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Fax
To: Marty Gilbert From: Benny Croftman
Fax: 97840
Company: Citi Bank
Date: September 7, 2001
Subject: Make me a stiff one
Marty,
It’s Friday, I’m 58, and I’m still dogging around like it’s my first week in the Apple. Woe is me- let’s grab an old fashioned when you’re out.
In other news, Citi’s utility division could use a jump. Thinking about eating up some of this sliding Enron stock. 2,500 should be appropriate. Thoughts?
-Benny
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Fax
To: Benny Croftman From: Marty Gilbert
Fax: 86790
Company: Morgan Stanley
Date: September 10, 2001
Subject: Enron’s for Assholes
Benny,
Enron is rotting from the inside out. The only reason it still looks fresh is because the talking heads have their pockets loaded. Lace up those running shoes and run far, far away from that stock.
American Electric Power is trading well. Sniff that out- selling at 48.53 on this fine Friday evening.
Looking out from the Center and wondering why the hell I’m still here. It’s Tuscan blue all around, and I’ve got dogs at home that need walking. Rain check on the whiskey.
-Marty
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Fax
To: Marty Gilbert From: Benny Croftman
Fax: 97840
Company: Citi Bank
Date: September 10, 2001
Subject: American Electric Power
Marty,
Good advice on Enron. I’ll steer clear.
I like where your heads at. I need 2,000 shares of AEP at 47.50. Still trying to size up Citi’s utility portfolio. They’re pretty hungry. If you can make it happen, let’s hop on the horn.
P.S. How’d that Jets blowout feel? Stomped on by the Colts, of all teams- you owe me a shot next time I’m in Manhattan.
-Benny
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Fax
To: Benny Croftman From: Marty Gilbert
Fax: 86790
Company: Morgan Stanley
Date: September 10, 2001
Subject: Fuck You
Benny,
The market’s running hot for AEP. I can get you 48.40- anything more and my boss will have me eating ticker tape.
Does Citi need any tech liquidity? We’ll give you a good price for Subcom if you’re overburdened. Think about it. I’ll call you at noon.
P.S. The season is early. The only shot I’m giving you is a knuckle to the face when we cook you in the playoffs.
-Marty
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Fax
To: Marty Gilbert From: Benny Croftman
Fax: 97840
Company: Citi Bank
Date: September 11, 2001
Subject: Where to Go?
Marty,
Pete Major over at Fidelity is floating a short on some manufacturing stocks. Are you rebel rousers dipping your toes in such madness?
Just feeling the wind. Honestly, my portfolio looks pretty good right now. If it holds steady I might be able to close up shop this year. I doubt it- there’s too many goys in this office that are trying to screw me.
Can’t feel unhappy with this weather. These are the days that make a man believe winter will never come. Take a sick day and enjoy it with the pups.
-Benny
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Fax
To: Marty Gilbert From: Benny Croftman
Fax: 97840
Company: Citi Bank
Date: September 11, 2001
Subject: Urgent
Tried calling you Marty. Are you OK?
Call me when you’re on the ground floor.
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Fax
To: Marty Gilbert From: Benny Croftman
Fax: 97840
Company: Citi Bank
Date: September 20, 2001
Subject: End of Days
Marty,
Drove out to Hoboken this morning. I hate that town- the dirty wet houses, the curdling meat, the echoes of Sinatra- but what I hated more was seeing that gap-toothed skyline. It was like seeing my mother with two black eyes, blind and crying.
I sat next to an older Italian woman on a bench near the riverwalk. We were quiet- the city had that feel these days, of something to be said but no one wanting to say it- until she spoke up. Told me she had watched it all happen from that bench last week. The first, and then the second. I asked her what it had looked like. She said she’d expected more fire. Instead, it was all smoke and dust and gray, marching across the city like a legion.
I don’t think that gray will ever leave the city. At least for me it won’t. Every coffee shop, every streetlight, every seat in Madison Square will have some remnant of that gray dust upon it. And within that gray is you. I want to cry, Marty, but I just don’t feel like crying.
I wish you took that sick day.
-Benny
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Fax
To: Marty Gilbert From: Benny Croftman
Fax: 97840
Company: Citi Bank
Date: October 2, 2001
Subject: Burn
Marty,
Last night, they showed the planners on the news. They’re these short little Arabians, and without their tan skin, they could pass for one of us. Curly hair, dark black beards, Coke bottle glasses. The only difference is our faith would never allow something like this. Talking heads say it’s a modern Holocaust- I’m sure you would call that “hyperbolic”. Still, I wouldn’t mind hanging each one by their necks under the Brooklyn bridge.
I picked up your dogs yesterday. Your landlady was nice enough to hold onto them- told me she was “sorry for my loss.” I think she was more upset about losing a tenant. Who wouldn’t be in this climate? New York is bad stock, and people have laced up their running shoes.
On the elevator down, your dogs were going apeshit. Your beagle Lucy paced around, tying me up in her leash, and Miles, the French Brittany, patted at the door with both paws. You can never know what a dog is thinking, but I think they knew. It made me want to scream, scrape the moss from my soul and send it flying. That’s when the elevator dinged, and a young executive entered inside. Her back was straight, her shoulder pads poised, and on her lips was a zipper, tight as her blond bun. Yet as she turned towards the door, I caught her gaze, and I recognized it. It was the same look I’d gotten from every passerby in the city these last few weeks.
We could all use a nice, long scream.
-Benny
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Fax
To: Marty Gilbert From: Benny Croftman
Fax: 97840
Company: Citi Bank
Date: October 12, 2001
Subject: Business as Usual
Marty,
We’re back in office. There is chatter again- less lively, but it’s something. Conversation steers clear of the past month, and yet it always ends there. Did you know someone? Are we going to war? How long will this take to heal?
