Kapitoil

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: OCTOBER 3

The Atlantic elongates below us like an infinite violet carpet.

However, the American teenager dividing me from the window does not observe it. He is plugged into earphones and recreates with a video game simulation of an airplane flight. It is strange that someone would focus on a minimal flat monitor of artificial flying when you are truly flying and have a big-picture view of the world. Possibly it is because he has traveled in an airplane multiple times and this is my initial experience.

His name is Brian, and acne covers his face like islands on a map or discrete red points on a graph. After we relaunch from London, he asks if I have any games on my computer.

“No,” I say. “I use it merely for programming.”

He unplugs one earphone. “What do you program?”

I am still in the brainstorming phase for the programming window currently open, so I have coded only a few lines. “I work for Schrub Equities at their office in Doha, Qatar.”

“Really, for Schrub?” He unplugs his other earphone. “You make financial programs for them?”

“I sometimes create programs.”

He looks at my screen. I reach for the airplane’s consumer magazine in the chair’s netting and intentionally contact my laptop so that it rotates away from the angle of Brian’s eyes. “What do they use them for?”

“I typically do not show them to my superiors,” I say.

“Why, they don’t work?”

“It is complex to describe.” I minimize the programming window. “Sometimes programs require—”

He shifts through different channels on his personal television. “Then what are you coming to New York for, if you’re not a real programmer?” he asks.

“I am here until December 31st to help them prepare for the Y2K bug so their systems do not malfunction.” It sounds less impressive than when I practiced stating it at home.

“So that’s why you’re in business class,” he says, and I think he is complimenting me until he replugs both earphones and adds, “Only the serious businessmen fly in first.” I restrict myself from telling him that it is in fact critical work and they are transporting me because I am the cream of the cream Y2K specialist in Doha, and instead I look outside, where the ocean mirrors the plummeting sun like toggling quartz in concrete or an array of diamonds, and reminds me of why our mother gave Zahira her name, because she parallels a diamond in various ways.

When I retrieve my new voice recorder/electronic dictionary from my pocket later to certify it is functioning, Brian inspects it and asks how it works. I explain that if it detects human voices nearby it records for up to 12 hours, and if it detects silence it powers off. He asks if I am also a reporter. “I am recording a journal while I am in the U.S., and this will help me to study the American voices I hear and to transmit their conversations without error.”

Brian laughs loudly enough for the people behind us to hear. “You keep a diary?” he says. I wish his parents were on the airplane, but he seems like the class of teenager who does not adjust his behavior even in front of his parents. “The only person I know who does that is my sister.”

Several of the American financial magazines I read advise recording a journal for self-actualization, and I am additionally doing it to enhance my English, but he will not appreciate that or my two other motivations: (1) I hypothesize that writing your thoughts is a way of deciphering precisely what you truly feel, and it is especially valuable if you have a problem, similar to how writing a computer program helps you decipher the solution to a real-world problem, and (2) recording my experiences is also integral to remembering precise ideas and moments from my time in the U.S. I have a robust memory for some details, but it is complex to continue acquiring data and archive them all, and even I now am forgetting some older memories, as if my brain is a hard drive and time is a magnet.

The captain says we should complete our customs forms “ASAP,” and I research the term in the book I contain a copy of in my other pocket, which I also gave to Zahira: The International Businessperson’s Guide to English, which self-defines on the reverse cover as “An indispensable compendium of English financial jargon and idioms for the global businessperson, from actionable to zombie bonds.” There is also a void in the rear for the owner to record more jargon terms, as I do frequently, even though my knowledge base of English financial jargon is already broad for a foreigner because of my nighttime classes in programming and mathematics and economics.

The chief flight attendant commands us to power off electronics. We angle down to New York City, and the skyscrapers of Manhattan aggregate like tall flowers in a garden and the grids of orange lights look like LEDs on a circuit board.

The previous landing from Doha to London slightly panicked me, so to reroute my brain I reinitiate conversation with Brian, although my ideal partner for logic problems is Zahira.

“I have an interesting math problem,” I say. “Is an airplane a greater gas-guzzler per passenger than a car? Here are some data that I received from the captain when I transferred, converted to American measurements: (1) We will consume approximately 17,000 gallons of gas on this flight; (2) it is 3,471 miles from London to New York; and (3) there are 415 total passengers and employees.”

Brian yawns, but I continue, as sometimes people become stimulated by a subject once they learn more.

I write the equation on a napkin for him:

“Therefore, if a car has four passengers, what must its gas mileage be to equal an airplane’s per-person efficiency of approximately 84.7 passenger-miles per gallon?”

“I don’t know,” Brian says. “I suck at math.”

It is frustrating when people do not have faith in their skills, because this is a simple problem he could solve if he tried. I explain that a car must consume 21.2 miles per gallon to be as efficient with four passengers, and that a new hybrid car from Honda is more efficient with just two passengers.

“But there is no car that is as efficient if you are solitary,” I say.

Brian opens the airplane’s journalism magazine as we descend. I tell him there is an article on Derek Schrub, which delighted me to discover and which I am saving for Zahira to practice her English comprehension, but he is reading about an English actor’s preferred restaurants in Tokyo. I especially enjoy the beginning:

YO HO HO AND A TWO-LITER BOTTLE OF SODA

On a windswept, perfect-for-sailing Saturday at the Indian Harbor Yacht Club in Greenwich, Connecticut (lat. 41°00′40″ N, long. 73°37′23″ W), Derek Schrub — founder and CEO of Schrub Equities, the financial services and investment goliath whose net revenues topped $29 billion last year — makes an executive decision: asking his wife, Helena, to buy a two-liter bottle of soda for their day on the yacht. “It’s cheaper than the six-packs,” he rumbles as he checks the tides. A man of such impressive wealth doesn’t really count cents when it comes to carbonated beverages — does he?

“That’s how I grew my company,” says the tanned and salt-and-peppered 64-year-old, who resides in an Upper East Side penthouse in Manhattan during the week but chooses the subway over cabs and limos (“The subway is fast, cheap, and entertaining; a car is none of those”). “Counting cents.”

Known in business circles as “the Hedge Clipper” for his innovative hedging strategies in the 1970s, when his fledgling company soared while nearly everyone else faltered, Schrub is the closest thing the financial world has to an ambassador. Confidant to senators and celebrities alike, board member of dozens of charitable organizations, and the face of perhaps the most successful financial company of the last quarter century, he ranked first in a recent poll asking graduating MBAs which business figure they sought to emulate.

For now, though, he is looking forward to an afternoon on the high seas aboard his relatively humble — by Greenwich standards—35-foot yacht (named Clarissa, for Schrub’s mother) with Helena and their two sons, Wilson, 21, and Jeromy, 19, on summer break from Princeton. “Sailing is my passion,” opines Schrub, “but I don’t need a fifty-foot boat to prove that to others. I’m not one for conspicuous consumption. There’s nothing inherently wrong with accumulating money, unless that’s all that matters to you.”

The rest of the article is about sailing, and it does not indicate if the soda is Coke, which would interest me more than sailing does, but I like the last quotation, and I consider mailing the translation to Uncle Haami, because of what he said one year ago when I had the opportunity to labor at Schrub’s Doha office. He was eating dinner at our home on a Friday and we were roundtabling my job offer. After being polite for the majority of the meal, Haami finally became upset when I discussed Schrub’s recent record growth. “You will be divesting money from Qatar and into the hands of greedy Americans,” he said as he swallowed the hareis I had cooked.

I was very prepared for this argument. “First, how are they more greedy than Doha Bank?” I asked. “They both aim to create more wealth. Schrub merely possesses more equity. Second, how are we paying for this lamb?”

“It is not money I object to,” he said, which is slightly different from Mr. Schrub’s quotation but has some intersection. “It is the imbalanced distribution. And it is the American economic policy of imperialism.”

I said that companies like Schrub create the largest pool of money, and they can do so only because there does exist an imbalanced distribution of equity, so that the innovators, e.g., Derek Schrub, have enough capital to impact the world around them. I did not say it then, because it might have negated my argument, but the article is correct when it calls Mr. Schrub the Hedge Clipper. It would of course be optimal if everyone infinitely produced wealth, but sometimes only a zero-sum game is possible, and you must hedge to create wealth while others are losing it. And I agree with Mr. Schrub: I am trying to earn impressive wealth not for conspicuous consumption, but to certify that I can pay for half of Zahira’s tuition and so our father can retire from his store before he becomes very old.

“And the correct word is not ‘imperialism,’ but ‘globalization,’” I said. I believe I pronounced the English translation as well. “Globalization creates more trade and jobs for everyone, in both the U.S. and Qatar.”

“I will not argue with you anymore in your father’s home,” Haami said. “What do you think, Issar?”

My father breathed on his gunpowder and mint tea and drank from it and scratched his gray beard before he replied. He looked at my uncle although he was discussing me.

“Karim is a grown man,” he said. “He can make his own decisions.”

He did not say another word then about Schrub, and he has not said anything about it after.

I appreciate that Zahira supported me by saying that I was not designed to labor in a garage, like our uncle, or to sell food and items people want that they cannot purchase elsewhere, like our father, and although that is true and I have more robust plans for myself, I told her after dinner that she should not devalue their jobs, which are integral even if we desire more from life than merely waking up, eating breakfast, laboring for someone else at tasks most people could do, and repeating the same actions daily without personal growth.

The airplane contacts the ground with force, and I close my eyes and contain my breath until the wheels smoothly merge with the concrete and we decelerate.

After I retrieve my luggage, which is minimal because I do not have much clothing and only one additional suit, I see a black man holding a sign that displays “KARIM ISSAR” with large quotation marks and at the bottom is the logo for Schrub Equities of a flying black hawk transporting the letters S and E in its two feet, which infinitely makes me feel proud, but especially now, when I see my name publicly linked to my company. He is approximately 15 years older than I am and has a full mustache and a mostly voided beard, probably because he shaved in the morning.

“I am Karim Issar of Schrub Equities,” I say. I put down my luggage to shake his hand. The name sign on his left pectoral displays BARRON without quotation marks.

Barron does not shake my hand but picks up my luggage. “This all?” he asks.

I nod, because this is the first American here I have talked to besides Brian and the airplane workers and the customs official, and I am nervous about making an error even though his own sentence is incomplete.

“I can carry them,” I say. But Barron is already leaving. I follow him out of the automatic doors of the airport onto American concrete, and my lungs consume the cool air that is like the initial taste of a Coke with ice.

Barron drives a black car, but it is not a limo, and the interior leather is the color of sand and feels like Zahira’s stomach when she was an infant. A photograph inside the sun-protector over his head displays a little girl with braided hair, although it is unlike the fewer and less rigid braids my mother sometimes used to produce for Zahira when our father was at the store.

In the front mirror I see Barron has a small scar above his right eyebrow, which looks like his left eyebrow in the mirror. It is like debugging a program: Sometimes you do not truly observe something until you study it in reverse.

We are on the highway now, although there is not much to see and the sun has already descended. The speedometer is at 55, the optimal rate for consuming gas, so I recall the problem on the airplane. This car is probably not efficient enough with two people to be as efficient as the airplane, but I am curious.

“Excuse me. How much gas does this car guzzle?” I ask.

“Guzzle?” Barron says. “You mean its fuel efficiency? I don’t know.”

“It is not 42 on the highway, is it?”

Barron laughs, but it does not make me feel the way it did when Brian laughed. “Not even close. But if you find one like that, let me know. They make us pay for our own gas.”

The car zooms through the streets of Manhattan like a circuit charge, and the buildings maximize as we get closer. From a distance I identify my new apartment building, Two Worldwide Plaza. On its top is a glass pyramid, and pyramids intrigue me for four main reasons:

1. The Great Pyramid of Cheops is one of man’s superior ventures, yet we do not know with 100 % certainty how it was constructed.

2. The perimeter of the Great Pyramid divided by its perpendicular height approximately equals 2.

3. The circumference of a circle divided by its radius also equals 2, which may or may not be a coincidence.

4. Pyramids are elegant images of best practice hierarchies for organizations.

Barron deposits me at my entrance. He exits the car and angles his head back to see the building, although his perspective is from the ground, which is inferior to an elevated view. “Not bad.”

“My company is paying for it,” I say.

He removes my luggage from the rear, and I give him a gratuity. “Thank you,” I add. “I hope I have not interrupted your dinner plans.”

“No, I’ve got dinner waiting at home,” he says. “Have a good night.” He reenters the car and drives away.

The material in the entrance is made of dark wood and brass or possibly gold. All the surfaces mirror light, and there is a guard in a suit of greater quality than Barron’s behind a desk. My room is 3313, which makes me think of the RPM of records, and the record to the CD is an analog for the pyramid to the skyscraper, and although the modern invention is of course more efficient, there is still something intriguing about the obsolete device. E.g., I have positive memories of my mother playing the few Beatles records she was able to acquire in Doha when I was a child and of the sound of the instruments merging with the interference and especially of how she played them at higher volume when my father was not at home, but I do not have any positive memories of CDs, possibly because I have little leisure time now to listen, and also I do not know anyone who loves music as much as my mother did.

ASAP = as soon as possible

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: OCTOBER 10

On Monday, when I exit the elevator on the 88th floor of World Trade Center 1 (the floor number there also delights me, because 88 has perfect symmetry, as the most elegant objects and ideas do), I immediately see the S and E and the black Schrub logo of the hawk attached to the wall, as if it were trying to fly away. In the Doha office the logo is not so large and it is merely painted on the wall. This is a three-dimensional plastic object, and before I enter the office I touch the hawk briefly when no one is nearby, although a sharp corner of its wing slightly pains my finger.

A hallway curves around the main circular laboring room, and there is a small nucleus in the center of six desks in a circle. The sides of the room have sections divided by walls like the lines connecting to numbers on an analog clock, and in fact there are 12 sections called pods. Each section contains four gray desks and workers arranged in the shape of a non-compressed staple. Therefore, the workers in the center, who are the superiors, can observe the other employees at all times.

My podmates are Dan Wulf, Jefferson Smithfield, and Rebecca Goldman. Jefferson stands up to shake my hand and Dan shakes my hand from his chair and Rebecca waves. The desk assignments are:

Jefferson is the pod leader. He is very short, possibly even shorter than Rebecca, although he wears shoes that have thick soles and when he took them off later that day I saw additional cushioning in the interior, so with them he equals her vertically. His pale face has acute angles and looks like it belongs on a sculpture and shares some features with Taahir’s from Doha Human Resources, and his hair is between blond and brown. His forearms are highly defined with muscles and he frequently rolls his sleeves up to type but I hypothesize also to reveal them. Multiple postcards on the wall over his desk display the posters of Japanese movies with translated titles such as Akira and Seven Samurai and Ikiru. Sometimes during work he writes in a small notebook and counts with his fingers five or seven times as he moves his lips and mutely reads it.

Dan is slightly taller than I am, potentially 75 inches, although he constantly minimizes his height by not standing 100 % vertically, and his dark hair is already slightly voiding on the top. He is plugged into earphones most of the time. Over his desk a framed image of the top of a mountain displays:

THE ART OF BUSINESS:

ANTICIPATE, DON’T WAIT

REACT TO THE FACT

THRIVE, NOT JUST SURVIVE

Rebecca wears glasses like a turtle’s shell I once located for one of my father’s customers and her black hair is not short or tied up like the hair of the other females in the office, although you can still see her earrings, which are in the shape of dolphins. One lower tooth is misaligned with the others. Her only desk decoration is a small photograph of her with her younger brother.

Jefferson and Dan complain frequently to each other about our “minor league bitch work,” which is partially true of the Y2K project because it is repetitive and Jefferson commands me to “piggyback” on the team’s previous work and not create anything original, although I believe it is inappropriate to complain in the workplace and demoralize your coworkers. They sometimes quietly discuss other programmers and financial analysts ranked above them that they believe they have superior skills to. Rebecca does not make any negative comments about the project or other workers except on the first day when she says, “Don’t expect to receive any kudos. We’re essentially vassals here.”

However, I can tell she is not stimulated because she frequently puts her lower face in her hands shaped like a V and stares at the divider wall above her monitor.

Jefferson and Dan also recreate with a game called fantasy baseball. When they arrive at work, they analyze the previous night’s performances of the players they “own.” Typically I do not listen to them, because I do not know the players and have difficulty understanding their jargon terms. Rebecca tells me they converse about it even more now than they did during the summer because they are in a special playoff fantasy baseball league and the winner receives more money. They also make daily bets of $10 with each other on the stock market’s performance.

But I do listen to one integral conversation on Wednesday as they are leaving.

“Book it,” Dan says as he clicks his mouse. “I just traded away Bernie Williams for Scott Brosius with Tim.”

Jefferson cleans his mouth with a toothpick from a box he stores in his desk. “You was robbed.”

Dan points to a newspaper article on his monitor. “Nope. The Post said Williams has never had a consistent playoff run — he always burns out. Brosius was consistent in every series last year. The data’s out there. Tim’s lazy, he never looks it up.”

After they leave, Rebecca rotates her chair to me. “Do you ever just sometimes genuflect and thank Jesus that we’re privy to such scintillating conversation?” she asks.

Although I can detect most of the idea from her voice and face, I do not know the definitions of some words, so I say, “I am uncertain what you mean.”

Her small smile deletes. “Forget it, dumb joke,” she says, and she leaves so quickly for the restroom that her chair makes a 270-degree rotation afterward.

I take the subway to the Museum of Modern Art after work to utilize my free access as a Schrub employee. The business section of The New York Times is on the plastic subway seat next to me, and I read about a merger on Tuesday between two start-up companies that raised their stock. A merger is similar to a mutually beneficial trade, although of course there is no way an investor could know about it before it occurs without insider trading.

But possibly there is a way to predict news like this without insider trading. E.g., what if I can decipher that a merger or another major transaction will take place, via public data, and then predict if the stock will rise or plummet? Dan performed normal research for his trade, but all financial workers do this for stocks and companies, so it is difficult to gain an advantage. I can merely hope my research is the most accurate.

