The Fantasy Years

THE VOICES CATERWAULED AND WAILED across the American night because their listeners knew they were right. They knew they were right and winning was fun. And with a whoosht! Dennis said to Will:

“As if a white liberal should feel guilty about enjoying the Fifties!”
“Just because the South was segregated!” Will said.
“But liberals make a big show of their guilt!”
“They do it for effect!”
“They do it for votes!”
“They do it because it wouldn’t be PC not to!”
“They do it but it’s fake!”
“Because what kind of white people really feel guilty about how things were in the good old days?”

And up high, in a small room on the 16th floor of a high-rise over Cleveland the cheery, outraged voice boomed in miniature from Randy’s small radio. Ben recognized Rush’s voice. How could he not? That bright bluster of incredulity. He’d recognize the voice anywhere.

“What’s an investment firm, anyway?” Ben asked aloud.
“Huh?” Randy said.
“What’s an investment firm? I’ve worked here for months and I don’t even know what an investment firm actually does.”
“It’s a big pile of money,” Randy said, shrugging.
“A big pile of money.”
“Yeah, a big pile of money that people invest in. Mr. Towers and his partners take that money and invest it in companies.”
“Why don’t investors just invest in the companies themselves?”
“I dunno. Because they don’t know what Mr. Towers knows. He’s about to launch a venture capital fund.”
“Really?” Ben didn’t know what a capital venture fund was either.
“Mr. Towers and his partners must be doing something right. This is one of the best investment firms in the country.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“One of the top five.”
“So is this something I can put a couple hundred dollars in?”
Randy smiled. “This isn’t for a couple hundred dollars.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. It’s for a couple millions dollars. Tower Investments owns whole companies.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. This isn’t a small time operation.”
“I guess not.”
“Look at an annual report.”

Ben stood up and lifted up his monitor, while Randy pulled one of the annual reports off the stack elevating Ben’s monitor. “Here.”

Ben took it and sat back down. As Rush ranted and railed through the Thursday afternoon, Ben inspected Tower Investment Partners LLP’s 1995 annual report.

He learned Mr. Towers and two other board members had gone to Yale. He learned the firm had invested over three million dollars in website companies alone, taking positions in what they envisioned to be “cornerstone players” in industries. There was the insurance company in Illinois. Regent Insurance. There was the 64 percent of a semiconductor chip company in Thailand.

After a few minutes of careful study, Ben learned he really didn’t care for this kind of thing.

“You see what kind of operation this is,” said Randy. “Mr. Towers even knows Warren Buffett.”

“Who’s that?”
“Only one of the richest men in the world.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. So you can see why when they call they expect you to come running?”

“I guess so.” Ben flipped the pages. Randy was right about it not being a small time operation. $7.2 million for a company. $21.0 million for another. The firm was worth $6 billion in total? The numbers didn’t even seem real. Especially not compared to the $590 he paid in rent every month.

And because the numbers seemed unreal, they somehow didn’t impress him. The amounts belonged to another world. Ben couldn’t imagine what these guys talked about every day sitting on their pile of money.

He supposed they decided what to buy and what to sell and the rest of the day was just reading reports and watching interest add up. It was as if there was Tower Investments; the people who cared about what Tower Investments did; and then there was Ben.

Not only did Ben not care for the firm’s work, he didn’t even care for people who cared for it.

Everything was so battened down and hush-hushed and done behind closed doors, there was nothing to look at. Nothing to see.

“So you see how big these guys are?” Randy asked.

Ben nodded, feigning reverence. Really, he’d just concluded there was nothing for him at Tower Investments in the long run. Ben knew that his job here could never be anything more than the absence of unemployment to him. Randy watched Ben, apparently waiting for his exclamation of wonder.

Then the phone chirped.

Ben looked: it was Mr. Towers.

“I.T.” Ben said, “I.T!” once he’d gotten the phone to his mouth.
“Can you come over here right way, please?”
“Right away, Mr. Towers.”
Ben turned to leave.
“Take a mint,” Randy said.
“Why?”
“Mr. Towers hates to smell anyone’s breath.”

Don wasn’t sure who was worse: Rush Limbaugh or his callers. They were the same people who thought blacks should have stayed in their place. That’s what those callers had in common. He didn’t trust the white businesses that advertised on his program. They enabled guys like Limbaugh; they condoned him.

The owners of Gold Bond Medicated Itch Cream could forget ever winning Don Attwood’s business.