Foster's Chance

Foster was ready. A trim, 29-year-old up-and-comer with am MBA from Wharton and an appointment with John (don't even think of calling him Jack) MacKenzie, manager of a $38 billion hedge fund. That was going to happen today in his 38^th floor office in the Metasales Building on the water in East Pawtucket, five minutes from the city.

Foster had shined his $135 Gucci caramel wingtips twice; there was not a single area with a smudge, a scuff or a discoloration anywhere from tip to heel. He had purchased a $900 Brooks Brothers pin stripe in a wool blend on sale for $450 just after the company filed for Chapter 11 protection and was almost giving its clothing away. It was a deep navy blue with pin stripes that could not be seen until the viewer was within a few feet; Foster had always abhorred the garishness of bolder stripes he had seen in ads and on a couple bankers who lived near his parents' home in Littleneck. The tailor at the shop had done an excellent job of making sure the suit coat fit snugly around the neck area where many men's suits bulge and pucker if they are not properly measured. He argued with himself over shirt color but decided on a light blue oxford cloth with a semi-spread collar that showed off the muted dark red burgundy paisley four-in-hand tie in a half-Windsor knot. The smart tie tyer, and Foster was one, arranged for a small dimple directly under the knot so that the area was crimped but still nicely accommodated the knot. The shirt sleeves extended the necessary half-inch beyond the suit sleeve. Foster was ready.

The elevator bank on the marbled ground floor lobby of the Metasales Building stood like a row, actually a double row, of burnished bronze doors, since the building required 16 individual elevators to serve the offices in the 40-story building. Mr. MacKenzie's office was on the 38^th floor because he had a fondness for the numbers 3 and 8. When he was much younger he received an iron-clad tip on a race horse “Don't Bet On It,” that wore 38 on its saddle cloth. MacKenzie waged $5,000 on that horse at 40-1, and took home $200,000, minus the $20,000 he gave the horse's trainer for “helpful information.” With the proceeds he started an investment business that ultimately landed him, by making the right friends and developing a polished business strategy along with some luck, in the manager's chair at the Crossover Fund.

Foster had been transported to the building on a tram-like conveyance that connected the city to the airport but made scheduled stops, one of them a couple blocks from his appointment. He was therefore able to stand and not wrinkle anything. Now he was in front of the elevators and waiting for one that was either empty or with two or three riders. He lucked out when a single car opened without a passenger, which he quickly entered and pressed 38 on the floor selection panel. No sense of putting even one crease in your haberdashery in an elevator crowed with passengers. The doors closed and he was alone, headed upward, in a number of ways, and smiling the smile of a man absolutely sure of himself. This was going to be his moment; a good education, a year of internships followed by five years of lower level but successful management jobs.

The lights marking the floor numbers clicked on and off as he rose at a comfortable speed towards number 38. And then something happened. What the hell? The car jolted to a stop. No sound of screeching metal or whatever. It just stopped. And the lights went out. All of them, on the panel and in the ceiling.

Okay, Forster said to himself as he reached for his Iphone to light the area. The phone would not open, no light. He felt for the button he remembered was the emergency alarm. Nothing. He punched button about 20 times. That bad feeling in the stomach was making acid rise and the severe indigestion pang filled his abdomen. Now he was scared, and angry because the appointment time was about 15 minutes (and between eight and nine floors) away.

He couldn't call MacKenzie's office. He couldn't signal his need for rescue. He had no plan. Then Foster sort of lost it, started stabbing buttons and and slaming his flat palm against the floor selection panel that a few moments before had told him he was headed for success. His coursing rose in an increasingly colorful and rising volume of profanity. One “F” word followed by another, a staccato of “F” words, a dictionary of “F” words, an Oxford English dictionary of ”F” words. Then he slumped against a wall, grabbed the handrail and tried to catch his breath, his chest heaving with exertion. After he had returned his breathing to near normal he began to pound on the elevator door, before he grabbed the pounding fist with his other hand. It was bleeding and had begun to swell and one of the knuckles seemed to be loose from its location. Then he threw his phone against the wall he had been leaning against. It shattered and several pieces fell to the floor.

Okay, Foster said. Then he remembered the ceiling trap door, a way out of this cage in which he was a prisoner. He took a handkerchief from his inside pocket and wrapped his bleeding hand. Then he raised a foot and found the handrail, wedged himself into a corner and, with a reserve burst of strength, launched his body upward toward the trap door, reaching with his good hand to knock the door away and grab the metal edge of the opening. He swung his other leg and foot to the adjoining handrail and steadied himself. He tried not to think of his pain and exhaustion. His shirt was stained with perspiration and his breathing was hard. He felt around the opening and saw that he could fit through the ceiling door but he needed to recover. So he stood there, in the darkened car, one foot on each handrail and one good hand hanging onto the ceiling door edge. Time passed. Then he heaved himself through the opening, banging his head and his shoulders on the opening, and then his injured hand on one of the guide rails outside the car. He lay on top of the elevator his legs hanging through the opening, pain coursing through the bad hand. He lay there several more minutes before he heard voices. He pulled his legs through the opening and braced his feet, felt for the car's suspension cable and hauled himself upright with the one good hand. And then the door opened and he saw a uniformed person who looked like a fireman.

“Hold on buddy,” the uniformed person said. “We're gonna get you out but you gotta be careful now. Just hold on while we slide a ladder up to you. Then you can climb down. Okay?

Then he was out, but he had slipped on the ladder's rungs because his shoes were covered in grease from the top of the car. He fell onto the 9^th floor hallway and looking up at several uniformed people. He also looked at himself. His $99 Hawthorne shirt was torn in two places and his entire left suit coat arm was covered with the heavy black grease of the suspension cable, which also covered his left pant leg, and one suit coat pocket was torn off. Both of his $135 shoes had deep gashes in them and the sides of each were covered with more grease. The knot is his tie was a third of its original size and there was a huge grease spot in the center of it.

“Are you okay buddy?” said one of the uniformed people surrounding and looking down at him. “Are you hurt? Do we need an ambulance?

“Son of a bitch,” Foster croaked, garbled by the phlegm that had gathered in his throat. “Son of a bitch, son of bitch,” he wailed, pounding his good hand on the floor. He was exhausted, too tired to say more, even though he desperately wanted to, wanted an artillery barrage of curses, wanted to strangle, to gut every past mistake and every enemy, real and imagined. The hedge fund's logo appeared and disappeared like a spinning panorama of opportunities in his head: there was a bright future, a townhouse in the best neighborhood, a handsome lake cottage and a beautiful lifetime partner he would never meet.

Then he began to sob, a cacophony of sobs, a Niagara Falls of anguished sobs, an Oxford English Dictionary of sobs.