My brain continues to evaluate this idea as I walk through the museum exhibits. The paintings of the Dutchman Piet Mondrian intrigue me, as they look like city streets, and one of his famous paintings is titled New York City. His lines are perfectly straight like geometric Islamic designs and would extend infinitely if the frames did not restrict them.

Then I enter an exhibit on the American Jackson Pollock. At first I do not enjoy his paintings. They are too chaotic and have no logic and organization like Mondrian’s. I could have painted the same thing, and so could many other painters, only Pollock was the originator and therefore he receives all the kudos. Paintings of this class make me feel like I do not understand why people appreciate visual art.

But then I see some quotations by Pollock about his paintings, such as: “I don’t use the accident—’cause I deny the accident.” And I reevaluate that possibly Pollock’s paintings have more value, because he has a philosophy similar to mine, which is that life is ultimately predictable. Many people believe it is science that controls life or Allah or some other spiritual energy, and in my opinion also we do not have true free will, e.g., my conscious decisions are the product of my neurons and not my will as an independent agent. Therefore, the variables that appear to be chaotic in fact exist in the environment for us to collect and analyze and make predictions from. This is how many systems function, like the weather, and, although some people believe it is impossible, the stock market.

When I was 11, my friend Raghid kicked a soccer ball through the window of our elderly neighbor Mamdouh’s apartment. All the other children, including Raghid, ran away, which upset me since my team required only one more goal to win. But I forgot about the score and remained because the pieces of glass on the ground looked like icicles, which I previously saw photographs of exclusively, and I studied their shapes for several minutes as well as the patterns of cracks in the window that looked like spiderwebs and the parallels between the cracks and the arrangement of glass on the ground, and that is how Mamdouh detected me. My father commanded me to labor at the store until I could pay for the window. He knew I hated laboring there. I frequently complained as a child that it was too small for me to run around in, and when I was older it always bothered me how disorganized the items were.

I said it was not my fault. He asked who kicked the ball. Raghid’s family was poorer than ours, so I said I kicked it. But I also innovated a clever explanation: I argued that because events are predetermined as Qadar in Al-Lauh Al-Mahfuz, where Allah writes all that has happened and will happen, it means that it was not truly my fault.

My father said that everything we do belongs to Allah and to us equally. He also said something that I have always remembered, because I read later that it was a strategic technique for parents, as it makes the child want to enhance his behavior, and I used it with Zahira on the few occasions when she did not perform well in school.

“I am not angry with you,” he said. “I am disappointed.”

Then he made me labor twice as long at the store so I could not only repay for the broken window but also buy new Korans for both Mamdouh and me.

But merely because something is predictable and destined does not mean it is logical outside the world of numbers, e.g., a scientist with infinite resources could have predicted my mother’s breast cancer by analyzing her biological properties and her environment, but she was not personally responsible at all for becoming unhealthy, even though my father argued we are responsible for everything.

In the museum there is another Pollock quotation that intrigues me even more: “My paintings do not have a center, but depend on the same amount of interest throughout.” I read it just after I notice that it is difficult to focus on his paintings.

And then I have an idea, and although the typical image to represent having an idea is a lightbulb powering on, for me I visualize the stars slowly becoming visible in the nighttime sky, because (1) like a strong idea they were always present; but (2) it requires the correct conditions to observe them; and (3) make connections between them. My idea is: I can use Pollock’s ideas about denying the accident and about there being no center for a stock market program. Everyone else who writes programs to predict the stock market concentrates on the most central variables and incorporates a few minor ones. But what if I utilize variables that no one observes because they seem tangential, and I utilize exclusively these tangential variables? I would have an advantage like Dan had in his fantasy baseball trade, where he used tangential data instead of central data. And because I am a tangential foreign banker in the U.S., possibly I will have a greater chance of locating these tangential data, e.g., as a parallel, because I am not a native English speaker I must pay closer attention to its grammar, and therefore I detected the error Dan made that most Americans also make when he used “data” as a singular noun.

And possibly I will predict events that other people consider random accidents.

On Saturday morning I have my first opportunity to call Zahira when I am not too taxed and she is still awake.

“Karim!” she says. “I was wondering when you would call.”

She is probably in our living room, next to the window that overviews our courtyard and the other apartments, and sitting on the brown cotton couch which we have had since I was a child and whose material needs to be repaired.

“I have been very busy. And I have emailed you,” I say.

“Yes, but that is not the same. It is nice to hear your voice.”

It is nice to hear hers as well. She does not remember it, but her voice sounds like our mother’s: clear but soft and loud simultaneously, like warm water poured over your head. I ask her how she is performing in school, and she tells me about her biology class. It pleases me that she is engaged although I do not understand most of the jargon terms and ideas and cannot respond, except when she discusses viruses, as I mostly self-taught computers by studying viruses at night for a year when I was 18, and I was always the employee at the Doha branch who healed viruses. Biological viruses are of course not perfectly equivalent to computer viruses, but they share some theoretical similarities, and I find it intriguing that they are all self-replicating, as if they have their own brains, and it is dependent on my brain to contain and destroy them.

“Certify that after you finish your introductory quantitative analysis course you first take microeconomics, as it is important to understand individual motivation, and then macroeconomics for the big-picture view,” I say.

“I know,” Zahira says. “You have told me a million times.”

“And if you enhance your English, we can converse in it more frequently.”

In English, she says, “You tell me one million times.”

“You have told me a million times,” I say. “But I can tell you are studying idioms. If you read and practice as much as I do, your skills will broaden.”

I talk about the airplane and the ways midtown reminds me of Al Dafna and the West Bay, and how rapidly people walk when transferring subways, especially the professional females, and that everyone’s aggregated earphones in the subway sound like machines striking metal. I inventory my apartment: a high-end television and stereo; a quality couch of black leather; a bed that could contain three of my bodies; a silver refrigerator of spacious storage capacity; a white carpet that feels like a horse’s hair; a square black table with four chairs; and an invisible glass coffee table that is elegant although when I arrived I did not observe it and crashed my knee on it.

She makes jokes that amuse only us, e.g., when I tell her how efficient the subways are and she says, “I would like to see Aunt Maysaa on the subway. She would complain even if it transported her from one station to another instantly.”

I say, “And if it paid her money as well.”

She adds, “And if the conductor told her she was the most important passenger.”

We find similar concepts humorous, although she produces jokes at a greater and more successful rate. Business manuals explain how valuable it is to have a sense of humor, so I am studying how others produce jokes, such as making a statement that is clearly the reverse of what you truly mean and using a tone of voice that indicates the reversal. But it is not a natural response for me, minus sometimes with Zahira, and I am unskilled at intentionally adjusting my voice.

“I am working on a prototype of a program for the stock market that I will soon present to a superior at Schrub,” I say.

I explain the concept, and how it employs complex algorithms, which are parallel to instructions or a recipe. Although she does not have my math or finance skills, she is intelligent enough to decipher the main idea.

“I am certain it will be successful,” she says.

“Why?” I ask. “I have not completed the program yet.”

Then she says what I always said to her when she was in school and was having difficulty with an assignment: “Because you are very smart and you labor very hard, and if it is possible to achieve, then you are the person to achieve it.”

“Where did you learn that idea?” I ask.

“From a stupid person I know.”

It is the class of joke she produces rapidly which takes me longer to think of, if I even do think of it.

She asks if I want to speak to our father. I pause, then tell her to transfer the telephone. Zahira yells for my father. In a minute he greets me.

“You have been away a week without any calls,” he says.

Without attempting, I convert to the voice people use when speaking to an automated telephone menu. “As I told Zahira, I emailed immediately to inform you I arrived safely, and the time difference makes it difficult to call during the weekdays.”

“Your sister was worried,” he says.

The windows in my apartment have a partial overview of Times Square. At the top of the chief building is a neon-green Schrub logo of the hawk transporting the S and E in its two feet, with a thin horizontal monitor like an electronic ticker tape that displays a scrolling font of news, e.g., METS TAKE 2–1 DIVISION SERIES LEAD…YANKS LOOK TO SWEEP RANGERS…The monitor travels around all four sides of the building so that it is visible from every direction. It is enjoyable to watch the words angle around the corners.

“I will contact her more, but she is also very busy with her schoolwork,” I say.

“Her work is not so important that she cannot take a few minutes off.”

My hand tightens on the cellular and I walk in a rectangle around the white carpet. “I would not know about regular university courses. I know only about the nighttime courses I paid for myself.”

He is mute for several seconds, then he says, “I have to leave for the mosque. I hope you have not been too busy so far with work to find one near you.”

I tell him I have been to one already, and we disconnect. I spend the rest of the weekend working on my program and thinking about what Zahira said. If it can be achieved, then I have faith that I possess the skills to do it.

book it = make a transaction official

genuflect = angle the knees into a position for prayer

kudos = praise

minor league = inferior level of play in baseball; also applicable to other skill sets

piggyback = add on to previous work

pod(mate) = workstation (workstation coworkers)

privy to = have access to

scintillating = stimulating

vassal = inferior worker in the feudal system

you was robbed = usage of incorrect second person to indicate an unsound transaction

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: OCTOBER 13

I stay up late Monday and Tuesday nights programming and email Zahira a longer description of my program. It is difficult to translate into words what is a very rigorous mathematical process, but it is still like scanning a Pollock painting. There are so many layers and colors and patterns of paint that it is impossible for an art critic to analyze all of them, just as there are so many data in and surrounding the stock market even for a computer program to evaluate, and in fact it does not help the program to evaluate all the data, because then it does not know which layers, colors, and patterns of data are truly important. So other programs typically weight the obvious variables more, but because they are all using them, they produce similar results.

My program magnifies variables that I believe other programs are underutilizing and creates links between these and other variables that do not seem to relate. It is like scanning one minimal corner of a Pollock painting and studying only that corner carefully, and then scanning another partition of the painting somewhere, or even another painting, or data from Pollock’s life, and discovering how the different partitions of data are equal or different. Then the program repeats this comparison with more partitions and more paintings, which computers are of course more efficient at than humans are.

While I labor on the project, I power on the television in the background. I watch financial shows whenever possible, but I also watch the baseball games. I am not very interested in the game itself, but the analysts converse nonstop, so it is beneficial for my English. Each night at midnight I see a long advertisement for a machine called Steve Winslow’s Juicinator that produces juice out of vegetables and fruits. By the third night I can remember and predict what Steve Winslow will say, such as: (1) “This juice has powerful, all-natural antioxidants” (2) “It’s made with high-quality, durable plastic that will outlast you” (3) “It’s not a blender; it’s not a juicer; it’s a Juicinator” and (4) “If I didn’t believe in it, I wouldn’t put my name on it.” On Wednesday night I buy the juicer, as I do not eat enough fruits and vegetables here, and because it is durable it will survive for many years and retain its value.

Late on Tuesday night my program reaches an average of +2.0 percentage points above market returns in tests, which means it is a positive investment risk. I stay up until Wednesday morning writing a short report on my program and explaining its benefits. It is challenging to write something in English that a native speaker will read, but most of it is mathematical and financial jargon terms, which I am more comfortable with, such as:

The model can be interpreted probabilistically, so it can derive error bounds on estimates. Then it runs secondary simulations, with different possible values. Then it creates agents that model activities of major players in the market…

I notice I use many words that the baseball analysts frequently say, e.g., in this section: “error,” “runs,” “agents,” and “players,” which is logical, since baseball is partially what helped me conceive this idea and is also a system of independent players and actions and laws that people like Dan attempt to predict.

On Wednesday I wait until Jefferson is alone in the office kitchen and tell him about my program and show him my report and ask which superior I can give it to. He scans the pages for a few minutes.

“You’ve coded it pretty good, but it’s a little Karim-esque,” Jefferson says, “in that it’s littered with grammatical errors.” I want to tell him that I rarely make grammatical errors and that I merely have problems with idioms, and that his last sentence in fact contained a critical grammatical error, but he is helping me, so I nod. “If you like, I can clean up the writing for you and submit it to a higher-up I know in quants.” I thank him and ask him to keep these data private.

“This data,” he says. I merely nod again.

I return to my pod and try not to think about the potential success of my program, because it is unhealthy to speculate before it has even been accepted, but whenever I make an advance in my career I recall what my mother said to me once when she was in the hospital. It must have been a few months after I turned 12, because she was not yet attached to the machine that breathed for her and was still strong enough to talk for long periods of time. Also, they still permitted Zahira to visit her. At the end my parents decided Zahira shouldn’t see her in that condition, so only my father and I went and she stayed with our aunt and uncle. After our visits, he always exited to their bedroom alone and closed the door, and I had to tell Zahira about the visit. The doctors advised me to lie to her and say that our mother merely had to go away for a long time, and although possibly that lie would have protected Zahira’s feelings more, that is one area of life people should never lie about. In addition, she was very smart even then and understood what was happening.

But I remember Zahira was there, because she had to use the restroom, and my father left my mother’s room with her to find a nurse. When the door closed behind them, my mother sat up in the bed. I thought she was going to ask me to retrieve her some water, as she frequently did. But she said, “Karim, if I ask you to promise me something, will you always honor it?”

I moved around in my chair and wished a nurse would return, but I said yes.

“When I—” she said. “I want you to take care of Zahira.”

“I always take care of her,” I said.

She shook her head. “I want you to be the one who takes care of her. You. Do you understand?”

I quickly looked at the closed door. “I understand,” I said.

“And although you may not see why now, I also want you to look after your father,” she said.

I said I understood again, but I didn’t 100 %. Then my father returned and we discussed something else.

Zahira is fortunate to grow up as a female now in Qatar instead of one or two decades ago, but if she lacks sufficient funds then it limits her options, and I will not be honoring my promise to my mother.

antioxidants = substances that restrict cancer; found in juice

higher-up = superior in a pyramidal hierarchy

juicer = device that produces juice

Karim-esque = representative of Karim

littered with = filled with

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: OCTOBER 17

On Thursday I am nervous to ask Jefferson if he has heard from his contact in quants, and he does not mention it or email me about it. At the end of the day he and Dan discuss where to go that night.

“What’s wrong with Haven?” Dan asks.

“The patrons are morons,” Jefferson says. “And ugly, to boot.”

Dan deposits one hand in his pocket and pets the back of his head with the other. “Fine, we’ll go to Scorch.” He detects me looking at them, which is impolite of me, but when they are conversing so loudly it is natural to pay attention. “We only have space for a couple of guys on the list. But we’ll get you another time.”

After they leave, Rebecca focuses on her monitor while she speaks to me. “You’re not missing out on anything, by the way,” she says. “They’re hoping some vapid Alpha Phis will be impressed by the fact that they spent $400 for a bottle of vodka and two seats at a table in a room full of date-rapists.”

I do not want to spend $400 on seats, but there are some areas of life I would like to observe in New York that are challenging to experience in Doha, e.g., alcohol and females. The few times I have gone with my coworkers and foreign businessmen to hotel nightclubs where they serve alcohol, I restrict myself to a maximum of one drink, although my coworkers consume more than that, and they dance with foreign females and sometimes leave with them. Three months ago a female banker from Jordan sat next to me as I ordered my drink. After we talked briefly about her work, she moved slightly closer to me and said, “I am staying in the hotel by myself for three nights.”

Her face was highly symmetrical, and under her business suit her body had a pleasing shape, and she smelled like a garden. But she was two years younger than I was, and I could not stop considering that she was someone’s daughter, or possibly sister, and I negated the temptation. To be polite I bought her drinks for the duration of the night, and before I left I told her I found her insights into the cultural contrasts between Jordan and Qatar intriguing, especially about how the two countries treat females (Jordan is more advanced, although I noted that Qatari females do possess some rights that are forbidden in many countries in the Middle East, e.g., driving).

My Doha coworkers never discuss these nights afterward, which is unlike Jefferson and Dan, who frequently enter the office in the morning and analyze their actions from the previous night as if it were a sports event. Typically Jefferson succeeds and Dan fails.

On Friday afternoon Jefferson still has not said anything to me about the program, and I cannot wait any longer and email him even though he is next to me. He replies:

Sorry, I meant to shoot you an email before. They said they already have similar programs that outperform the market by 3–4%, so they’re going to pass. Better luck next time?

I stare at the monitor until all the words become blended. I do not know why I thought I could write a program that is more advanced than what workers with MBAs and advanced computer science degrees and broader experience can produce. I am merely self-taught and without a true university education and have only one year of experience at Schrub. It was a waste of energy.

I also will now look foolish when Zahira asks me about the project.

On Saturday I do not know what to do with myself, as I do not feel like programming because I have no new ideas, and my ideas are inferior and unoriginal anyway. Therefore, I go to the office, because at least I can be productive there, as my work does not require any creativity and it is the solitary role I can be efficient in.

The WTC is peaceful when I enter. There is no receptionist, but a few coworkers whose names I do not know are in the office. So is Rebecca.

She explains she missed some work recently because she was out of town and is compensating by logging extra hours today.

“Where did you go?” I ask, but then I regret it because I do not want to be too investigative and sometimes people have private reasons.

She says she visited her brother David at a university I have not heard of in the state of Missouri. “It’s his first year, and he’s sort of having a rough time.”

“Is that where you attended university?”

“That’s what it says on my student loans,” she says. “Well, technically, it doesn’t actually say the name.”

Tuition in Doha is comparatively inexpensive, and since I did not attend authentic university my education was even more discounted. “I am glad that Zahira will not be indebted,” I say. Rebecca does not respond, so I ask, “Do your parents live in Missouri?”

She opens up a spreadsheet and begins entering data. “My mother lives in Wisconsin, a few hours away,” she says. I do not ask where her father lives.

In the early afternoon Rebecca invites me to partner with her for a coffee break. The coffee in the office is free, but it is not high quality, so we leave the building and locate a nearby Starbucks.

We do not converse much in the elevator or as we walk to the Starbucks or on line for the coffee vendor, even though we have to brainstorm frequently about programming roadblocks when we labor. I am a strong communicator in team situations for problem solving, but I am not as expert in conversing about nonproblems, and I think Rebecca is also deficient in this area. Jefferson has mastery over it and modifies his conversation when he networks in the office. I can converse merely in one mode, which is a skill set I must enhance to grow as a business leader.

