael, he’s going to be pissed off if you aren’t on this right
now
!’ Mark picked up a bottle of Tums and flicked it open with one hand before putting it to his mouth and pouring several tablets down his throat.

Greg stared at Mark, feeling a sense of disconnect. Sure, he should probably get on the phone with his biggest client, Leonard Carmichael, and tell him what they needed to do to protect his investments, but he found he didn’t want to, that it didn’t matter. There was always some new crisis, something that caused fortunes to collapse or developments that created windfalls and landed vast amounts of wealth into the laps of people who did nothing but push buttons and issue orders.

He shook his head; he was tired of the constant state of panic that everyone here operated in, including himself. He was sick of the stress and the stale air of the office. There was more to life than this
.

He left his cubicle as Mark shouted behind him. ‘It’s your ass, Matthews! It’s your ass
Carmichael will have for breakfast if you don’t tell him about this shit NOW!’

Greg ignored Mark’s message of impending doom and walked straight forward, with conviction, towards Dave Foster’s office. He saw the man sitting calmly at his desk, seemingly oblivious to the meltdown that was occurring just outside his door.

It was the way it always was, though. The rest of them suffered heart attacks, panic disorders and acid reflux disease, while Foster sat at his desk thinking about the next yacht he was going to buy.

As he closed the distance between him and the door to his boss’s office, he caught the eye of Foster’s bulldog executive assistant, Claudia. Fiercely protective of guarding the inner sanctum, she could melt the skin off your face just by looking at you. Usually Greg worked to stay off her radar – there was no denying she was a cow; he had the attitude that if he didn’t get in her way, she wouldn’t get in his.

Today, though, was a different story.

Greg continued to march forward, even after Claudia stood up and took her usual vicious canine pose.

‘I have to see Dave,’ Greg stated in a voice that meant business.

Claudia placed her hand up. ‘Mr Foster is busy. You can’t go in there.’ Greg kept walking. ‘Hey, stop,’ she ordered.

He pushed past her, reached for the doorknob to his boss’s office and turned it. It was open.

‘You do not have an appointment. You cannot see him!’

He ignored Claudia completely and went into Dave’s office uninvited. Sure enough, he could see what Dave was looking at on the Internet. OK, so he wasn’t shopping for a yacht, but a villa in Tuscany. Same difference.

‘Ah-hem,’ Greg cleared his throat and the noise startled his boss. The man quickly turned around and met his employee’s eyes.

‘Matthews. What are you doing? I’m up to my eyes here.’ He quickly minimized his screen.

‘Mr Foster,’ Claudia huffed as she pushed past Greg, ‘I’m sorry, I told him he couldn’t come in, that you were busy. I apologise. Do you want me to call security?’

Greg rolled his eyes and put up his hand.’ ‘No need for that, this will only take a minute.’

Dave puffed up his chest in an attempt to gain control of the situation. ‘I don’t have a minute. And what the hell are you doing in here anyway? Look at that out there, it’s chaos! Get to work!’ He pointed to the office as if he had been monitoring the situation this entire time, instead of only just noticing it.

Greg shook his head. ‘No, Dave.’

His boss’s eyes bugged out. ‘No? No? I’m going to tell you what you are going to do right
now
and that’s—’

‘No,’ said Greg calmly. ‘I’m going to tell you what I’m going to do right now. I quit.’ He smiled pleasantly at Claudia’s shocked expression.

‘Can’t take it no more, huh?’ Dave said calmly, in one of his infamous mood changes. He nodded briefly at Claudia who got the message and left.

Greg shook his head. ‘Nope.’

His boss calmly took out a cigar, lit it and blew the smoke up at the ceiling. Greg knew he had dismantled the smoke alarm ages ago. Dave wasn’t much of a rule guy, which is probably why he had got so far. ‘Must admit, I envy you.’

‘Why?’ Greg asked, surprised. ‘You want out too?’

Jeff slapped his hands down on his desk. ‘Nah, I love the job. It’s dangerous, always unpredictable … addictive. I’d just like to know that if I did walk away I wouldn’t be ruining so many lives.’

Greg nodded. ‘Right, wife, kids … ’

Jeff chewed madly on the end of his cigar and waved his hand, ‘ … mistress, and her kids, and my sister who can’t hold down a damn job, and my mother-in-law who always needs surgery on something or other and … ’ He stopped short and grinned at Greg’s surprised face. ‘What got you? Mistress, or the fact that I’m keeping my mother-in-law maintained?’

Greg stumbled. ‘Both?’

Dave nodded satisfactorily, ‘You’re too nice for this job anyway. Go and be a shutterbug, or an
artist
or whatever you want to call it these days.’ He stood up and slapped Greg hard on the back. ‘But whatever you do, don’t get married, take it from me, they’re all leeches.’

‘Erm, thank you,’ Greg said, his head spinning a little at the unexpected ease of it all. ‘I really appreciate that.
Of course, goes without saying that I’ll work out any notice if you -’

‘Nah, doesn’t work like that in this business, you know that.’

Greg did but he wanted to make the offer anyway. ‘I’ll clear out my desk right away.’

‘No worries, kid. Have a great life.’

Exactly, Greg thought, turning on his heels, his heart soaring. He
would
have a great life, and it was about time he got on with it. After all, like his mother always said, life was too short to spend in a cube.

Half an hour later,
he stood in the elevator, holding a brown box that contained the few meagre personal possessions from his cubicle. Still feeling slightly dizzy after what he’d just done, Greg thought about the first time he’d ever used a camera. He was ten at the time, and his parents had gotten him a Kodak for his birthday. He had turned it over and over in his hands, wondering what on earth he was supposed to take pictures of.

‘Just take it with you when we go out,’ his mother had said. She loved to walk around her old neighbourhood, the East Side, pointing out all the changes that had taken place since she was a girl. She would excitedly point out different building to Greg. ‘There, that’s where I went to grammar school. Do you know who else went there? James Cagney, can you believe it?’ and she would sound so amazed that Greg would take out the camera and take a picture of the building.

Later he was glad he did, because many of the buildings from back then had since been torn down and replaced by cheap high-rises. His mother too adored looking at the old photographs, her face lighting up as she recognised various familiar landmarks that no longer existed.