Het Cingel

This isn’t what I signed up for, not even close—internalizing now the soon realized sentiment. Lance Fortnite watches; Wall Street sizzling in debauchery, all too manipulation, greed, and corporate theft. Thinks, pays well yes, but morals that float afar from its compass never maintain. As well being an African American in the late 80’s he could not blind eye the related trauma of deception, only now he sits on the scopes “other side”. Morals shaken about as if cupped in the palms of dice players rolling for wins—lucks assisted fortunes.

October 19, 1987. Manhattan, New York. Black Monday—stock market crash, world-wide losses of $1.71 TRILLION. A Great Depression reprise? But how did things get here, as Wall Street in the 1980’s provided a market beaming with growth, adding (too) financial innovations of rapid proportions. Albeit having high ambitions, things also came with even higher excess.

But beginnings set tones, and this tone would begin around 1982 for the ambitious intellect Lance Fortnite (as well a linked co-worker). As known to him, displayed through countless uncomfortable conversational innuendos, he realizes that this title that inherits him is not one usually adorned by an African American, but either way doesn’t make him not so. In his formative years that issue was of high importance, now a settled business type, those insecurities have faded faster than Denver’s chances of beating the New York Giants in the Super Bowl—nine months later, the city is still a glow.

Fresh from college (Brown University) Lance slides directly into the space & presences of the American financier himself, Michael Milken, the “junk bond king”. Hello there, I’m Michael—and so it began for the enterprising pair (plus one). All entering the “Decade of Greed”. Milken speaks…

I’ve got one concept for you Lance, so listen closely (we make it easier for companies with lower credit ratings to access capital).

Ok, the astute Brown College graduate responds.

It all starts with “Junk Bonds”. I’ll spare you the minor details but basically taking high risk, high yield bonds, with higher interest rates than traditional ones. Where this is done to counter the fact that their issued to companies with … let’s just say sketchy credit.

Ok again—for the former Providence, Rhode Island resident. Responding as such as he catches the concept, no need for over-done explanations.

On the other spectrum, Elaine Thomas side eyes with a detectives doubts plus instincts— grilling a suspect to tearful confession. Although new and presently an immediate export from the University of California Berkeley (much like Michael) she picks up on office vibes quickly. Elaine is the type of woman who is definitely pro, but escapes the toxic general male bashes. She’s also spicy with the tongue, making everyday office interactions a thing of daily intrigue.

1982 was the beginning, but as stated 1987 would mark the period of “forever change”. Adding still that much changed in those 5 years of Elaine and Lance first landing on Wall Street fresh from University life.

Good morning Elaine—hello Michael, Lance gazes then shoots a morning salute to both as now the day commences. The office is filled with optimism, optimism because money is being made, and LOTS of it. Thanks to Michael himself, Lance learning and growing under his watchful tutelage. Elaine though, however being a functioning member of the team, never bought-in (entirely) to the idea of involvement in the sketchy business practices that brought this company so much financial success. With years passing, things are now starting to come to a head.

Michael chimes—I promise Elaine, I’ve got everything under control. Lance sips his morning Java, while steam clouds cozy to conversations. Michael’s right, we’ve covered T’s and most definitely have dotted I’s. Elaine shrugs with an entrapped posture, almost as if to suggest, I’m in it now—what the heck. Michael & Lance both reassure Elaine, likely now switching subjects.

Michael—so Elaine, I understand your concerns, and I get it, but I’ve been doing this a while, and I promise—things are on perfect course. You know the big parties coming up. We’ll have a time, in so, I’ll detail all practices and we’ll go through to re-assure you. With bills, plus rent, a cat, and more student loan debt than she likes to ponder, Elaine flows and goes. The day ends and all retreat to home-fronts. “GOODNIGHT”, they all exclaim to each other at some point.

Lance and Michael leave out the glass front door as Elaine heads to the basement parking lot. She reaches the building elevator and presses the down panel. It comes. She enters. Down she goes. Ding. Doors open to parking garage desolation as Elaine strides towards her 1984 Buick Skylark—powder blue in color. Dimly lit, she eyeballs a mysterious figure in a seemed all black suit slowly heading towards her. She races to her car as she distances from the stranger. Now inside the Buick she starts, puts in drive, then accelerates from inside the parking garage.

“Thank God”, as she composes senses behind the wheel. She thinks for a second to make a guess at who that could have been, maybe random, maybe one of Michael’s practices of shaky business has come to haunt. Either way she’s spooked. Sitting on top of her blue paneled car seat lays her purse. She now reaches inside (eyes gliding back n forth) to get her cigarettes. Reaching, she takes, lights, all the while enjoying her Virginia Slim—until sights. Sights seen. That same stranger in the seemed all black suit. Following now in a gray automobile, her entire system proves nervous. With no communication devices to call authorities, or husband at home to alert she starts to analyze a plan.

With quick thinking she attempts a risky road maneuver to shake the persistent stranger. As she does, BOOM, her left tire blows her into a half spin. Her attention momentarily diverts, giving the stranger leverage. Soon as she comes to, then ejects seatbelt—excuse me, Miss, are you ok? She jerks back, it’s ok, I’m detective William Percy. I didn’t mean to frighten you.

Why are you following me, you could’ve gotten me killed you know—soon enough to drive this young girl mad slightly. I’m only trying to make it home to my cat and my new book (Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café).

I apologize M’aam as I only want to talk.

That’s why I’m here… to prevent you from being away from that lovely cat and stated book for a very long time. *THEY CONVERSE*.

—Flash Forward: The Party; A meeting of inevitability—

CELEBRATE GOOD TIMES, COME—ON, blasts as Michael and Lance sip champagne in celebrations of one financially amazing decade. The office is packed with smiling faces, bonuses gained through financial trickery, and a party celebrating corporate deceit. Uhmmm … as well, some adult treats mixed about in the atmospheric fray. However Lance starts to battle with his own morality, something just does not feel quite right. He then calls Elaine on an office phone, hoping to hear one of her opposing quips, also to see if she’s still coming to the party. He does get through however, her interrupting but alerting that she’s on the way. Michael, who is now rapidly approaching the—excuse me sir, but I’m gonna have to take your keys—portion of the night stops to sober some as he and Elaine have business.

Elaine finally reaches the party with the strangest of demeanors. Possibly the toll of the drinks has altered the perception of the pair as to not notice, however though the night proceeds none-the-less. Elaine eases over to Michael who now dawns a face of business intent.

You ok there?

I’ve stopped drinking long ago, let’s go to my office so we can go over everything—as Mr. Milken’s business mind ignites. They mull through it all, plans, strategies, slanted practices found through loop-holes. ALL.

Lance, in the midst of festivities, sips his champagne (too) noticing a tall white gentleman eyeing. Suspicions rise amongst chants of Madonna’s “Holiday” … however he acquaints with normality, avoiding awkward mood-sets or rather “changes”, fueling those suspicions.

Michael and Elaine, now finished with all briefings, commence to re-join the party as one tear visits—Elaine the sender. Curiosity captures Michael as, a gentleman enters.

Hello Sir, my name is William Percy—Elaine, of that wire—although having respect plus a genuine fondness for her two co-workers, she could not any longer abandon her moral codes, described by her—I just can no longer… it’s just, weighing on me—i’m sorry Michael.

Lance glances as the other detective comes-to then alerts. Mr. Lance Fortnite, your being charged with … his life flashes, wondering still, how he could ever have reached such a point.

“This isn’t what I signed up for, not even close”!