I am relieved when it is our turn with the female vendor with pink hair. Rebecca orders a complex coffee, and I order a regular coffee without milk. The vendor informs us of the cost, which makes me question if it is worth buying premium coffee over receiving subpar coffee for free. Rebecca opens her purse.

I remove my wallet. “It is my gift.”

“Don’t be silly,” Rebecca says as she searches in the purse, which contains numerous objects and papers and even smaller purses.

“I am not being silly,” I say. “I want to purchase this.”

I hand the vendor a $50 bill, which is the only denomination I possess at the time, and Rebecca closes her purse and does not say anything.

We sit at a table as the song “Believe” by Cher plays. Its frequency is high in Doha as well.

Rebecca tells me this is her third year at Schrub, and it is her first job she acquired after college even though in university she studied history with minimal studies in economics and computer science.

“I’m competent, but I wasn’t really born to number-crunch or code,” Rebecca says.

“Would you prefer a job incorporating history rather than economics and computers?” I ask.

“I guess maybe teaching, someday.”

“Why do you not pursue it now?”

She raises and lowers her shoulders and drinks her coffee and scans the room.

“You should pursue what you want to pursue,” I say.

“Yeah, well, you can’t always get what you want.” She laughs, but to herself and quietly. “And if you try sometimes, you just might find you get fucked over even worse.” Then she consumes a long drink and says she should get back to the office.

I follow her, and outside she retrieves a cigarette pack from her purse and smokes. We do not talk at all as we reenter the WTC. I think she is upset with me because I sounded like I believe I am better at my job since it is closer to my career goals. I disagree with her statement, however. When people start believing they cannot get what they want, they trash their original goals and settle for smaller ones.

We pass the coffeepot in the office, and Rebecca refills her cup from Starbucks, removes a small purse from her bigger purse and extracts one quarter, two dimes, and one nickel as if she is performing surgery and removing tumors, and deposits them in the vending machine for a bag of potato chips, and I understand she is not upset because of my previous hypothesis, but because she thinks I am wealthy, because (1) I said Zahira does not have loans without explaining it is because tuition is discounted in Qatar; (2) I paid for our coffee with a $50 bill; (3) I said she should do whatever job she wants without considering the salaries; and also possibly because (4) Qatar has a high GDP per capita.

I feel so humiliated that I do not know how to apologize to Rebecca for it, and we spend the rest of the day laboring with minimal conversation and leave independently.

On Sunday morning I again do not know what to do, and I do not want to reencounter Rebecca at the office. I consider calling relatives of my family’s friends, but they will ask me about my job and I do not want to discuss it now.

I would like to go to a Broadway play or a classy restaurant, but I prefer to conserve money, and also I do not have anyone to partner with. So I take the subway to explore the neighborhoods downtown. In Chelsea I observe a few art galleries, although I do not enjoy the paintings in them as much as the ones in the Museum of Modern Art, probably because I do not understand them as well, and it is difficult to enjoy a system you are not competent in. In the early night I walk through Little Italy and then Chinatown.

It begins raining lightly, so I enter a restaurant and order vegetarian dumplings. As I wait for my food at a small square table next to the window, a Chinese family with one grandmother, two parents, and five children eats at a round table next to me. They slightly parallel the one quarter, two dimes, and one nickel Rebecca deposited in the vending machine. Their table is littered with steaming bowls and plates of noodles and vegetables and meats. They are all conversing with each other, and of course I cannot decipher what they are saying, but even if we spoke the same language I think I would not 100 % decipher it, because frequently families have their own mode of speaking, e.g., my father usually does not understand what Zahira and I are saying.

Out the window the blue and red lights mirror on the wet black street. In a few hours Zahira and my father will eat their breakfast of bread with labneh, olives, and yogurt.

When the waiter deposits the dumplings on my table, I ask him to contain them so I can consume at home.

In my apartment I watch the other New York baseball team, the Mets, play against the Atlanta Braves in a playoff game. I permit myself to microwave and eat one dumpling every 1.5 innings as I study the game’s internal logic. It enters overtime, and when I stretch my neck I see the Schrub monitor outside and a scrolling news item:

FRENCH EMBASSY BOMBED IN IRAN…NO CASUALTIES…SEVERAL INJURED…

I search other channels for additional data, but no one is discussing the bomb, not even the all-news channels. Finally I find a short report on the Internet that says a terrorist group in Iran “claimed responsibility.” This phrase intrigues me, as I know only the phrase “take responsibility.” I perform an Internet search: “terrorist” + “claimed responsibility” has six times more hits than “terrorist” + “took responsibility.” Possibly that is because when a person commits an error but confesses to it for forgiveness, he “takes” responsibility. When he is boastful of his actions, he “claims” responsibility.

I walk around my living room as the Mets game continues. Everyone in the stadium is anxious about the game, which now seems to me foolish, although I understand why it impacts them. The Mets win with a home run, and at 11:30 p.m. I make a telephone call.

Zahira picks up on the first ring and says she has a few minutes to talk before she leaves for school. I tell her I merely called to say hello.

“What happened with your computer program?” she asks.

I look at my laptop that I have not even booted up today. “It is turbulent now in the stock market, so I decided it is not a strategic time to present a new program to my higher-ups.”

“You sounded very optimistic about it before,” she says.

“Yes, but sometimes the risks are greater than the possible rewards, and you must certify that a new idea is 100 % foolproof before you launch it.” She does not say anything. “Anyway, I am doing very well at Schrub overall and am making a great amount of money and friends.”

“You have made friends at work?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Have you socialized with anyone yet?”

“I recently had coffee with one coworker. And two others told me they will invite me next time they go to a nightclub.”

She pauses. “That is good,” she says. “But you should call our friends’ relatives if you need to meet other people from the Middle East.”

“I will, but I am satisfied with my current social network,” I say.

I do not need to ask if she is making friends at university, because she emailed me that she has, and also she typically makes friends with ease. She has our mother’s skill set for that.

She says she will put me on with my father before he leaves for work. “Take care, Zahira,” I say.

I am uncertain if she hears me, because then my father is on the telephone. I ask him if he has heard the news about Iran yet. He has not, and I explain the situation and tell him that the news said a terrorist group in Iran has claimed responsibility. “You should not believe everything you hear on the news in the U.S.,” he says.

“Why do you say that? Do you think they are lying about the attack?”

“No,” he says. “But they call them a terrorist group. You do not know what this group stands for. They do not define themselves as terrorists. To them, the French government is a terrorist group.”

“Yes, but the French government is not bombing civilians,” I say.

“No, they have simply colonized other countries for centuries and oppress Algerians in their own country.”

“Where are you getting these ideas from?” I ask.

“Just because I labor in a store does not mean I do not read, Karim.”

“I did not say you do not read,” I say. “I asked where you are getting these ideas.”

“From newspapers that are not about money and computers and are not published in the U.S.” Then he adds, “You should read one sometime.”

The sounds of people celebrating and cars honking in the street because of the Mets victory rise all the way up to my apartment.

“I have to go to sleep for work tomorrow,” I say.

We disconnect, and I consume my final dumpling, but its skin is now cold and has little flavor and I do not feel like microwaving it. The cars continue honking outside, and I open my window and lean my head out and shout for them to be quiet in Arabic, but of course it achieves nothing.

Alpha Phi = a social group for university females

claim responsibility = take responsibility for an event others view as a negative but that you are boastful of

date-rapist = a man who forces a female he knows into sexual activity

number-crunch = make intensive calculations

shoot an email = send an email, especially about business

to boot = in addition

vapid = non-stimulating

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: OCTOBER 19

On Monday at the office I am even more quiet than average, which is nearly mute because on average I converse exclusively when someone first consults with me or if I have an urgent query.

During lunch, Dan reads The New York Times on the computer while he eats the Indian chicken tikka masala he orders daily and Jefferson scans baseball statistics.

“You hear about this French embassy bombing in Iran?” Dan asks. “Times says a splinter terrorist cell took responsibility and vows more attacks. This shit’s not even front-page news, that’s how common it is. Why don’t they just incinerate their whole uncivilized backwater country and jack up gas prices even more?” He looks quickly at me. “No offense, Karim.”

“I am not from Iran,” I say.

“I know,” he says. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” Then he asks Jefferson about the fantasy baseball production of a player named Yoshii. Jefferson owns all the Japanese players.

In a few minutes I receive an email:

Sender: Rebecca A. Goldman

Recipient: Karim Issar

Date: Mon, 18 Oct 1999 12:26:18

Subject: Dan is a…

…jackass. (Not front-page news, either.)

After I research the word “jackass,” I smile at her. She reciprocates, and I feel enhanced, as we have had restricted conversation since our coffee meeting.

And then I have another mental image of the stars at night.

I research today’s crude oil futures ASAP. They have risen 77 cents. That is expected because of the news.

I use the search engine on The New York Times and input the phrase “Middle East.” It lists all the articles from the last 14 days about the Middle East. Of course, it is not always about terrorist attacks or war, e.g., the articles typically discuss government leaders meeting or business negotiations or other events that are nonviolent. I note which days the phrase appears most frequently, and how many times it appears. Then I correlate those days to the crude oil futures prices of that day or the next day.

Although I am not making intensive calculations, I think I see a correlation between how frequently The New York Times discusses the Middle East and the fluctuations of oil futures.

I input the names of specific countries, e.g., Saudi Arabia, Iran, United Arab Emirates, Kuwait, Iraq, and Qatar, which only produces approximately 0.5 million barrels per day, but that is a great amount for its small size.

The correlations appear stronger.

Schrub has a subscription to a service that scans all the major U.S. newspapers. I log in and input the country names again for the last 14 days.

The correlations appear very strong.

“Karim, want to do me a major-league favor?” Jefferson asks.

Whenever he asks if I want to do him a major-league favor it means he wants me to repair a glitch that he has caused himself.

I close up the windows about oil prices. I should not be laboring independently on company time anyway.

The remainder of the day I cannot contain my stimulation. Before Dan and Jefferson leave, they converse about a nightclub they are going to that is providing free tequila to promote its launch. This time I am careless.

Then Rebecca leaves, and I am free to labor on my project.

I can now utilize spreadsheets and other programs to determine if the correlations are accurate, and broaden my newspaper search to 60 days for additional coverage.

1. First, I decide that not every expression of a country’s name is equally integral, e.g., “Iran AND bomb” has more influence than “Qatar AND diplomatic talks.”

2. So I begin by employing a boosting algorithm that weights specific words, which I perform by reverse-correlation, so that I see what days the oil prices moved most sharply and then determine what keywords ignited their movement. “Terrorism” and “terrorist” are heavily weighted, of course, and so are “war” and “attack” and “gunfire” and similar terms. Words like “unrest” and “protest” and “demonstration” are in another class, and words like “treaty” and “diplomatic talks” are also in a different class. Also integral is that some words are important exclusively in pairs or in longer phrases, e.g., “white” and “house” mean little independently, but “White House” is critical. Words have elastic meanings from their context.

A. When a word or phrase proves that it has high predictive abilities, the algorithm boosts its weight.

B. The names of the countries and cities that produce more oil and are more volatile also have different weights.

C. More recent articles weigh more.

D. Although logic predicts certain actions, such as a terrorist attack, always raise the price, this is not true, as it depends on a constellation of variables, and in a few instances an attack actually lowers prices.

3. But because the algorithm is automated and it analyzes every word in an article, it also selects many words that I think no one else would pay attention to, such as “bitter” and “weary” and “resigned,” as in this sentence: “The Prime Minister, after a round of bitter questioning, appeared weary and resigned.” I think these kinds of words can in fact be more important because:

A. By the time a bombing has occurred, e.g., everyone knows about it and they can predict what will happen to oil prices and they act accordingly.

B. But fewer people read about a politician appearing weary and resigned after receiving bitter questions.

C. A few people do read it, however, and they begin acting in a predictable way; then a few more people follow their lead, and more and more, until it becomes as if everyone did read it, even though they did not.

4. I can aid the automated algorithm by examining articles manually, and as someone whose native language is not English, I must pay closer attention to the words to produce logic from them, and sometimes I observe things others do not about English.

5. Therefore, if I can collect enough data like this, I can gain a major advantage over others who are merely using obvious data that are front-page news.

Because this central idea is truly an analog to scanning unobserved partitions of a Pollock painting, I am able to piggyback it onto my previous program. I also link it to the newspaper search engine. It is taxing (although it takes less time because of the previous program), but it is the class of labor I enjoy.

The nighttime janitor cleans as I program, and when I give her my trash bin, it is the solitary time I look away from my monitor.

In fact, only when I am nearly finished and my cursor is on the word “casualties” do I evaluate the big picture of what I am creating. When violence occurs, especially in the Middle East, my program will attempt to leverage it for financial gain. But this violence will happen with or without my program. Therefore, by making money, the program produces at least some positives from a very negative situation. It turns the violence into a zero-sum game, because the money and violence cancel each other out, instead of producing exclusively a negative game.

I decide to complete the program.

I finally stop near 3:30 a.m., and I notice I have been alone for several hours and I have not eaten dinner. I am not even that hungry, but I purchase an apple from a vending machine. Typically when I am programming like this at home, Zahira forces me to consume food because I forget.

My program is finally functional, although I do not know how accurate it is until it sifts historical data. I direct it to use data from the last six months and to make oil futures predictions on each day as if it were truly that day.

It will have to number-crunch overnight, so I leave my computer on but turn my monitor off and open a spreadsheet so others will not identify the true labor of the computer, and then I go home and wait until the morning to discover if my program is successful.

backwater = an unimportant or unsophisticated location

incinerate = burn down

jack up = inflate prices

jackass = stupid person; Dan

major-league favor = significant favor

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: OCTOBER 20

I do not sleep the entire night. At 6:00 a.m. I get out of bed and decide to go to a mosque, as that is a profitable destination when my brain is overstimulated, and my program at work will not be ready until probably 8:30 a.m. The other mosques near my office and apartment are adequate, but it is time for me to visit the chief mosque in New York.

I take the subway to the Islamic Cultural Center on the Upper East Side. It is as attractive as I have read, with a dome and Turkish architecture that resembles the Hagia Sophia with sharper lines.

The prayer hall has tall glass windows and pure white walls and hanging cords creating a circle with lights attached to the end, like an inverted birthday cake with candles. There are no columns inside, and the dome is simple but elegant, and the patterns on the carpet have a complex repeating pattern. This is what I want my programming to have: mathematical precision that is also beautiful. As a parallel, Jackson Pollock’s paintings are beautiful even though they are not precise, but by being so imprecise they are also in a way precise.

Half of the men are black, and in one corner men in robes read the Koran together. I consider partnering with them, but I want to be alone with my prayers now.

Once I begin praying I do forget about my program. It is as if saying words to Allah mutes all the calculations and ideas that are making noise inside my head and transports me to the spiritual world that is non-numbered, and performing the actions I have performed thousands of times reminds me of my body, which is also non-numbered, which is why I also enjoy racquetball.

After an hour I am recharged. On the subway to work I observe all the businessmen reading The Wall Street Journal who are trying to find ways to decipher the stock market. Maybe I have done so with oil futures.

Jefferson said Schrub’s programs yield 3–4 % above market returns for yearly returns. So I hope to gain 5 % above market returns on oil futures based on historical data, with minimal risk. This will mean a minimal average daily return above market, approximately 0.02 %, but it is like the way a child becomes taller: You do not observe daily growth.

My podmates are not in yet. My hands vibrate slightly as I approach my desk and power on my monitor.

I close the spreadsheet window above my program. There are many numbers on the monitor, and I still need to do some calculations to receive the final results.

For overnight predictions, which means the user trades immediately in the morning and trades again at the end of the workday, my program correctly predicts the converted price of oil futures on that day within a 12 % error, e.g., if oil rises $1, then 68 % of the time my program predicts that prices will rise between 88 cents and $1.12. On the historical data, this means its average daily profit on oil futures is 1.1 %.

There must be an error, so I reenter the calculations.

It is again 1.1 %.

I try to sit very still although I am vibrating even more. I will not say anything about this yet before I know it truly works. I cannot risk humiliating myself again.

Dan enters the pod, so I reopen the spreadsheet window in case he sees the program, although he will not understand what it is. He turns on his monitor. His computer has been downloading music overnight without paying for it. He does that frequently, which is not only illegal normally but is even more illegal to do at work. The current song is titled “Mashup — Livin’ La Beasta Burden (Livin’ La Vida Loca vs. Beast of Burden).”

An error range of 12 % is impressive, but I must refine the program to gain even higher average returns and minimize risk. I cannot resist, and I start recoding a section.

“What are you slaving away at?” Rebecca asks.

I am so focused on my work that I did not hear her enter and I left the program observable. Rebecca might understand it more than Dan and Jefferson do.

I consider revealing my project to her. But there is no way to do it quietly without Dan and Jefferson hearing, and they would understand the idea when translated to English.

In addition I am afraid she will again think I am interested exclusively in money.

“It is only some number-crunching,” I say, and close the windows.

Later in the day Rebecca strikes her hand on her keyboard. “Fucking machine,” she says quietly.

“Are you having a technical issue?” I ask.

“Yes, I’m having a technical issue. How’d you guess, Karim?” she says. Then she adds, “Ignore me. It’s not your fault. I’m just having a hard time dealing right now.”

She explains that there is a virus in a spreadsheet she has been working on for several hours which prevents her from accessing it.

“I have some experience with viruses,” I say.

First I quarantine the document in our pod’s recycle bin, which is stored on a separate drive, so that it cannot impact any other important documents. It is a class of virus I am familiar with, so I approximately know how to proceed.

But as I fix it, I notice a document in the recycle bin: “market prediction.doc.” It must be Jefferson’s refined version of my first program proposal. I open it.

The document looks similar to what I gave Jefferson although with slightly enhanced language, but the end does not include my name, as I originally wrote. In fact, it does not include anyone’s name.