I hate that last one the most. It triggers something in me because I see you, trapped under ten thousand pounds of steel girder, and I know there’s no healing that. You are dead, and if you aren’t dust already, you’ll be part of the foundation for whatever memorial they end up building there. You’re a casualty, and I guess in a strange way, so am I.
I still fax you, fully knowing that your machine is a million shavings of metal hanging on the scruff of firemen coats. I still fax you because that’s how we always did business. We weren’t Internet yuppies like the rest of the office- we were old school, cocktails on a Friday, bagels and football and family kind of people. We used the fax machine because it worked.
People didn’t used to stare when I’d fax a document at the front of the office. Now they do- they know I only sent faxes to one place, and that one place doesn’t exist anymore.
Baruch Dayan Ha’emet.
-Benny
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Fax
To: Marty Gilbert From: Benny Croftman
Fax: 97840
Company: Citi Bank
Date: November 11, 2001
Subject: Ripples
Marty,
I came into work today at 8:30 AM. Sent some messages, had a phone call with Leeman Brothers, perused market opinion. Lunch was tuna on rye and a Coke. After lunch I met with my manager, and then went back to my desk. Spoke with Tommy at the water cooler. Made some buy, sell, and hold ratings. Picked up some airline stock. When work was over I went home, walked the dogs, watched some Charlie Rose, and went to bed.
Sounds nice in hindsight. It’s too bad I wasn’t there for any of it. It was another person, another Benny that replaced me when all this shit went down. He sees the world like a dog would- in faint gray outlines, without mind or structure. I remember your French Brittany, patting against the door, and I find that with each mouse click, each weather conversation with Tommy, I am striking the same exit.
On the subway home, I sat next to a bus boy at an Italian spot downtown. On his black dress shirt were splats of marinara and cooking grease. He was reading a TIME magazine article of a place with long, golden plains and strutting camelback mountains. I asked him where it was. “Montana,” he said. The glossy page folded over itself, showing an icy clear lake peppered with slanting pines. “Have you ever been?” I said. “I always wanted to,” he said, closing the book. “But the city’s crumbling. I don’t want to leave my mom here all alone.”
I looked out the window, each subway light a star to be wished upon. It was the only time I’d felt awake all month.
-Benny
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Fax
To: Marty Gilbert From: Benny Croftman
Fax: 97840
Company: Citi Bank
Date: December 2, 2001
Subject: Hollowed Out
Marty,
They put the Rockefeller tree up last week. It’s patriotic as hell, practically boiling in red, white, and blue. The town seems to like it, although I’m sure you’d say that plays into Giuliani’s hand some way or another. Luckily, you’re dead, so you won’t have to worry about that.
Snow is starting to crust up on the streets, and everyone notices the gray tint that hallmarks every flake. No one’s talking about it, and I won’t be the one to start the conversation. I’m happy to see people smiling, and I’ve got other things on my mind. Whiter snow is on the horizon.
Montana. That’s where I’m going. Ol’Benny is out there, waiting for me, and I want to find him again. I’m taking the two dogs (Lucy won’t like it, but Miles will be right at home) to a ranch house fifty miles outside Bozeman. It’s a cozy place, with a built-in heater in the floorboards (some things a New Yorker will never give up) and cedar paneling that accents the granite leviathans surrounding it. I’ll try to wait out some of the cold, but I already put a down payment for February, so I’ll hit the snow regardless.
I stared through the hallways of my flat today. Most of the furniture I’ve sold, aside from my La-Z-Boy and a mattress that I’ll throw out day-of. It’s eerie in the dark- there used to be a hum that no longer lives here. I’d imagine it left with the furniture, but we both know that’s a lie. It died when our city died.
An empty place like this will make a good home for a newcomer. Just not for me.
-Benny
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Marty Gilbert
Morgan Stanley
Metropolitan Club, 4, East 60th Street
New York, NY 10065
March 28th, 2002
Mr. Benny Croftman
Retired
8600 Fowler Lane
Bozeman, MT 59718
Marty,
It feels strange writing you a letter, licking it with cold cracked lip, and sending it to you without hearing so much as a keyboard tapping or the screech of a fax machine. It’s better this way, I know, to indulge in this quiet. I’m sure you won’t be offended if this is the last letter I send you.
I am watching your two pups play outside my window in the frozen yellow grass. I was surprised, as I’m sure you would be, at how they get along here. Miles jumps on Lucy’s rear legs, softly snapping at her tail, and instead of pouting, Lucy makes off through the newly thawed field, soft spring light shining on her back in rainbow splinters. This new world is magnetic, this Montana. Sometimes I fear I will never leave.
I still think about you daily. Yesterday, I was out by the lake, spot fishing trout on a dead brown stump, and as wisps of smoke billowed from my nose, I recalled that cigar we shared at the Diamond Lounge on Eighth Street. The Jets had just put away a game-ending field goal, and you pulled two Cubans from your coat pocket with that salt lick smile you loved to tout. I asked how you knew to bring them. You never answered- just cut the tips and handed one to me. We sparked up and laughed until dawn.
I’m not sure when I’ll head back to the city. At times, I consider it, but then I remember that blond-haired gaze, that Italian skyline, the sidewalks that cracked three blocks over. That’s not how I want to remember you. I want to remember you with that cigar in your mouth, your Groucho Marx eyebrows strung out wide, and a fax machine between your lips. You were more than a wading pool and an etched name on granite. You were Marty fucking Gilbert, and you would have loved it here.
Words from a friend,
-Benny
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