Somewhere Along The Line

2. James

The wooden platform groans under my feet as I speed walk away from the station and into the city, a place that offers blissful anonymity if you bob and weave with the mass of humanity lining the streets.

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 if everything is 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 Kyle doesn’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 a what if between 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.

I didn’t know what was bothering her that morning, only that I wanted to help. To comfort her. I wanted to wrap her up, my arms around her shoulders, and pull her body against mine. The thought, flitting across my mind so quickly I couldn’t catch it if I tried, scared the crap out of me.

I’ve been stealing glances ever since.

A ding from my email jolts me back to reality. If I’m not careful, I will be the one wearing the stress today. I stuff my feelings into a small room somewhere inside and do my best to board up the door. Successful James is detached James, and that’s who Hunter will get today. Detached James keeps the cogs turning.

I type without thinking, my fingers knowing the answer to the question that popped into my inbox without consulting my brain. It’s nice to work on autopilot.

Kyle is at my office door before I can finish the email, his arms draped over his chest. The stance would threaten to wrinkle his striped button-down shirt had it not been a non-iron—the unofficial official working uniform shirt of bankers nationwide (with a vest, of course, if it’s below sixty degrees).

“Did you get the latest turn from GPC?” Kyle says this as if his definition of “fire drill” doesn’t include urgency.

My chest heaves a sigh, my fingers finding my forehead and stretching the skin to release tension. I do a mental scan of what I’ve seen come through my inbox and what I haven’t.

“Yeah, their analyst sent it over last night, came in about three in the morning.” Without trying, I set myself up for a conversation closer so good my face relaxes into a grin. “I’ll take a look at it. If it’s anything like the last one, I’ll spend all day correcting errors. They don’t make analysts like they used to.”

With that, Kyle gives me a smirk that sneaks out from behind his beard. We were in the same investment banking analyst cohort after college and barely survived those two years of torture.

While he’s only been working at Trion with me for a year, the fraternity born out of months of communal suffering runs deep. It’s nice to know I can trust someone here, even if I’m not willing to share my family history with him.

“I’ll pass it over to you when I’m done reviewing it, hopefully by end of day.”

Kyle offers a sort of salute, signaling his agreement before turning back to the bullpen and making his way to the office on the left.

I release a big exhale, a bit overwhelmed and still distracted, as I stretch my fingers across the keyboard and narrow in on my growing to-do list.

The shriek of the alarm clock rattles my bones, its bright wail in stark contrast to the dark sky. It’s as black now as it was at 2 a.m. when I rolled into bed; morning comes quickly when sleep rarely exceeds five hours.

I check my phone and groan, unsure which is worse: the fluorescent numbers showing 6:30 a.m. or the string of notifications piling up from Hunter. Neither is great.

I stumble to the kitchen to start the kettle before pouring myself into today’s iteration of the work fit: tailored pants, a button-down shirt with a button collar, a leather belt, and a vest or blazer that complements. I keep a few ties at the office in case of emergency—there’s no sense in restricting my ability to breathe any further. The mystery woman on the train does a fine job of that already.

Each day’s outfit selection process—choosing from an equal number of coordinating separates and mixing and matching at will—is a fitting analogy for everything else in my life of late. Plug A and then B into the equation and it’ll spit out C. No thoughts and no feelings are required. Simply feed the algorithm and things run smoothly. The system hasn’t let me down yet.

The kettle whistles on the white granite counter as I head to the hallway to grab a pair of shoes. I run my finger across the scratch that sits atop my favorite loafer, and a twinge of regret shoots through me, as fleeting as it is sharp.

Is it because of the imperfection? Or because of how badly I bungled the conversation that followed its discovery?

Maybe I should look into the Cole Haan repair program. It would certainly be easier to fix the shoe than replace my broken social skills, the ones that left me unable to talk to the woman on the train yesterday.

Today requires a different pair of shoes. I don’t need a visible reminder of my failure every time I take a step; it’ll taunt me enough without prompting.

My hands and feet take over out of habit as I finish up my morning routine: I pour hot water into my insulated tumbler , grab a sachet of black tea and slip the string through the cup’s notch, and check my teeth for evidence of my ham and spinach omelet. Then I slip my laptop into my messenger bag, turn off the lights, grab my keys, and lock the door.

My phone shows 7:08 a.m. as I begin the walk to Carmack station. I’ll board the train at 7:15 like I do every day then endure eleven slow minutes of watching familiar landmarks flash by the window. My eyes will stay busy on the interstate split, the jewelry store with a metal door, the bustling elementary school carpool line.

After too long, the train will scream into Roosevelt station and she’ll board.

Those eleven minutes of waiting and the fourteen minutes after, when I share her air, are the best parts of my day. I don’t think about work, about my inbox that becomes more overstuffed minute by minute. I don’t think about Dad, or the house, or the questions he’s asking about the fate of Mom’s things. About whether I want any of it before it gets donated or goes to auction as if they’re items a stranger can appraise for value and not the vestiges of her life.

I try not to think about Mom at all, for that matter, about the hole she left in our family. Most of all, I avoid wondering if she’d be proud of me, and what she’d think about the way my life is turning out.

Instead, for twenty-five minutes, a measly 1.736% of each day, I let myself exist beyond the demands of my life—to wonder about a different existence. I ponder the opportunity cost to give up everything I’ve built, perhaps to become the dad helping his five-year-old son out of the carpool line before waving him off to kindergarten.

To wonder, in this other imaginary life, whether the woman on the train might have packed the lunch he'll take out at a tiny round table circled by even tinier chairs.

It’s a pleasant thought, and I let it waft through my brain as I stride up to the platform. It’s pleasant the way dreaming about becoming a surf instructor while living off backyard fruit trees is pleasant. It’s simple escapism, not a plan.

And that's fine, of course, because I already have a plan. Follow the steps, keep the cogs turning, increase the market value, make the calls (literally and figuratively) that Dad can’t or won’t make, and keep everything else at a distance.

Yesterday and tomorrow, last year and next month, the plan chugs along just like this train. Today will be no different.

Except, it turns out, it is.

I make my way into the train car, or more accurately, into a sea of white flared pants and bedazzled jackets, the scent of hairspray overtaking the train’s usual aroma of body odor, last night’s party, and too much cologne.

The words exit my mouth before I realize I’m saying them aloud.

“Why the hell is this train filled with Elvis impersonators?”