I define two possible theories: (1) At Schrub New York it is considered unprofessional to include your name at the bottom of a proposal, and Jefferson told the higher-up (whose name I read is George Ray) that I was the programmer, or (2) Jefferson claimed responsibility for my program and pretended it was his.

I decide it is the first, as ultimately Jefferson could not claim responsibility because he would have to come to me for the program, unless he was skilled enough to decipher and recreate it from my proposal, but I do not think he possesses sufficient skills.

After several minutes I heal the virus and return it to Rebecca. Healing a virus is a delightful feeling, especially when you do it for someone else, because they previously thought their file was corrupt and lost but now it is healthy and accessible.

“It’s funny how you only seem to lose data that you really need, and not, like, idiotic joke emails your mom forwards you,” she says. “I owe you big-time.”

“You do not owe me anything,” I say. “We are coworkers, and coworkers are parallel to family members in that you do not incur debts.”

She looks at me with a strange expression. Then she says, “Okay. You’re a lifesaver, though. Thanks.” She contacts my shoulder as she says this, and then she retracts her hand as if she touched a hot stove. This is the first time she has contacted me.

I want to tell her that I do not 100 % agree with all rules of Islam, and that some of them are in fact impossible to fulfill while in a modern workplace, e.g., technically Rebecca and I are not permitted to be alone, and the only conversation we are allowed to have must be humorless (which is not difficult for me, because I am always humorless, but Rebecca enjoys producing jokes).

But I do not know how to explain this without making us both more uncomfortable, so I merely say, “You are welcome.”

At home I refine my program until it attains 8 % error range. On historical data, it averages daily profits of approximately 1.3 %.

This does not sound like much, but over 20 business days 1.3 % daily profits means that investing $1,000 in a futures contract on the first day, then using that new money to invest in another futures contract the next day, will yield by the end of the month $1,295. Of course, you are not guaranteed to make money each day, but this is a potential outcome: 29.5 % monthly profits.

And Schrub can invest much more than $1,000.

I rewrite my proposal to incorporate the new data, which takes a few hours. It is still not perfect English. I am about to shoot Jefferson an email again for help, but I stop. What if he did try to take responsibility before? This new idea is more secretive to boot. I could ask Rebecca, but I do not think she has access to the right people in quants.

Therefore, I decide to contact George Ray myself, except I am still uncertain if the program works, and I may look foolish again. But now I see my first program was too safe and conventional, and even if my program does not function, it is an ambitious idea, and I would prefer to fail with a big-picture idea than succeed on a small scale.

I email him:

Sender: Karim Issar

Recipient: George B. Ray

Date: Tue, 19 Oct 1999 22:23:06

Subject: 2nd proposal

Mr. Ray, I understand the previous quants program I created that Jefferson Smithfield showed you as a favor for me was not robust enough to risk investment. I have a new program that I believe works more efficiently. It is yielding 1.30 % daily profits in tests. My proposal is attached.

Then I begin the copyright process for my program with the Library of Congress.

I do not expect to hear from him for at least a few days, but one hour later I receive a reply:

You mean 0.13 % daily profits?

I write:

No, it is 1.30 %.

He replies once more:

Meet me in the conference room on 89 tomorrow at 8:30.

I reread that sentence five times. It is the happiest I have been so far in New York.

have a hard time dealing = have difficulty managing life

lifesaver = someone who helps another person in a significant mode

slave away at = labor diligently for

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: OCTOBER 21

The layout of floor 89 is equivalent to 88, and the receptionist who wears makeup that looks like mud on her cheeks guides me to the conference room. Then she exits, and I sit alone in the room, which has dark blue walls and a projection monitor that is powered off and a long rectangular black table that feels like ice from the air-conditioning even though it is the middle of fall.

In a few minutes Mr. Ray enters. His hair is partially black and partially white and his skin is very pale. His fingernails have some dirt underneath and his armpits have small ovals of perspiration, but most people would not observe these things because he otherwise looks like an actor in an advertisement and his teeth are so white I can almost see myself mirrored in them, and I am also very aware of other people’s hygiene, e.g., Dan requires shaving twice daily and Jefferson’s ears contain wax. Rebecca veils the odor of cigarettes with perfume and gum, but she does not always succeed.

After he introduces himself, he holds up a printout and says, “Your proposal was a little vague on how accurate the program will be in the future.”

I intentionally did not include these data because I wanted to explain it in person, in case he thought it was too risky, and I also did not want to send any specific information about the algorithms over email.

“It currently functions for historical data retrieving back six months. It utilizes a signal that was present in that time period. Signals can convert over time. Therefore, this algorithm will not work as efficiently in the future, although the programmer can continue modifying the algorithm,” I say.

He scans the front page again. “I’ve read this three times over. These are absurd numbers — so absurd I can’t believe it’ll work. But if this program does even a quarter of what you say it will, we have something very special on our hands,” he says.

“It is extremely difficult to 100 % predict the future, but this is a new way that I do not believe anyone has thought of, and that is the critical idea, to do something no one else is doing so you have an advantage,” I say.

“I want to get this going immediately, so I’ll green-light you for a trial run the rest of the week,” Mr. Ray says.

My muscles relax for the first time all morning. I hope three days is enough time to prove its merit and that I have enough liquidity to make significant gains, even though the percentage gain is all that is important. The futures contracts trade at a minimum of 1,000 barrels, and the current price is approximately $22 per barrel, so I will need at least approximately $22,000.

“Is $300,000 enough?” he asks.

I pretend to be calm, although it is difficult, because I smile instinctively when I receive optimal news. “Yes, that should be sufficient,” I say.

We discuss how to set up a fund for me to use, which will use legal offshore accounts so that Schrub remains anonymous and does not create market disturbances. “By the way, what do you call your program?” he asks.

I had not considered this. Jackson Pollock did not name his paintings, but gave them numbers because he did not want people to have preformed thoughts before observing the painting. But my program is already about numbers, so it should have a title. I search my brain, and all I can think of is that my program capitalizes on oil prices, and it makes me think of the blended title of the song Dan was downloading.

“Capitoil,” I say. But if I am not going to get public kudos for my program, I want others to remember that it is Karim-esque. “K-A-P-I-T-O-I–L.”

“Kapitoil,” Mr. Ray says. “Nice play on words.”

I believe it is the first time I have played on words in English.

“Mr. Ray, may I request you do not reveal this to my podmates yet?” I ask before we leave.

“Yes. It’s highly privileged information,” he says. I do not say that that is not the primary reason I do not want him to reveal it.

In my pod I set Kapitoil to aggregate recent newspaper searches, and it predicts oil futures will rise 21 cents total by the end of the day. This is only a 0.95 % change, but that is still a good amount, and it is more critical to show that the program works. I immediately enter an anonymous order for 5,000 barrels at the current price of $22.17.

For the first two hours the oil price rises slowly as Kapitoil predicted. I watch it, although I do not focus well on my work.

Then at 11:45 a.m. the price drops. I hope this is temporary turbulence, and monitor the prices more closely.

At lunch Dan and Jefferson make a wager for $200 that Dan cannot eat 12 donuts in five minutes. The rules are he may have one glass of milk and may not eject the donuts during the consumption, although he may afterward. He eats six ASAP, then slows down. He eats the tenth donut very slowly, and he has one minute to finish the final two.

“Dan, you don’t have to do this,” Rebecca says.

“Yeah, let’s call it even,” says Jefferson, who looks slightly nervous.

Dan shakes his head and eats his 11th donut. “30 seconds left,” Jefferson says. Dan shifts back and holds his desk for stability. He eats half the donut, then looks at the remaining half. With 15 seconds left, he puts the donut in his mouth and intakes it. His throat broadens as if it is a snake consuming a bird. Then he runs to the restroom and remains there for 20 minutes.

I review my monitor. Oil futures are now lower than the original $22.17.

The price continues falling through the afternoon, and at the end of open outcry at 2:30 p.m. it is 23 cents below the original price. I am interested exclusively in short-term gains and do not want to invest more money in this contract, so I sell it to someone at $21.94 and lose $1,150 on the sale.

Mr. Ray emails me:

We’ll try it out again tomorrow. These things don’t always work right away. Am withdrawing 100K from your account.

Except I believed it would work right away, and now I am afraid I have already trashed my one opportunity here and I will never come up with an idea that works and I will be a nonentity in finance my whole life.

On the subway after work I do not feel like immediately returning home, so I transfer trains and ride uptown until I reach Central Park. It is already dark at 6:00 p.m. and getting colder. I enter the park and walk without knowing where I am directed, and find a bench on a wide pedestrian road underneath leaves that blend red and orange and yellow.

A female walks by pushing a stroller with a baby inside. She is Middle Eastern, possibly Iranian, and looks like my mother when she was younger, with the same nose I also have, thin with a small angle in the middle, which some people might evaluate as ugly on a female but I think is elegant on the correct face. I stand up, but she is already beyond me, so I walk behind her and to the side to observe her features.

She turns her head and looks back at me, then accelerates the stroller.

“Miss, please do not run away,” I say as I also accelerate. “I notice that you look very similar—”

“Leave me alone,” she says, and she turns the stroller to where other people are. I stop following her and turn back.

In my apartment, I retrieve from my top desk drawer a small photograph of my mother. I am approximately seven years old and sitting on her lap. Her eyes are bright holes against her dark burqa as she laughs.

It is my solitary photograph of her, and I wish I had additional ones, but by the time we knew we should take more, her body had lost much mass and her skin was gray and her hair was voided in partitions and the corners of her forehead angled in because she had no muscles. But she never complained about her health. The only subject she complained about was one time when I heard her crying on the telephone and telling my aunt that she would not get to see Zahira grow up. In some ways that is better, since Zahira was not old enough to 100 % understand what was happening, but in most ways it was not, because now she says she has few memories of her, and memories are the only way for someone who is dead to continue approximately living.

And although I am glad I possess this photograph, it also frustrates me, because I have no idea now what happened before it to make her laugh, or what happened after, and it captures an infinitely small moment out of her entire life, and although I have other memories of her, they are slowly being deleted, e.g., when I was young and had difficulty falling asleep she used to sing Beatles songs in English to me. I can remember with accuracy the sound of her cream of the cream voice, and if she had been born in the U.S., I predict she would have been a musician.

But I do not remember what her preferred song was that she frequently sang ultimately, just before she kissed my forehead. I have played nearly every song of theirs for years to launch my memory, but I am never certain which one it is. My father would not remember, and even if he did, we do not discuss her.

green-light = permit a project to continue

highly privileged information = private data

play on words = create a secondary or tertiary meaning via original usage of language

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: OCTOBER 22

On Thursday Kapitoil predicts that prices will drop 15 cents, so I short a contract for 5,000 barrels. Before I make the transaction, I review Kapitoil’s prediction and the data that support it, in case I can decipher why it has been erroneous. But I do not detect any glitches: It is using the most recent newspaper articles in the U.S. from this morning and should be accurate.

The prices drop at first, as the program predicted, but then they fluctuate during the day, and by the end of open outcry it is up 17 cents and we again lose money.

Mr. Ray emails me:

One more chance tomorrow, or we’ll have to kill it.

I strike my desk hard, and Rebecca looks at me. “I am having a technical issue,” I say.

Several minutes later, Jefferson disconnects his telephone. “Scored two tickets, mezzanine, game three of the World Series,” he says. “Check the weather for the 26th.”

Dan clicks on his computer. “Damn. 70 % chance of rain.”

Jefferson says, “Don’t be so pessimistic, baby. That’s your problem. October weather goes through volatile ch-ch-ch-changes,” and he sings this last word as he intentionally stutters.

And then I have a positive short circuit about why my program is malfunctioning, or instead why it functions at first and then stops: because it is processing articles written the previous night and published in the morning. But by the afternoon it is obsolete news, which is why Kapitoil performs poorly then. The Internet is a constant source of data, like a spacious bin the entire world is depositing trash inside, and my program is calibrated so precisely that it must process the most recent data: the trash on top. The trash underneath is less valuable.

The solitary way to profit with it, I hypothesize, is to make transactions and run Kapitoil every hour, although this poses great risk for major losses.

“Karim, check us out on TV Tuesday night,” Jefferson says.

I am frustrated that he is interrupting me when I am in the middle of an important thought, so I say, “I will, if you are not obstructed by the people sitting in front of you.” He does not understand this is a reference to his height, and resumes working.

I shoot Mr. Ray my idea. He agrees it is high risk, but green-lights me to try this new hourly strategy tomorrow.

I receive an email from Rebecca at 5:45 p.m.:

Interested in seeing the movie “Three Kings” tonight? (Short notice, I know, but I figure you’re busy next week trying to spot Jefferson on TV in vain-the camera only adds ten pounds, not ten inches.)

I know it is customary in the U.S. for a female to invite a man to socialize, but it still makes me uncomfortable. Although of course I would not have the confidence to invite her to socialize, so in some ways I am relieved. But then I have another source of confusion: I am uncertain if this is a romantic date or if it is just two friends partnering for a movie.

I reply that I would like to see the movie, which I have seen advertisements for although I do not know what it is about. She responds immediately that a theater nearby is playing it directly after work. I was hoping her writing would suggest whether she believes it is a date or friends partnering, but nothing in her email is a strong indicator, or possibly my skill at reading English is not advanced enough to analyze her words.

A few minutes after Jefferson and Dan leave, Rebecca asks if I want to go now. We get in the elevator, and it is similar to the time we went to coffee together and did not speak. She touches the material of her white shirt sleeve and gray pants as we descend.

“I’ve read really good things about this movie,” she says finally.

“I have not.”

“You heard it was bad?”

“No,” I say. “I have not read anything about it.”

She laughs, although when she laughs after I make a conversational error (she explains the error to me) it does not make me feel humiliated as it does when Dan laughs, and it becomes slightly easier to converse as we walk to the movie theater.

She tells the vendor we want two tickets, and I take out my credit card. She pushes it away.

“How about I’ll get the tickets and you can get the popcorn and soda?” she says, and she pays before I have the opportunity to reject the idea.

The popcorn and soda is less than 50 % of the ticket price, and I offer to pay Rebecca some money to compensate. “You can get me back another time,” she says.

The movie is entertaining and intriguing. At four points during it I rotate my eyes to observe Rebecca. The monitor is mirrored on her glasses and behind them her eyes are very wide. Although I am a more experienced programmer, I am certain her ideas on the movie are more complex than mine.

But halfway through I worry that Rebecca invited me because it is about the Gulf War in Iraq and she thinks of me as merely a Middle Easterner, and so I do not try to discuss it with her when we exit the theater. The only person I see movies with is Zahira, and typically she launches her analysis of the movie immediately, so it is strange to be with someone else and for us both to be silent as we transition from the world of the movie to the real world outside.

“You feel like grabbing a bite?” she says as we exit into the cold air, and I say yes. We stop in a street near an Afghani restaurant, and I am afraid Rebecca again thinks I exclusively enjoy Middle Eastern things. “This place okay?” she asks.

Then I relax because she is pointing at a bar named Flannigan’s.

It is the first American bar I have entered, and it is more casual than the hotel bars I have been to in Doha. We sit in a cushioned area, and a waitress with her brown hair tied up but some parts descending gives us menus. “Something to drink?” she asks.

“You want to split a — just two waters for now, please,” Rebecca says.

The waitress leaves. “I have had alcohol, if that is why you did not want to order it. I do not want any now, but if you want to drink some, you should,” I say.

“I don’t really want to. It’s sort of a reflex.”

“Why?”

“You go out socially, you usually end up drinking,” she says. “It makes things flow easier.”

“If things do not flow easily without alcohol, why do you go out socially at all?”

“I don’t know.” She examines the reverse side of the menu. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

We’re mute for a few moments while we decide what to order. I crave the stir-fried vegetable dish, but it costs $12.95, and I already spent nearly that amount on the popcorn and soda.

The waitress asks Rebecca what she would like. “You go first, Karim,” she says.

I order a veggie burger, which is still nutritious and halal and costs $7.95, and a Coke. “Anything else?” the waitress asks.

“No,” I say. “You may book it.”

Rebecca looks at me. “I’ll have the same,” she says. I ask if she’s a vegetarian. “No, but I should eat healthier,” she says, and I hypothesize she was prepared to order a meat dish but converted her order when I asked for the veggie burger, because she again was afraid to offend my religious beliefs.

“What kind of stuff have you been doing in New York?” Rebecca asks when our food arrives.

“I have gone to the Museum of Modern Art. I have explored Central Park and many neighborhoods.”

“Do you know other people here?”

“My family’s friends in Qatar provided me with the contact data of several people here,” I say. Then I add ASAP, “I apologize for not asking you before. How was your trip to see your brother David?”

“Good. Except he’s a little homesick,” she says. “And sort of lonely.”

I look down at my veggie burger for a few moments. “My sister Zahira is fortunate to live at home while attending university.”

“Though it doesn’t leave much room for growth,” she says. “But I guess it’s different over there. Do you talk to her much?”

“No. The time difference is difficult. But when I am there, we talk constantly.”

“She must miss you, then.”

“Yes,” I say. Suddenly the bar feels very dark and cold even though we are next to a heated pipe, and I wish the rock music was muted. “I think so.” Then I ask Rebecca about her neighborhood called Fort Greene in Brooklyn, and we discuss that for a while and other parts of New York. But we have frequent interims of non-conversation, and although it is mute, I can feel the slight vibration of my voice recorder powering on and off in my pocket for only a few seconds, e.g.:

REBECCA: [voice recorder powers on] “Do you go to the movies a lot back home?”

KARIM: “Sometimes. But most of the movies that come to Qatar involve car accidents and explosions, which I do not like to observe. So I do not go frequently.” [voice recorder powers off]

Then it remains off for another 30 seconds while we eat until I ask Rebecca a question. It would be enjoyable if the voice recorder remained on the entire duration, but that’s difficult with someone you still do not know well. Or if it remained off the entire duration but neither person experienced discomfort.

Near the end of the meal I become anxious about when the bill arrives. I want to tell Rebecca that I am not wealthy, as she thinks I am, but if I do that she may believe I am innovating an excuse not to pay for the meal, and I do think it is my duty to pay. When the waitress comes, she points to my plate. “Are you still working on that?” she asks. I say no, although I am.

Rebecca is finished, and she takes out a cigarette and asks, “You mind if I…”

I say I do not mind, but I wish she did not, both because of the odor and because it is unhealthy for both of us, but people do not like being told their choices are unhealthy, especially if they already know it. It also surprises me that she is worried about drinking alcohol around me but still smokes.

Then I tell Rebecca I must excuse myself briefly. On the way to the restroom I locate our waitress. “Miss, may I pay by credit card now for the meal so you do not have to bring the check to our table?” I ask. She takes my card and swipes it. I add, “Please withhold from my friend this highly privileged information,” and I give her a 30 % gratuity to certify that she follows my request.

I return to the table and pretend to dry my hands on my pants. “I have positive news,” I say to Rebecca. “When I was at the front of the bar, I learned we were automatically entered into a lottery, and we were the winners, so therefore our meal is free.”

“You sure?” she asks.

“Yes. You will see. The waitress will not present us with a check.”

The waitress arrives in a minute to retrieve our plates. “Thanks a lot, guys. Have a nice night,” she says.

“Thank you, Karim,” Rebecca says.

“You do not have to thank me. It was a random accident that we won.”

“Thanks, anyway,” she says. “Randomly and accidentally.”

We walk to the Chambers St. subway station that we can both use, although I am going uptown and she is going to Brooklyn. My entrance is across the street from hers. She stands at the top of the stairs.

“This was fun. We both work a little too hard. You especially,” she says. “Let’s see if we can’t do it more often.”

“I would enjoy that,” I say. “But let us see if we can do it more often.”

She looks confused. “That’s what I said.”

“You said, ‘Let us see if we can’t do it more often.’”

She says, “That’s an idiom. It means ‘Let’s see if we can do whatever.’”

“Why would you employ the negative when the intention is a positive?” I ask.

“Maybe to make it seem like you’re not fully invested in it?” she says. “Not that I don’t care. I don’t know what I’m saying, I’m rambling.” We pause for several seconds. “Well,” she says, then puts out her hand, “have a good night,” and she shakes my hand hard like we are at a business meeting and quickly descends the steps.

I enter my subway, and by then she is reading a book on a bench at a distant end of the station. Her forehead is very concentrated most of the time with a small compression in it and sometimes she smiles to herself at what she is reading and once she even laughs quietly to herself, which I have never done while reading, but that is because I read financial books, which are humorless. She does not notice me, and I keep observing her until her train arrives, and through the window I see the back of her head and the subway light mirroring the top of her hair like a silver crown until she disappears into the tunnel, and then I listen again on my voice recorder to her saying “Well…have a good night” multiple times to decipher it, because frequently it is not the words themselves that matter but the way they are said.

are you still working on that = are you still continuing to eat a meal

grab a bite = get something to eat

homesick = missing home so much as if it were an illness

invested in = care about

kill it = terminate services

let’s see if we can’t do = let’s see if we can do

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: OCTOBER 24

On Friday morning I greet Rebecca, and she tells me again that she had a good time last night. Dan enters, and she says, “Time to put our noses to the grindstone.”

At 9:00 a.m. Kapitoil predicts the price of oil will rise 6 cents. I buy a contract. Kapitoil looks similar to other programs I am running, so my podmates do not know what I am doing.

At 10:00 a.m. the price of oil is up 4 cents. I sell the contract and we profit.

I immediately run Kapitoil again and put more weight on articles written in the last 90 minutes. It has a new prediction: down 3 cents. I short a contract.

At 11:30 oil is down 4 cents and we again profit.

I email Mr. Ray that we have made two consecutive profits on the hourly transactions. He green-lights me to continue until 5:15 p.m.

I make five more transactions during the day and profit on all of them. At closing time we have made 1.6 % profit even though the ending price is only a few cents higher than the original price.

I decipher the reason it was malfunctioning. With the historical data, the program used newspaper articles written through the entire day and averaged them collectively to predict the closing price, but in practice I was using articles published in the morning. It was a foolish but understandable error: When you initially succeed without resistance, you sometimes overlook serious problems that may appear later. When people face challenges, however, they innovate more, e.g., in the way that the mother of a poorer family may produce a complete dinner out of minimal and inexpensive ingredients.

I can now revise the program’s potential. Because the market can vacillate approximately 0.5 % every hour, if Kapitoil operates at full efficiency, it can achieve up to 4.0 % daily average profits during standard business hours. Over four weeks, assuming maximum vacillation and optimal predictive ability, this equals profits of 219 %.

Mr. Ray emails me at 5:30 p.m.:

Nice work today. Finesse the program some more over the weekend, and let’s do it again on Monday. I’ll replace the 100K in your account.

Mr. Ray does not seem like the class of higher-up who frequently provides compliments, so for him to write “Nice work today” means very much to me. I almost forward his email to Zahira, but I do not want her to know about the program, both because (1) it may still not function and I do not want her to think I am a failure, as she considers me the smartest person she knows, even though I believe she is probably smarter than I am, which normally bothers me but not when it is Zahira, and (2) Kapitoil must remain highly privileged information.

After Dan and Jefferson leave, Rebecca puts on her blue wool hat and coat. “You up to anything fun this weekend?” she asks.

I will be refining Kapitoil to operate at full efficiency, but I cannot tell her that. I also do not want to lie 100 %, so I say, “I will be laboring on some projects.”

She crashes her hand against her head as if we are in the military. “At ease, then.”

Over the weekend I finesse Kapitoil. I am focused, but several times on Saturday night I wonder what Rebecca is doing, e.g., is she at an event, is she with friends, or is she alone like I am.

finesse = labor on for enhancement

put one’s nose to the grindstone = labor intensively

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: OCTOBER 25

On Monday morning Kapitoil continues generating hourly profits. By noon, out of a possible 2.1 % profit based on how much the oil futures have vacillated per hour, we have made a 1.7 % profit, which is not full efficiency but is still robust.

Mr. Ray emails me:

Meet me in the conference room on 89 at 1:30.

Possibly he has reconsidered that Kapitoil might still be too risky. There are rumors that layoffs will soon occur, and maybe they do not have the money to continue high-risk programs like mine.

Or possibly they do not even have the money to retain me as an employee.

I omit lunch because my stomach is turbulent, as it frequently becomes when I am anxious, and do not run Kapitoil at noon, because I do not want it to lose money suddenly and give Mr. Ray more reason to kill it.

At 1:30 I knock on the door of the conference room. Mr. Ray says “Come in” from inside, and I open the door.

He is sitting, and at the head of the table is an older man. He has tan skin and black and white hair, and his nose slightly curves down like a vertical asymptote. His suit is gray and blue and his tie is dark red like blood that has dried.

It is Mr. Schrub.

“Karim,” he says. He stands and extends to a few inches taller than I am. “Glad to meet you.”

I am afraid to look into his eyes as we shake hands, so I look at his red tie. “It is my honor to meet you, Mr. Schrub.”

Mr. Schrub puts out his arm to signal his permission to sit down opposite Mr. Ray.

“George tells me,” he says, “that you can see the future.”

I look at Mr. Ray for help, but he is not looking back at me. “The program has been successful so far at predicting pricing variance,” I say.

“What’s the 1,000-mile view on this thing?”

“I am unfamiliar with that term,” I say.

“What are its long-term prospects?” he says.

“It is employing a market signal from news reports, and it should function for the duration of that signal’s strength,” I say, and I am no longer nervous because I am in the intersected world of programming and finance. “But if the signal converts a great amount, I will have to write a 100 % new program, and that new program might not function as efficiently.” Because I am uncertain if he is familiar with these terms, I translate them to a sports analog: “It is parallel to predicting the strategy of a racquetball opponent. If you compete against him for a long time, you can predict his strategies. But if you receive a new opponent, you have to adopt new tactics because your old predictions will be obsolete.”

He smiles, possibly because he does understand the jargon terms and does not require the racquetball analog. “Is there a chance our competitors could catch on to what we’re doing?”

“If we continue making anonymous desk transactions through offshore holdings and keep them frequent but minimal, then no one will know it is Schrub, and therefore our market entry will not cause fluctuations in the market,” I say. “We can still make strong profits, as long as we practice restraint.”

Mr. Schrub taps his fingers on the desk. It makes a loud sound in the large room. Then he says, “I’ll level with you, Karim. We took a big hit in the fourth quarter. We bet the lion’s share of our capital that the bubble would finally burst, but it didn’t, and it burned us. Now we need to rebound, and from what George has told me, Kapitoil might be the way. So, as long as it keeps returning profits, we’re going to plough a lot of money into your program.”

I knew from released reports that Schrub suffered losses in the fourth quarter, but I assumed they had rebounded since then. If Mr. Schrub wants to plough money into my program after it has worked for just 1.5 days, then they must truly be in the red and not have other options.

Mr. Ray says, “You’ll receive a raise and promotion.”

“Therefore I would not be working on the Y2K project?” I ask.

“No. We want you working full-time on Kapitoil, doing everything you can to keep it humming.”

“I do not think we should tell my coworkers about this,” I say.

Mr. Ray says, “Absolutely. We can’t let on what you’re doing. We’ll just say you’re working on futures.”

“Speaking of which, how is the program protected?” Mr. Schrub asks.

“I have formally copyrighted it in my name, although I am not patenting the software, as that would force us to disclose its contents to the public,” I say. “And it is encrypted, so only I can enter into the code.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way,” he says. “I know you two are very busy, so I’ll let you get back to your work,” he adds, although of course he is much busier than we are, but it signifies control if you give permission for the other person to exit the conversation, e.g., Jefferson always ends personal calls by saying “I’ll let you go.”

He shakes my hand again, and his grip is strong but not too strong like some businessmen’s grips are to prove they are powerful. “A pleasure meeting you, Karim. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.” He looks closely at my left eye, and this time I do not allow myself to look away, although my blood simultaneously seems to stop and accelerate in my veins.

Then he leaves, and Mr. Ray and I discuss technical issues and how to enable him to utilize the program as well, and he terminates by saying, “Why don’t you finish up the Y2K work you’ve been doing over the next few days, and then I’ll let your podmates know we’re transferring you to another project next week.”

This is positive news, as I was truly non-stimulated by the Y2K project, but I feel bad about abandoning my podmates, especially Rebecca. But Rebecca also seems careless about which project she works on and is not envious of others, so maybe she will be happy for me.

When I return to my pod, people are whispering to each other and scanning the room. Rebecca explains to me that Mr. Schrub was just in the building. “He only comes in a few times a year, so it’s a big deal,” she says. “I’m having trouble containing my excitement. It’s like Christmas morning on floor 88.” She stops smiling and returns to her work and adds, “Or something like that.”

Near the end of the day, Jefferson and Dan discuss their plans to go to a nightclub. Jefferson asks me, “Karim, you want to come with?”

Although it is a Monday night and this is when I should be finessing Kapitoil even more, this may be my solitary chance. I can feel Rebecca listening to me even though she is pretending to focus on her computer, and I want to suggest that she should attend as well, but it is not my place to do so. “I would be delighted to come with,” I say.

At 6:30 p.m. they are ready to leave, and I say good-bye to Rebecca, who is staying late. Without looking up from coding, she says, “Have a blast, Karim.”

We taxi to Jefferson’s apartment near Rockefeller Center and Radio City Music Hall. It is the first taxi I have taken here, and the driver is African, although I am afraid to ask what country he is from, and I think of Barron, as the only two people who have driven me in a car here are black men. When we arrive I retrieve my wallet, but Dan says, “Don’t sweat it,” and he and Jefferson divide the cost.

Jefferson’s building is classy, but not as classy as mine (e.g., he does not have a doorman), so I feel bad about not paying for the taxi. His apartment structure is similar to mine inside, although it is smaller and the furniture is less expensive. He has posters in frames on his wall of some of the movies he has on postcards in his pod, as well as a painting of an obsolete Japanese soldier with a sword on a horse. Over the television on the wall is a true silver sword that curves at the ends.

Jefferson has a record player but not a CD player, and he cautiously removes a record from its case and centers it on the player as if he is carrying an infant. I hear a saxophone. Dan says, “Can we please play some rap for once?”

“When we go to your place, we can listen to your commercialized, Top-40, disposable MTV garbage. And if you had any sense of history, you’d know nearly all rap derives from jazz,” Jefferson says. “In this day and age, your ignorance of the oppression my brothers and I suffered at the hands of the white man is unconscionable and, frankly, straight-up racist. I’d think you’d sympathize, as a dirty Jew.”

I look to see if Dan responds to the fact that Jefferson called him an ethnic insult and also that he called himself black, but he merely smiles and remains on the couch.

Then Jefferson powers on his DVD and television and inserts a movie and plays it mutely. It is in Japanese, and it is about another obsolete soldier in a dark blue uniform in an area of Japan he does not know who carries only a magical sword for protection.

Jefferson retrieves a takeout menu from his small kitchen area and withdraws three Sapporo beers from his refrigerator. He drops the menu on his coffee table, next to four separate stacks of The New Yorker and The Economist and Architectural Digest and Gourmet magazines.

“I’m gonna shit-shower-shave,” he says before he exits the room. “Order the sushi boat for three, some Asahis, and get the sea urchin with quail eggs. Say it’s for me, and they’ll add this goma-shio sesame salt that doesn’t condescend to gaijin palates.”

I do not understand why he orders additional beer if we have more Sapporo here, but I remain mute and watch as the Japanese soldier travels independently on a country road through a snowstorm and fights a team of men who launch a surprise attack.

After Dan orders, he asks how I like my job. I do not want to indicate that I am soon advancing, so I say, “It is enjoyable.”

He laughs. “Very diplomatic. You can admit it’s beneath you — I won’t rat you out.”

I get up and examine the sword so he reroutes the conversation. “I wouldn’t touch that,” Dan says. “It’s from the 18th century, and Jefferson has an aneurysm if anyone breathes on it.” He puts his fingers over the buttons on the remote control without pressing any of them. “He can be kind of a cocksucker sometimes.”

When the Japanese deliveryman with an earring in his left ear arrives, Dan and Jefferson do not let me pay for the food. I eat the sushi that is vegetarian, and it is flavorful, but too expensive if it’s mostly rice. I also drink three beers total and Dan and Jefferson drink more as we watch the movie. We leave before we can finish it, which disappoints me, because the soldier’s enemy has just stolen the magical sword from him and I am curious to see if he can recover it.

When I stand up my head feels filled with helium. Possibly it is because I just watched the Japanese soldier, but I also feel that I could defend myself against a team of attackers, and although of course I do not say it, that I am the cream of the cream programmer at Schrub and have won Mr. Schrub’s confidence after just three weeks.

We taxi again, even though the address is on 20th St. and 5th Ave. and the subway is probably faster. “You’re our guest, Karim. You should never have to touch your wallet,” Jefferson says when I try to pay. “It’s the Japanese way.” He asks for a receipt and winks at me. “Besides, we’ll expense it.”

We walk to a cathedral on the corner of the street, and when we turn the corner, many young people are on line behind a velvet rope to enter it. My clothing is not as sexy as anyone else’s and they will see that I do not belong here, and my body vibrates even though it is not very cold, but I am glad I am with Dan and especially Jefferson, who does look like he belongs, even though he is the shortest man on line. He bypasses the line and talks to the guard at the front, who is a very large black man in a green coat that looks like it is inflated with air, and points on a piece of paper the guard holds. In a minute he waves for us to join him.

Jefferson leads us inside the tall wood doors. It is a true former cathedral. I cannot see well and it is warm and smells like alcohol blended with perspiration and I do not know what song is playing, but it has a robust drumbeat that pains my ears. Next to the stained glass windows are paintings of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary, and attached to the wall in the back of the dance floor is a ten-foot cross with toggling lightbulbs around its edges.

Jefferson finds another man he knows approximately our age with blond hair spiked like an electrocardiogram. They both put out their right hands in a class of handshake and they touch the other person’s back with their left hands as if they are hugging slightly.

The man extends his hand to me like he did with Jefferson, and I do the same handshake/hug. “I am Karim,” I say. “Glad to meet you.”

“Andy Tweedy,” he says, although he is already looking at Jefferson. “What are you guys drinking?”

Jefferson says, “Screwdrivers.”

Andy stops a waitress who wears a minimal skirt in a green and red pattern with long socks that reveal her upper legs and a white shirt with a collar that reveals her stomach. “Set them up with a VIP table and bottles for ‘Nailed to the Cross,’” he says.

The waitress leads us through the main floor, which has bright blue lights and some people dancing, although not many yet. We ascend some steps, and many people observe us as we elevate above them. A muscular white guard in a priest’s costume detaches another rope for us. I have never accessed a highly privileged place like this before, and now I am vibrating not because I am nervous but because I am so stimulated.

On the second floor she takes us to a small table that overviews the dance floor and has a cushioned red bench around it. Most of the other tables on this small second floor are also occupied, usually with several men and sometimes a few females also with the men.

Before the waitress leaves she smiles at Jefferson, because he is the most handsome of us and looks like the chief member of our cluster, except that his ears angle out like satellites. We sit down, and Dan rests his legs on the barrier over the dance floor. “Congrats, Karim. You’re a Very Important Person now,” Dan says.

And I do feel VI.

Jefferson stands up and scans the floor. “I fucking detest this place,” he says. “Up to our ears in Maries and Joeys fresh off the LIRR.”

The waitress returns with a tray that has one bottle of vodka inside a bucket of ice, a bottle of orange juice, and three glasses. She angles over to pour the vodka in our glasses and displays her breasts, which are very tan and three-dimensional in a way I have seen exclusively on television or in pictures.

Jefferson asks her for extra glasses, and after she leaves Dan mixes us drinks and says, “She can get it, Smithy. You’re a machine.”

“Not my type. You can take her.”

“Out of my league.”

“Don’t talk that way, sweetheart. She’s just pumped full of silicone and teeth whitener. And that’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. Look at me. I’m a goddamn dwarf. But at the end of the day, it’s all about confidence. People are waiting for someone else to lead them.” Jefferson is also more confident in the office, and he makes a better impression on coworkers than Dan does, who often avoids looking people in the eye and shakes hands weakly and speaks quietly to anyone outside of our pod. “And so what if she rejects you? If you want to increase your success rate, double your failure rate.” He looks closely at Dan and decelerates his words and points his index finger on each syllable. “If you believe it, you can achieve it. Put that on your wall in the fucking pod.”

He raises his glass and says, “To Dan the ladies’ man,” and Dan says, “Don’t mock me, I’m not in the mood,” and Jefferson says, “I’m not mocking you. Women have wet dreams about rich guys your height,” and then we all crash our glasses and drink, and Jefferson and Dan guzzle theirs rapidly, so I guzzle mine, and then Jefferson kisses Dan on the cheek and calls him a “handsome bastard.” The drink is robust and difficult to swallow, but when I finish it Dan mixes me another one, which is easier to consume, and I again have a mental image of myself as the Japanese soldier.

They observe the dance floor and assign ratings to different females from 1 to 10. They say an overweight female is “the worst” and is “four 40s deep,” and rate her a 1, which means 1–10 is a poor scale, because it assigns a point even when someone is “the worst” and there exists only a 9-point total range.

A friend joins the overweight female, and she is additionally overweight, and Dan says she’s “even nastier” and also assigns her a 1, even though if she is in fact inferior, then she should receive less than 1 (or the first female’s rating should retroactively rise slightly). This is why the Y2K bug is happening: Humans usually do not anticipate what comes next after what initially seems to be the limit, so they programmed their computers to function up to the year 1999 and not 2000. Even Jefferson and Dan, who are resolving this problem nonstop, did not consider the maximum-limit issue in this context. But possibly it is because they have been drinking alcohol, and also they are not the most considerate people.

Then Jefferson stands at the railing and points to an Asian female on the floor he has just rated a 9.3. She looks and he holds up the vodka bottle. She shakes her head, but he takes the bottle downstairs with him and refills her glass and the glasses of her two friends who are also Asian. After they talk for a few minutes he leads them upstairs. He introduces them to Dan, who he says is a vice president at Schrub. He puts his arm around me. “And this is Karim. He’s from an oil family in Qatar, and is here on vacation.”

The female sitting next to me is named Angela Park. Her arms are thin and elongated like pencils and she wears purple makeup above her eyes. She says she is in public relations for a fashion company. “It must be great not to have to work for a living,” she says.

I wish Jefferson did not say this, because now I have to maintain the lie, which I only do because not lying would damage his reputation. “It is relaxing,” I say.

Angela receives a call on her cellular, and I whisper to Jefferson, “Why did you say I am from an oil family?”

“Play along. This is a golden opportunity,” he whispers. He adds, “Besides, truth is relative.”

Angela ends her telephone call and asks me questions about my family. I provide the basic details, such as the names of my father and sister and uncle, but when she asks what they do, I say, “If I told you I would have to kill you,” which I heard on a comedy television show the previous night, even though I didn’t find the threat of murder amusing, but the audience did.

She laughs and places her hand on my leg. I feel myself rising.

“It’s strange how you’re from Qatar, and my family’s originally from Korea, and now we’re meeting in New York,” she says. “That’s so random.”

“Americans frequently misuse the word ‘random,’” I say. “Merely because an incident is unlikely does not mean it is random. I believe that if we were able to analyze every variable of the current situation, which is of course impossible, we could determine that our meeting was in fact predetermined. Therefore, when people say something is ‘so random,’ they should truly say that it is ‘so destined.’”

She smiles but does not respond to my observation. Instead, she says, “I feel badly that we’re not talking to the others.”

“Is your tactile sense operating inefficiently?”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“You used the adverbial form of ‘I feel bad’ to express a negative emotion and said ‘I feel badly,’ which means your sense of touch is performing poorly.”

Again she smiles and says nothing. I certify that that is the last time I will note anything about usage or grammar to an American.

Jefferson is kissing his female and Dan is whispering in the ear of his female. So I whisper in Angela’s ear, “I am not used to being around someone as beautiful as you.”

“Really?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say. “If someone told me a week ago that I would be sitting with someone like you at a place like this, I would not have believed them.”

Angela smiles and removes her hand from my leg. “You’re sweet,” she says, and she looks at her friends. “I have to go to the ladies’ room.” She leaves the VIP area and goes downstairs, and I wait for her to return. Dan is still talking to his female, and although she does not appear as interested in him as Jefferson’s female is in Jefferson, I look straight ahead so that I am not infringing upon their privacy.

In ten minutes she has still not returned, and then Dan’s female receives a call on her cellular, and she taps her other friend and says something to her that I cannot hear, and then they stand up with Dan and Jefferson and go downstairs. They all dance together very closely, and Angela joins them and dances with them as well, and although I am of course not very invested in Angela, I still feel foolish for what I told her and my chest feels like someone has punched me in it and left his fist there.

I want to leave, but someone has to protect the vodka and orange juice, as there is still approximately 25 % of it left, so I wait another 15 minutes at the table. When another song begins and they still do not return, I go downstairs.

I do not have Jefferson’s or Dan’s telephone numbers, but I do not want to disturb them now, and I especially do not want Angela to see me again, so I escape through the dance floor, which is highly bottlenecked and difficult to divide, and exit past the guard outside and the people on line, which is now quadruple the original length, and walk to the N train and wait a long time for it, then take it home, and pray and record my journal until I feel normal again, and before I finish, without attempting, I load an image in my brain of Rebecca, who is probably sleeping right now.

1,000-mile view = future outlook

at the end of the day = in conclusion

aneurysm = expansion of a blood vessel that often results in sudden death

big hit = major loss/major success (in baseball as well)

come with = come with (but the object of the preposition is not necessary)

don’t sweat it = be careless about a problem

gaijin = Japanese term for non-Japanese person

golden opportunity = opportunity with great profit potential, monetary or nonmonetary

have a blast = enjoy yourself

hum = function well

level with = be transparent with

lion’s share = majority

LIRR = Long Island Rail Road

Maries and Joeys = nicknames for the class of people who take the LIRR

out of one’s league = a romantic higher-up

plough money = invest money

rat out = reveal highly privileged information

she can get it = a female has romantic interest in you

shit-shower-shave = consecutive actions a man performs before a nightclub

VIP = Very Important Person

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: OCTOBER 26

I wake up exhausted and spend more time in the shower than normal, and I arrive at work a few minutes late when everyone else is present. When I enter the pod and sit down, Dan says, “What’s up, player?” and extends his fist horizontally to me without looking, as he often does with Jefferson.

“Good morning,” I say, and I roll my chair forward to him and contact our fists and then roll backward to my desk, except one wheel is misaligned and I have to pause and readjust before resuming.

Kapitoil performs well and we slowly increase our investments, although we are careful not to create market fluctuations. At noon I receive an email:

Mr. Issar,

This is the secretary for Derek Schrub. Mr. Schrub would like to know if you are free to play racquetball at 3 p.m. today (he has already spoken to George Ray). Clothing and equipment will be provided.

I try to contain my stimulation in front of my podmates by clapping my hands together softly under the desk, as this presents a golden opportunity to become acquainted with Mr. Schrub. In addition, now I know why Mr. Schrub smiled at the racquetball analog.

When I am ready to leave, I put Kapitoil on automatic trades and pick up my briefcase. “Where are you going?” Dan asks.

“I am meeting with another Schrub team member,” I say, which is true. “I want to discuss the Doha operations and the cost-cutting measures my supervisor there, Mr. Sayed, took. E.g., we saved 7 % in telephone costs by metering employees’ personal calls, and 12 % in productivity costs by blocking various email websites. Mr. Sayed, whose first name is Sadik, which means ‘full of truth’—”

Dan plugs in his earphones.

I take the subway uptown to 59th St. and walk east along the border of Central Park to his apartment. There is a doorman outside who is white and has whiter hair. I tell him I am there to see Mr. Schrub. “I work at Schrub Equities,” I say, which is now strange to say because I am saying it at Mr. Schrub’s residence and not his business.

“ID,” the doorman says, with an accent that I believe is Irish. He looks at my Schrub ID, calls on a telephone inside, and directs me to take the elevator up to the athletic complex on floor 13.

Instead of wood and brass and gold like inside my lobby, this one does not appear as quality, which initially surprises me. There is white marble with pink veins like the sky at sunset, and the walls and ceilings have frames of regular plaster. The classier buildings do not have to attempt so hard to look classy, just as Mr. Schrub does not have to shake hands with too much force.

I receive clothing and equipment from the reception desk and change, then go to the court and wait several minutes, but Mr. Schrub does not appear. I am glad I am about to play racquetball so I have an excuse for perspiring. To reroute my brain I challenge myself with a problem: How many racquetballs can fit inside a racquetball court?

1. The court is 20 feet wide and 20 feet high and 40 feet long, so there are 16,000 cubic feet of space for the ball to pass through. In inches, this is (16,000)(12³).

A. I estimate the diameter of a racquetball ball is approximately 2.5 inches. If I create a box that fits 2 balls by 2 balls by 2 balls for 8 balls total, then the box is 5 inches in each direction, or 5³ = 125 cubic inches.

B. Therefore, (16,000)(12³)/125 = number of boxes, or approximately 220,000 boxes = 1.76 million balls.

2. But boxes are an inefficient method of storage because they waste the space between the balls. So if I have a method of wasting zero space and packing the court 100 % with racquetballs, I would use this equation:

A. (16,000)(12³)/the volume of a sphere. The volume of a sphere is (4/3)(r³), or in this case (4/3)()(1.25³), or approximately 8.3 repeating cubic inches.

B. Therefore, (16,000)(12³)/8.3 repeating = approximately 3.5 million balls.

3. So, by packing them in boxes we can fit in approximately only half as many balls as we could in an ideal scenario in which the balls waste no space between them. But the ideal cannot exist, because then they would not truly be balls anymore.

4. The compromise between the box scenario and the ideal scenario is what supermarkets do with spherical fruits, which is a best-practice method of stacking them in pyramids, and this is another reason I value pyramids. In fact, this pattern is also the way some crystals align themselves under pressure, which is why diamonds are so sharp, because high pressure forces carbon atoms to align in the most compressed pattern possible: a regular, repeating structure. Most people think diamonds are beautiful because they mirror light, but I prefer to think of them this way, which is also one of the ways I think of Zahira and her name, because her brain’s connections are so sharp.

But I do not have time to evaluate the supermarket approach because the door opens behind me and Mr. Schrub appears. He is wearing white shorts and a white shirt with a collar that are parallel to mine, except his look higher quality.

We hit to each other, and I strike slowly at first, because I am uncertain how skilled he is and do not want to look like I am showing off, although I also do not want to look like I am a poor player. But he is better than I anticipated, so I hit harder, and after a few minutes we launch a game.

He lets me serve first. I know from the warm-up that I can defeat him if I want to, but I decide to win the first game, then lose the second game, then lose the last game in a close match. Typically this outcome pleases competitors I should lose to in Doha, and I think the same will happen with Mr. Schrub. I am not truly invested in the outcome of a match, but I merely enjoy playing it, although it is more fun when I can play my hardest and challenge my own limits.

I win the first game 15–9, but I intentionally let him score a few points. I am not a skilled liar with words, but it is easier with actions. He smiles and says, “Good game.”

When the score is 13–10 in my favor for the second game, I plan to lose the point on my serve so that I am not in danger of serving again on match point, but I accidentally win it when Mr. Schrub can’t return a ball I hit. “Avoidable hinder,” I call on myself.

“Nonsense,” Mr. Schrub says.

“I obstructed your path,” I say. “It is your serve.”

He waves his racquet like he is negating the idea. “Your point, fair and square. I’m just slow and old.”

Now I am nervous again, because if I win another point on my serve I will defeat him. But if I hit a very poor serve or shot, he might detect that I am trying to lose. So I decide I have to aim precisely and miss a shot by only a few inches.

I serve, and we rally for a few shots and Mr. Schrub continues hitting hard. I am surprised he does not play more cautiously, as people often do if they are afraid of losing. But that is how you must be in business as well: Reject fear and take calculated risks. On my fourth shot I swing very hard and aim at the base of the wall, but I aim to hit the floor just before the wall so Mr. Schrub wins the point, and it is almost as if, before I strike it, I can observe the ray that links my racquet and the ball to my target.

Fortunately my mathematical brain makes me very skilled at racquetball.

He takes the ball for his serve and does not say anything, and I let him win the next five points, although I make it appear close. “Good game,” he says again, although this time he does not smile. “Tiebreaker to 11.”

I take an early lead but allow him to reduce the margin of deficit. When it is 8–8, Mr. Schrub says, “Looks like your program’s better than your backhand,” which is not very good sportsmanship, but I smile slightly and let him win the point when I hit a weak forehand that he smashes.

Before he serves, he says, “You can’t win with a pussy-willow shot like that.” I win the point, and then win a point on my serve to make it 9–9. Then I let him win two points in a row so that he serves for the match at 10–9.

“I can’t believe you’re about to lose to a guy two and a half times your age,” he says. I was able to ignore his previous insult, but I dislike when anyone predicts that I am going to fail at something. In addition, he would be 2.5 times my age only if he were one year older.

He serves, and I win the point with a strong backhand that he cannot return.

I make it 10–10, and now I have match point, although I still plan to lose this point and let him win on his serve. “C’mon, Karim,” he says. “You gonna choke now? You wanna run home to Mommy?”

I squeeze the racquet hard, which slightly pains my hand. “Is that it? You’re a mama’s boy?” he says.

He returns my serve, and I play a strong point and he mirrors my skill, but soon he makes an error and hits a floating shot, and I leverage the situation by jumping up and swinging my hardest on a smash and even yelling, which I never do.

Mr. Schrub watches the ball go past him. He smiles the widest this time and shakes my hand. “Thank God,” he says. “For a second there I was afraid you were actually going to let me win.”

I do not know what to say. “It’s okay, Karim,” he says, and puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’ve had plenty of people lose on purpose to me. I’ll take an honest, hard-fought loss over a fraudulent win any day. I can tell you’re a real player. A competitor.”

He invites me to recuperate with him in the sauna. We relax in the hydrated heat and do not say anything for a few minutes except when Mr. Schrub makes sounds because his body pains him. “Ah, I’m mature,” he says. “That’s what my wife calls me — a ‘mature man.’ I don’t know how many more years I have in me to do this.”

At first I think he is talking about racquetball, but then I realize he means work. It surprises me, because he is only 64, and many people in business work at least a decade more than that, but also he could have easily retired a long time ago, so the solitary reason to continue working is because the challenges still motivate him, as they do for me.

“What are your plans, Karim?” he asks.

“I am planning to return to the office after this,” I say.

He laughs. “That’s not what I meant. But on that note, what are you doing tomorrow night?”

“I have no plans except to work on Kapitoil,” I say.

“I’d like you to take the night off and be my guest in my luxury suite at the ball game. Game four, the Yanks could win it all.”

I tell him I am delighted to attend and ask what subway line I should take. He makes a face as if he tastes something bad. “Too crowded. I’ll send a driver to pick you up from the office. He’ll take care of everything.”

I almost say, “But the subway is fast, cheap, and entertaining; a car is none of those,” but I practice restraint.

We then consult about Kapitoil, and he asks insightful questions about the algorithms. When we are finished, Mr. Schrub walks me to the elevator. “Anytime you want a rematch, Karim, let me know,” he says, although of course I would never invite him to play. He winks and shakes my hand. “As long as you don’t let me off the hook.”

As I walk to the subway I call Zahira. It is after midnight in Doha, but she will be up studying, and I know my father will be asleep.

After she tells me that she received a perfect score on her biology test and I praise her, although I certify to praise her for studying hard and not merely for being intelligent, I say, “Zahira, I just played racquetball with Mr. Schrub.”

She becomes very stimulated, because although Mr. Schrub does not interest her the same way, I have told her much about him. “I am also going to a baseball game with him tomorrow, and it is because of the success of my new program,” I say.

“You wrote another program?” she asks. “I thought you said this was a bad time to try out new programs.”

“It is the same program as before,” I say. “I reconsidered and decided to show it to my higher-up.” She does not say anything, and I add, “I also went to a classy nightclub with my coworkers the previous night. I apologize if I email less frequently now because I am too busy with work and networking.”

“I know you are,” she says. “I tell all my friends about you. And I also remember what you always told me.”

“That if you work hard, you can achieve anything?” I ask.

She speaks very clearly: “That being a success at work does not equal being a success at life.”

I am a block away from the subway entrance. “I am about to lose our connection in the subway,” I say. “I will email you later.”

In the subway I think about how Mr. Schrub said I was a competitor. I am glad I deposited my voice recorder in my shorts pocket so that I can listen to it again.

player = someone who succeeds in the field of business, athletics, or females

pussy-willow = weak

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: OCTOBER 27

On Wednesday morning I check my work email from home. Everyone in the office receives an email stating there have been several layoffs and that the selected employees have already been informed. I accelerate to work.

Rebecca, Jefferson, and Dan are in the pod, which relaxes me, but when Dan sees me, he puts his head in his hands.

“Did you hear the news?” he says.

“You have been laid off?” I ask.

“Yes.” He covers his eyes with his hands and vibrates as if he is crying. “And I’ve got prostate cancer.”

Rebecca says, “Don’t be an asshole, Dan,” and I see he is vibrating from laughing. “He doesn’t have cancer.”

“Sorry.” Dan wipes his left eye. “There were less layoffs than expected. And none of us are laid off.”

“Yes, there were fewer layoffs than expected,” Rebecca says. “And none of us is laid off.”

Rebecca has optimal grammar.

“Neither of those subjects is something about which you should make jokes,” I say to Dan.

I also have strong grammar skills.

That afternoon I receive my paycheck. It is three times the normal value. I email Mr. Ray about the error and ask if I should contact Human Resources. He writes back:

The paycheck is correct. We want to compensate you accordingly for the profits Kapitoil continues to bring in. Enjoy the bonus-you deserve it.

I cannot believe this is the true amount of my salary. It’s about as much as I made in three months in Doha, or as much as my father makes in half a year at his store. But Mr. Ray is correct: I do merit it, because I have accumulated even greater profits for Schrub and its shareholders. Although some people lost their jobs, it’s probably because they’re not producing profits for the company. And if Kapitoil continues to perform high-end, possibly we can rehire those former employees or new ones.

I find it difficult to work the rest of the day as I think about tonight. I still know very little about baseball compared to Dan and Jefferson. However, I have been reading about the mathematics behind baseball called sabermetrics, and I spend another hour in the afternoon researching the players on the Yankees and the Atlanta Braves. Today one of the Yankees’ stars, named Paul O’Neill, found out that his father died, although he’s still going to play.

I have to leave work earlier than usual so the driver has time to navigate the traffic to Yankee Stadium. Fortunately Dan and Jefferson depart earlier than I do, so I do not have to explain why I am going, but when I retrieve my briefcase Rebecca says she will walk out with me.

“Kind of early for you to be heading out, isn’t it?” she asks as we wait for the elevator.

“As you said, I especially work a little too hard.”

We step into the elevator, and her eyebrows squeeze together, which I find not sexy but still pleasant to observe. “When did I say that?”

“After we saw the movie Three Kings, outside the Chambers St. subway station, when you were at the top of the stairs.”

“You have a pretty good memory,” says Rebecca.

“For certain subjects,” I say.

Another female from the office runs to the elevator, and I press the button to reopen the doors. We zoom downstairs and watch the elevator monitor’s weather forecast. It’s difficult to have a conversation in the elevator when there is a third party.

Rebecca updates me on the progress on the Y2K project as we exit through the lobby. “It’s going well,” she says, “but there’s still a lot of freaking out across the industry about what might happen.”

Fear and panic cause severe market vacillation, and Y2K will present a golden opportunity for major earnings with Kapitoil.

Because I’m concentrating on Kapitoil and do not respond, Rebecca says, “I hope I’m not wasting my fascinating cocktail-party chitchat on you.”

“I am sorry,” I say. “I was thinking of another subject. It will not happen again.”

“I’m teasing.” She punches my shoulder with minor force. “Lighten up. That’s your next goal.”

I take out a pen, stop walking, and write on my other hand so that Rebecca can see: “GOALS: (1) LIGHTEN UP.” “I will make efforts to meet that goal,” I tell Rebecca. “Thank you for suggesting it.”

Her facial expression is very confused. I wait a few seconds, then say, “I am teasing as well,” and punch her shoulder, although I contact the metal on the strap of her bag, which hurts but I pretend it is painless.

She lets out a strong breath and laughs. “Maybe I need to lighten up, too. It’s been a long day — I wouldn’t mind unwinding.”

Outside, black cars wait next to the sidewalk in a line as if for a funeral, and I see mine, with a sign that displays “13” in the window.

“Which way are you heading?” Rebecca asks.

“Oh, I forgot a disk in my office,” I say, although I pronounce “Oh” with too much volume.

“Want me to wait?”

“No, that is unnecessary. In fact, I have some more work to do.”

“Burning the midnight oil, are we?” she says. “See you around.”

She walks toward the subway and I return to the building. There is probably a better means of negotiating the situation, but it is hard to strategize the right thing to do when you have to act quickly.

I wait inside the building until Rebecca disappears, then knock on the dark front window of car 13. The doors unlock and produce a sound like a bullet firing.

The face of the driver surprises me. “Do you remember me?” I ask.

Barron turns his head a quarter of the way. He still has a mustache. “Sorry, I drive a lot of people.”

“It was on October 3rd,” I say. In some ways it feels longer and in other ways it doesn’t feel that long. “From John F. Kennedy Airport. My name is Karim Issar.”

“I go to JFK all the time. Yankee Stadium, right?”

“Yes.” I don’t say anything for a minute, as I don’t want to make him feel uncomfortable that he can’t remember me. Although I am truly the one who should feel uncomfortable, because it means I’m not that memorable, which I already know, e.g., I don’t talk loudly or dress with unique fashion or have an appearance others consider very sexy.

Then Barron depresses the gas pedal harder as we pass a yellow light, and after we safely cross, I say, “Do you remember I asked you how many gallons of gas your car guzzles?”

He is quiet at the next red light for a few seconds, then says, “Oh, yeah — I remember you.” He turns his head all the way back this time. “What’s happening?”

“I am going to the Yankees game.”

“You must be doing pretty well for yourself if I’m driving you to the World Series.”

“I did not pay for the ticket myself,” I say.

His eyes observe me in his mirror. “My bad.”

We drive for several minutes and reach FDR Drive. The picture of Barron’s daughter is still underneath his sun-protector.

“How old is your daughter?” I ask.

“She just turned seven,” he says. “Sorry — six. They grow up quick here.”

Zahira also grew up quickly, but for different reasons. In other ways of course she’s still a child, e.g., she has never had alcohol or a boyfriend, because I will not let that happen to her until she’s truly an adult.

The traffic becomes denser, so I don’t distract Barron anymore by talking. The car reroutes off the highway and onto the streets, and the buildings aren’t like the buildings in Manhattan, which are either modern or historic. These are obsolete and they all look the same, like ugly red rectangles, and although my family’s apartment building in Doha isn’t luxurious, it is superior to the apartments in this section of Manhattan and the Bronx and its architecture is unique from the other buildings. Everyone on the street is black or Latin American. I haven’t seen anyone in my building who is, minus the doormen and one black couple.

We approach Yankee Stadium, which is a massive white building whose shape is a hybrid of a circle and a triangle, and Barron stops and gives me a business card with his number on it and his full name: BARRON WRIGHT. “Call just before the game’s over, and I’ll tell you where to meet me,” he says.

“What are you going to do during the game?” I ask.

“Get some dinner around here, listen to the game in the car. Not worth driving all the way to Queens and back.”

I don’t like the image of Barron eating a discounted dinner and waiting inside the car for the whole game, but I merely say, “Thank you for driving me.” He nods but angles his head out his window at the other cars so he won’t cause a crash.

I pick up my ticket, and when I enter the stadium I see signs up several escalators for the mezzanine where Jefferson and Dan sat and where a large crowd walks, and for a second I want to tell Jefferson to search for me on television in the luxury suite before I remind myself that not everyone is as fortunate as I am to receive this golden opportunity.

The luxury suite is in a room off a hallway. Inside are several men in suits and a few females in dresses and fur coats. I expected other guests, but not so many. The females drink glasses of wine and the men drink bottles of Budweiser beer, and some of them eat off paper plates. A black man in a tuxedo stands behind silver trays of food on a table and serves sushi, and a Latin American man also in a tuxedo pours wine at a wooden bar. A large painting hangs on the wall of a Yankees player wearing number 7 and his signature, although I can’t decipher it and his last name isn’t on his uniform, as none of the Yankees’ are, possibly because they are like the residents of Mr. Schrub’s building and don’t have to call attention to themselves. The strongest programming code does the same thing: It is not always sexy, but it functions efficiently and without flaws.

I don’t see Mr. Schrub, and no one introduces himself to me, so I stand near the door. I’m hungry, but I don’t know if I’m allowed to request food or if it requires previous payment. I take a free game program and read about the teams for ten minutes, and finally I decide I’m a guest of Mr. Schrub’s and should chitchat with the others, so I approach a small cluster of men and say “Excuse me” to the oldest one with white hair and steel glasses, because it is usually appropriate to initially address the senior member of a group.

He turns his head and says, “Oh, thank you,” then hands me his empty Budweiser bottle and paper plate.

I quickly return to the door and trash the bottle and plate and continue looking into the bin as if there is something of interest inside. Possibly he made an error just because my clothing is not high quality and looks like a waiter’s outfit, even though the waiters all wear tuxedoes. But whatever the reason is, suddenly I want to leave.

Then someone says the game is beginning, and everyone exits the room through a glass door into the outdoor area, where there are 20 seats that look like the business seats in an airplane, and I know I have to stay.

It isn’t truly outside, however, since we have a small roof over us and lamps that produce heat. There is even a television here, although I don’t know why someone would watch the game on television when we have the chief seats in the stadium, but some of the people near me utilize it.

No one scores for the first two innings, and the game is more boring than it is on television, because on television the analysts explain the mathematical variations of the game and you have access to numerous statistics, which is the only part of the game I truly enjoy. So occasionally I do look over at the television for the displayed statistics.

Then everyone turns around because Mr. Schrub finally arrives. He’s dressed in his business clothing but he also wears a Yankees hat. He talks with another man approximately his age and they quickly bypass me in the last row and I don’t think he even sees me. Mr. Schrub then shakes the hands of the other men and kisses the females on the cheek before he sits in the front row with two other men.

There’s one voided seat in the front row, but I don’t want to interrupt Mr. Schrub and his friends and it would be boastful of me to believe that I merit a seat next to them. So I remain where I am and try to watch the game, but truly I’m watching Mr. Schrub, who records something on a piece of paper after each batter.

After Atlanta terminates, Mr. Schrub turns around. “Karim!” he says. “What are you doing in the nosebleeds?”

I’m humiliated, and I put my finger under my nose, but it is bloodless. Some of the people around me laugh.

“No, it’s — never mind,” he says, and signals for me to come closer.

I walk down the steps and feel all of Mr. Schrub’s friends observing me as if they are a wall of security cameras. He pats the seat next to him like it is a dog, and I sit down. Then he quietly explains the meaning of the term “nosebleeds,” and I also laugh now, because it is a clever application of language.

Mr. Schrub asks if I know much about baseball. I tell him I am trying to learn.

The Yankees hit efficiently and soon have players on second and third base with one out. One of Mr. Schrub’s friends, who must blend something into his gray hair because it looks like silver, says, “Cox has to have Smoltz walk Williams here to pitch to Martinez and set up the double play.”

Mr. Schrub says, “It’s a given, with one out.”

I access the statistics of the players they are discussing and note that:

1. The Yankees player Bernie Williams does not perform well against right-handed pitchers;

2. but Tino Martinez does, and the Braves pitcher John Smoltz is right-handed.

3. In addition, I previously memorized a sabermetrics table of how many runs are expected to score in 24 different game situations dependent on the number of outs and how many players are on base;

A. and in the current situation a team is expected to score 1.371 runs;

B. but if the Braves walk Williams and load the bases with one out, the Yankees are expected to score 1.546 runs.

4. Therefore, even though it appears to be the safe move, Mr. Schrub and his friend are advising a statistically unsound maneuver. Their strategy is understandable, however, as my line of thinking is unconventional, because it employs tangential statistics most observers ignore.

Mr. Schrub explains the situation, even though I already understand it. “See how it makes sense, even though in the short term it looks worse?”

“Possibly it is an error,” I say, although I intended to remain mute, but when I see an error in logic I find it difficult not to correct it.

“What do you mean?” Mr. Schrub asks.

“He’s confusing fielding errors,” his friend says. “See, they’re walking Williams. Cowards!” Then he makes a sound like a cow to express his frustration.

Now that I’ve already said a little, I decide I should express the complete idea, so I explain it to Mr. Schrub.

“Hmm” is all he says.

Tino Martinez hits a ball to the first baseman. It angles off his foot and two runs score for the Yankees. Then another Yankees player singles and Williams scores, which was possible only because the Braves walked him.

When the inning is over, Mr. Schrub introduces me to his friend and adds, “Karim’s one of our brightest young minds downtown. And I don’t count a single error in that statement.”

Those words will go in my archive of important recordings.

Mr. Schrub also teaches me how to “score” the game, which is why he was recording notes on a specialized paper. It is similar to tracking the stock market with various indices, and I learn quickly.

In the fourth inning Mr. Schrub says to me, “I could use some real ball-game food — none of this sushi crap. What do you say to a couple of dogs?”

I know “dogs” are not real canines, but I’m uncertain what they are, so I nod. He turns and waves from his seat to the black man in the tuxedo inside.

“Can you scrounge up two hot dogs?” Mr. Schrub asks as he pays the man $20, and now I recognize the term from street vendors.

The man leaves, and later he returns with two sausages in elongated bread inside a paper box. “Keep the change,” Mr. Schrub says as he transfers one of the sausages to me.

I look at the red cylinder of meat in my hands. Of course I can’t eat it, but I also don’t want to offend Mr. Schrub and his gift.

I bring the hot dog closer to inspect it. The scent is like something burning flavorfully, and my stomach wants me to consume it, and my tongue wants me to taste it, and even my eyes find it delicious, and maybe Allah will be careless of a solitary offense.

But I can’t do it.

Then Mr. Schrub says, “My God, what was I thinking?” He takes the hot dog from me. “I’m sorry, Karim. I can’t believe I forgot.”

He gives me a napkin so I can clean my hands. “I’ve got an idea,” he says, and he waves to the black man again. He hands him another $20 bill. “A bag of Cracker Jack,” he says. “Actually, make it two.”

He puts his own hot dog in the box and sets it on the concrete. “This probably isn’t the healthiest option anyway,” he says. “Who knows where this meat came from.”

The Cracker Jack is like sweet rocks that divide easily when I bite and I’m pleased I’m not offending anyone, although at the end I wish I didn’t eat it so rapidly.

For the rest of the game Mr. Schrub introduces me to some of his other friends, who are all more friendly to me than the man with mirroring hair. When we are alone again, Mr. Schrub whispers to me, “Nice people, but most of them could give a damn about who’s out on the field.”

The Yankees win, as I predicted, as they have the best and most expensive team. The players crash into each other and all the fans dance and Mr. Schrub and some of his male friends hug and clap and cheer. Then the friend with the silver hair says, “We have to sign a bigger bat in left field next year.” He and Mr. Schrub consult about other ways to enhance the team. In some ways they’re not enjoying their team’s success right now, but that’s also why Mr. Schrub is so successful: He’s never satisfied with mere achievement and is always thinking outside the box.

The Yankees player Paul O’Neill, who did not perform well in the game, covers his face as he walks off the field because he is crying.

Mr. Schrub is also watching Paul O’Neill, and as the other men around us talk he appears to be unfocused, but then someone asks him something and he resumes talking.

While the Yankees players and manager and their employer make speeches on the grass about how they took every game in singular quantities and labored at over the 100 % efficiency threshold, which is illogical but no one corrects them, Mr. Schrub says we should defeat the traffic and invites me to ride home in his car.

Mr. Schrub’s car is an actual limo. His driver, who is white, which surprises me, because every salaried driver I’ve seen in New York is not white, opens the door for us. Mr. Schrub says, “How was the seat, Patrick? Good view?”

“Very good, Mr. Schrub,” he says.

Mr. Schrub and I sit on opposite sides, and I’m the one riding backward, which I’ve never done in a car. It feels like I’m disappearing from the baseball game and the crowd, which is positive, because I was feeling bottlenecked and the bottoms of my shoes have much food and gum attached to them. Even guests in the luxury suite deposit their trash on the ground.

Mr. Schrub asks if I enjoyed the game. “I did. Thank you for inviting me, Mr. Schrub.” Then I add, “I apologize for not thanking you before.”

He smiles. “You’re very polite, aren’t you?” I don’t know how to respond to this without in fact sounding impolite, so I only reciprocate a smile. “I wish my sons were like that. I tried my hardest to raise them without a sense of entitlement, but…”

“It is difficult to raise children under any circumstances,” I say. “I suppose,” he says. “Maybe it’s my fault. No one could accuse me of spending too much time at home while they grew up. Looks like your parents did a good job, though.”

“It was difficult for them as well.”

“How so?”

I don’t want to stimulate pity from him, or from anyone, but I think maybe telling him this will make him feel enhanced about his own family, so I say, “My mother died when I was younger, so my father raised my sister and me independently.”

His mouth opens a fraction, and it looks like he’s trying to make words but can’t. Finally he looks out the window and says, “I’m very sorry to hear that, Karim.”

“It is not your fault,” I say, which is how I always respond.

We are quiet for a few minutes as the lights on the side of the highway flash periodically. We arrive at his home first and he directs Patrick to take me home. I decide not to tell anyone else here about my mother, although I don’t know anyone else who might want to know about it.

When I get home, I remember I never called Barron, and when I call his telephone I don’t access him, so I record an apology.

But I keep thinking about making him wait for three hours for no reason, when he could have gone home to his family and eaten a real dinner. I dial another number.

Zahira picks up and says she only has a few minutes before she leaves for university. She asks what I have been doing lately. For some reason I do not tell her about the baseball game, and instead I ask her about her classes. Then she says, “I want to talk, but I have to go, Karim.”

“Wait,” I say.

“What?”

The toggling lights of Times Square mirror on my blank television. “You do not remember the song mother used to sing to us before sleep, do you?” I ask.

“No. You have asked me this before.”

“It was a Beatles song.”

“How could I remember it?” she says. “I was four years old.”

“I thought possibly you might,” I say, although our father trashed all the Beatles records after she died, which would make it even more difficult for Zahira to remember.

“Why are you asking about this now?” she asks.

On the street people are celebrating and cars are honking again even louder than when the Mets won their game. “I don’t know,” I say. “I was thinking about it.”

She says, “It’s not good to always think about these things.”

“I don’t always,” I say.

“I don’t have time to discuss this now,” she says. “You can call me tonight.”

We disconnect. I don’t remind her that I can’t call tonight because our time zones are so divided.

burn the midnight oil = work late into the night

chitchat = conversation used in a social environment to fill up silence

freaking out = panic

lighten up = relax

my bad = it is my fault/error

nosebleeds = inexpensive seats that render the sitter vulnerable to nosebleeds

score = record statistical events for a baseball game

scrounge up = search for and retrieve

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: OCTOBER 28

When I arrive at my pod, my computer is missing from my desk. Only Dan is present. “Is this a joke?” I ask him.

He denies responsibility. I log in to Rebecca’s computer. Maybe I offended Mr. Schrub last night and I am no longer working in the pod.

There is an email from Mr. Ray asking me to meet him on his floor. Now I am truly fearful.

When I find him, he tells me to come with and leads me downstairs again. We walk past the kitchen and into another hallway where some of the senior employees have private offices. He swipes his ID card on the reader of a door and opens it.

It is a spacious room, with a blue carpet on the entire floor and two leather chairs on our side of a black wood desk and a chair with netting on the other side. The entire wall also has windows with a view of the Statue of Liberty. The computer has two adjacent monitors: One is a standard horizontal monitor and one is vertical for enhanced observation when programming.

And in the middle of the desk is a name bar:

KARIM ISSAR

Before Mr. Ray leaves, he touches one of the leather chairs and says to himself, “Nicer than my office.”

I spend a few minutes sitting in my chair and reclining against the strong netting and observing out the window. Then I swipe my ID card several times and watch the light convert from red to green. Finally I remember they are not paying me all this money and providing me with such a luxurious office merely to recreate.

Rebecca knocks on my door after lunch.

“So you’re no longer in the tech ghetto,” she says as she scans my office. “What nefarious schemes are you masterminding in here?”

“I am working on futures,” I say.

Then we do not say anything for a few seconds, and she says, “Don’t be a stranger,” and leaves.

In the afternoon I start thinking that if I have a private office, I should look like I work in one. I email Jefferson for advice on where to purchase clothing. I don’t want to ask Rebecca, because she might not know where good men’s clothing is, and also it’s not in her class of interests. Her clothing looks nice on her but it’s not very expensive. And Dan’s clothing looks expensive but is not attractive and never fits him well, e.g., he always reminds me of what I looked like in my first suit I bought for work at age 18.

After work I visit the first store on Jefferson’s list, Barneys. I’ve been inside stores like this in Doha, but of course the items are always too expensive for me. I examine an attractive dark blue suit. A female in a black dress as restricting as a tie walks over and says, “That’s a gorgeous suit. Do you want to try it on?”

I try it on in a dressing room and observe myself in the mirror. It fits my body like suits do in advertisements, and the color is pleasing, and I do look sexier than normal in it. Then I see the price tag. It’s greater than my former weekly salary. This is my most major purchasing decision ever, and after I consider the cons, I evaluate the pros:

1. Previously, if I had to purchase a new suit, I would have spent a large percentage of my weekly salary, so why should I not do that now?

2. I am working extremely long hours; if I do not get to enjoy at least some of the financial compensation, I will not be motivated to continue working so much, because the output is less than the input.

3. Quality clothing will help me in future business transactions.

4. My purchase will stimulate the economy.

5. I will still have much money left over for Zahira.

I tell the female I will buy it, and a Greek man who smells like mints and soap takes my measurements so they can tailor it and deliver it later. At the counter, the dollar value appears in green digits on the cash register and she swipes my credit card, and my heart spikes and charges my entire body and I feel like when I drank alcohol with Jefferson and Dan.

Then she says, “Did you want to get some shirts and ties to go with that?”

She is correct, as I should not wear a new suit with old shirts and ties. She helps me select some shirts and recommends buying five so I can wear a new one each day.

Two of the shirts are white and look like each other, so I decide to take only one. I examine them for differences in quality, but I truly cannot distinguish them, as they both feel soft and durable and are attractive. The tag on one reads “Made in Italy” and the other reads “Made in Philippines.” I discard the second shirt.

I buy the five shirts and five ties and am again electrified when she swipes my credit card. Then after I leave Barneys, I consider that I can’t wear the same suit daily even if my shirts and ties are different, and I go into the nearby Saks Fifth Avenue store. I also can’t buy another suit that is less gorgeous than my Barneys suit, so I find one that costs nearly the same amount, and then buy three others of equal quality.

“May I tailor the others and bring one of these home with me now?” I ask the salesman as I point to one that is gray with blue stripes that already fits me well.

I am now carrying several heavy bags, and it is fortunate that I do push-ups and have inflated triceps. I set them down outside on the sidewalk to signal for a taxi, but it is rush hour. While I wait, I withdraw all the store receipts from my wallet and add them.

In 90 minutes I have spent two weeks of my new salary. My stomach becomes dizzy. I consider returning one or two of the suits, but I have made my decision and I should not reverse it, and it would be humiliating to return it immediately because the employees would know it was because I overspent.

A taxi stops for me, but I pick up my bags and shake my head at the driver and walk west. After a few blocks my arms slightly pain me.

When I reach 7th Ave. it starts raining, and everyone runs to the buildings for protection. The rain contacts the ground like bubbles on the surface of a new glass of Coke. Someone says it will continue all night.

I have just two blocks remaining, and there is even a nearby empty taxi that no one else is taking yet because they are either hoping the rain will stop or they have umbrellas, but I certify that my shopping bags are shielded from the water and walk.

My hair and current suit quickly become hydrated. Although sometimes I enjoy walking in the rain in Doha under the gray and black sky and feeling as if I am alone in the world but strong from my independence, now it is uncomfortable and my forehead coldly burns from the wind and the walk seems to take an infinite amount of time.

After I dry off at home, I wear a new shirt and tie and the gray suit with blue stripes and evaluate myself in the mirror.

It was worth it. I truly look like a cream of the cream American businessman.

I cook rice and vegetables for dinner while still wearing my suit and guarantee to myself I will not spend any more money on clothing while I am here.

digs = living area

don’t be a stranger = remain in contact with others

ghetto = undesirable neighborhood

mastermind = innovate as leader

nefarious = immoral

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: OCTOBER 31

Zahira emails me a humorous newspaper story while I am at work about a thief who fell asleep during a bank robbery. I say, “Rebecca, this is humorous—” before I remember I’m alone in my office. I forward her the email and a few minutes later she replies that it’s funny, but our exchange is not equivalent when communicating via email.

In the afternoon Dan knocks on my door and enters before I can respond. “Karim the Dream, looking hot. I’d do you. New threads?” I thank him for the compliment, although I don’t mention that I asked for help from Jefferson. “That an Aeron chair?”

“I am uncertain,” I say, although I know it’s an expensive chair and is more comfortable than the chairs in the normal pods, but I don’t want to appear boastful about my chair, especially because I know Dan likes to spend money on seats.

“Hey, sorry about that joke the other day,” he says. “Just trying to burn off the stress about the layoffs. Put it in perspective, you know?”

“Some people already have sufficient perspective,” I say.

He touches the name bar on my desk and rotates it 30 degrees before letting go. “Anyway, Jefferson and I wanted to let you know about this Halloween party on Saturday. Some dot-com dude’s town house in Chelsea. You in?”

I’ve never celebrated Halloween in Doha, but it would be enjoyable to see what it is like in the U.S. In addition I haven’t been to a party at someone’s home yet here. Even though I didn’t have a very profitable experience at Cathedral, I tell Dan I’d like to go, and he says he will provide a costume for me when we “pre-game” at his apartment.

After he leaves, I rotate the name bar back to its original position and shoot Rebecca an invitation. She replies:

Thanks, but I’ll pass. Dot-com asshole’s party + Dan/Jefferson = my personal Halloween horror movie.

I’m disappointed, but I like how Rebecca expressed her lack of interest with an equation, although to be clearer she should not have used a slash sign between Dan’s and Jefferson’s names because it looks like a division sign.

Before I leave my apartment Saturday night for Dan’s apartment, I receive a telephone call, which is rare for me if it’s not Zahira. It is Rebecca.

“What is happening?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Rebecca says. “What are you up to?”

“I am leaving for Dan’s apartment to pre-game.”

“Pre-game?”

“It is the term for consuming alcohol in an apartment before a party.”

“I know, I just didn’t think…” She has a very pleasant voice to hear on the telephone. I predict she is a good singer to boot. “Well, I was kind of thinking about going out tonight, and I was wondering if—”

“Would you like to pre-game with us?” I ask.

“I don’t know about pre-gaming, but maybe I could meet you guys after?”

“I will ask Dan right now.”

“Wait,” she says. “You don’t have to do that.”

“It is careless,” I say. She is about to interrupt again, but I tell her I will call her back.

Dan says “Go for it” when I ask him, and I provide Rebecca with the address.

On the subway to Dan’s apartment on 22nd St. and 6th Ave., the females mostly wear minimal materials for costumes. One veils her face and body with a sheet like a ghost, except it doesn’t cover her legs and a hole reveals a large partition of her breasts where they are bisected.

Dan greets me at his apartment door in a President Clinton mask and a cigar in the corner of his mouth. Rap music plays on his stereo. I ask who the musician is.

“That’s Tupac. You like?” To be polite, I tell him I do, although I cannot usually understand the lyrics to rap. “I’ll burn you a CD,” he says.

“You do not have to do that,” I say, but what I really want to say is that it’s not ethical to copy music.

“It’s nothing,” he says. As he begins the burning process on his laptop, he says to Jefferson, “At least some people here have musical taste.”

Jefferson is reading a magazine on the couch. He wears the costume of the Japanese soldier in the movie: blue material like a bathrobe with shoulder armor. His hair is in a knot at the top of his head and he has an artificial sword at his waist. It is strange to see that outfit on a white person, although possibly some people would find it strange to see, e.g., a racquetball outfit on someone like me.

Dan offers me a drink, and I ask what he has. “Let’s see,” he says as he looks in his refrigerator. “We’ve got OJ, purple stuff, soda, Sunny Delight.” Jefferson laughs, although it is the class of laughter that does not utilize the lungs. I tell him I will have the same drink he has, and he retrieves a beer.

Two shelves like skyscrapers of CDs are near the stereo. From the plastic cases and the plastic materials in the CDs, I try to calculate how much petroleum they all contain, but it is of course impossible without knowing the precise material breakdown.

A shelf littered with books is next to the CDs. The lion’s share are finance books, but there is one large book on art. Possibly Dan has more interests than I previously estimated. Sometimes small details tell you more about someone than the big picture does, in the same way, e.g., that the infinity of real numbers between 0 and 1 is actually greater in cardinality than the infinity of all integers.

Dan also takes out two small sheets of paper and hands one to Jefferson. “Got this weekend’s point spreads. Fill it out now and we can drop it off with my doorman on our way out.” He rotates to me. “Want to bet on football?”

He explains to me the concept of the point spread, which is similar to strike prices with options. I ask Dan for advice on which teams to pick, but he says, “With the spread, it’s basically random — just go with your gut,” which is poor strategy, because a knowledgeable expert would find a way to calculate better odds, so I bet only $5.

“Ready for your costume, high roller?” he asks as he takes my money. He gives me a plastic bag. Inside is a wrench. Despite my skills with computers, I am inefficient with the repair of physical objects. My father is much better in this department. He tried to teach me many times when I was young, but I was never good at it and he always became frustrated, so finally he stopped.

“Do I say I am a wrench or a tool?” I ask.

Dan’s laughter always sounds like he exclusively understands what is humorous about a situation. “Whatever you want. But I suggest saying you’re a mechanic.”

When Dan is in the restroom, Jefferson says, “A ‘tool’ is someone who gets used by others.” He lowers his volume. “Dan’s a good kid, but a little immature. And with a narrow worldview.” He shakes his head. “Sometimes I think he’s just in this for the money.”

To reroute the subject, I tell him I like his costume and ask if he has visited Japan. “I did my junior year abroad in Tokyo,” he says. “And I backpacked through Southeast Asia in ’97, just when the financial crisis hit.”

We discuss the Asian Financial Crisis in more depth. Jefferson has a broad knowledge base and I learn some new facts, e.g., because Japan was the world’s largest holder of currency reserves at the time, the yen remained stable, but after the crisis, when Japanese manufacturers couldn’t compete with cheaper rival countries, the GDP real growth rate in fact fell into recession in 1998.

“They’ve bounced back, though. One thing those people know, it’s how to safely weaken their currency and create a current account surplus.” Then he says, “And produce fine women who think all white guys are goddamn Vikings. Even the runts.” I believe this is a joke but I am not 100 % certain, and therefore I produce the same laugh without lungs he used before, but he is serious and returns to reading Wired.

When Dan comes back, we drink more beers and watch a movie about a man with long hair who likes to bowl, and Dan and Jefferson state much of the conversation simultaneously with the actors. Before we leave, Dan gives me the burned CD and writes on it: “To: Karim the Dream, FROM: DAN.” I still feel nefarious about accepting it, but it’s a gift and Dan is trying to be more friendly, and possibly that compensates for the theft.

When we exit the building, Dan waits until no one else is around, then whispers to his doorman and transfers our three pieces of paper and some money to him.

Many men pass us in clusters as we walk south on 7th Ave. Although it’s cold, their costumes are low on material and emphasize their muscles. “You have a lot of gays in your country?” Jefferson asks.

“No,” I say. “Homosexuals can be imprisoned for five years and whipped.”

“Do they even consider that a punishment?” Dan asks.

“Don’t be a homophobe,” Jefferson says. “You’re not in redneck country.”

The party is in an apartment building that just one person lives in. We take an elevator up three floors, and before the doors open we can hear the music and people talking and feel the temperature rise.

The elevator doors open directly to a large room bottlenecked with men like the ones we saw on the street.

“What the hell, Dan?” Jefferson says.

“I swear to God I didn’t think it would be like this,” Dan says.

“‘Just because it’s a Halloween party in Chelsea doesn’t mean it’s gay,’” Jefferson says in a voice imitating what Dan must have said to him previously.

“Look at it from the other side,” Dan says. “The women here are probably desperate.”

Jefferson rubs his eyebrows like he does at the end of the workday. Small pieces of dead white skin fall. “I can’t believe we turned down the party at Pagan for this. All because you didn’t want to pay a $75 cover, you cheap-ass Jew.”

The elevator doors merge as we remain contained. “Well, it’s too late now, and the only other big party we know about is on the Upper East Side, and cabs are scarce tonight,” Dan says as he presses the “Door Open” button. “Let’s try it out for a few minutes.” Jefferson tells Dan that he owes him, and I follow them into the party.

Dan produces drinks for us at a table, but because they’re disputing with each other I don’t request a healthy beverage like orange or cranberry juice, so he makes me a Coke and vodka.

We stand near the drinks and observe the party. There are a few females, and some of them link their eyes with Jefferson’s.

“See?” Dan says. “It’s just a matter of finding the untapped market. We should’ve been doing this years ago.”

As I consume my second drink, someone contacts my shoulder. Rebecca stands behind me in a coat. A white dress of satin material descends under it to a few inches above her knees. It is the first time I’ve seen her wear a dress. She opens her coat slightly and I see Post-its on the material that display “OEDIPUS COMPLEX,” “SUPEREGO,” and “ID.” She also reveals her upper arms and shoulders, which are pale and shaped like lightbulbs.

“It’s a Freudian slip.” She closes her coat. “It’s idiotic and a cliché, but I didn’t have anything else. What are you?”

I hold up my wrench. “I am a mechanic.”

Then she says hello to Dan and Jefferson. Before I can ask how she is enjoying work, Dan says, “You guys want to play pool?” and he points to a black billiards table.

Rebecca says, “I don’t really play, but—”

“Perfect,” Dan says. “Cutthroat’s better than two on two.”

He defines the rules, the central one of which is to pocket your competitors’ balls while protecting your own. Dan says, “What do you say we put a little money on this, just to make it interesting?”

Jefferson doesn’t want to at first, but Dan says, “Money won is twice as sweet as money earned,” and they agree to betting $20 each, which I don’t want to do either, as I know I’ll lose, but they also provided me with alcohol earlier and invited me to this party, so it’s parallel to owing them $20.

Rebecca watches us play, and Dan and Jefferson begin by pocketing some balls of each other and ignoring mine, which is logical because I’m an unthreatening novice.

On my first turn to strike the white ball, I miss 100 %. Dan says to Rebecca, “You want to get behind him and show him how it’s done?” Rebecca doesn’t say anything, but Jefferson stands next to me and demonstrates proper technique. They allow me to strike again, and I hit the white ball but it doesn’t contact anything else.

I watch Dan and Jefferson shoot and practice my striking motion. Dan strikes like a puncher, fast and with quick oscillations, and Jefferson does one long withdrawal and launch like he is shooting a bow and arrow. When it’s my turn, I aim like a sniper at the ball and produce solid contact, and it knocks in one of Jefferson’s balls.

But now I’m in poor position to make another shot, and I realize that a smart pool player has a 1,000-mile view of not only (1) where the ball he is striking will go, but also (2) where the white ball will end up after, similar to how a chess player must think several turns ahead. This is why computer chess programs are now better than the best human players (and why a strategic and accurate robotic pool player would beat the best human player, because pool also denies the accident), because they can make infinite predictions that humans cannot, and this is why I believe Kapitoil is superior to human financial analysts. Although it is true that chess programs are not robust at endgame strategies, because there are too many variables that humans can in fact filter more efficiently. Therefore, chess programs have maximal databases of all possible endgame strategies and positions. They follow these databases mechanically and don’t utilize their conventional artificial intelligence.

I miss my shot, and two females ask Jefferson if they can have the next game. The one who asks is thin and has blonde hair and wears false cat ears and has drawn whiskers on her cheeks, and her friend is heavier and in the clothing of a waitress from the English Middle Ages that provides her breasts with high visibility.

While Dan shoots, two men dance in the middle of the floor dressed as a policeman and the singer Madonna. They kiss, and then the man in the Madonna costume deposits his hand inside the front of the policeman’s pants. Although part of me wants to keep watching, it also disgusts me, not only because it is two men, which bothers me (but I am in the U.S. now and specifically in New York and that is the custom here), but because they aren’t respecting the privacy of others or even themselves.

Dan pockets the remainder of Jefferson’s balls and loudly informs Jefferson that he sucks. Jefferson doesn’t listen, however, as he’s conversing with the cat. Then Dan deposits all of my balls in the table pockets except the last one, which is a difficult shot that he misses.

On my turn I take more time observing the table before I shoot and deciphering the optimal ball to hit. I link my stick between Dan’s number 6 and the pocket, as I’ve seen Dan and Jefferson do, and aim at where the stick bisected the number 6 ball, and strike slowly and deposit it. I am also now in position to get another one, but this time I miss, and I leave my last ball vulnerable.

Dan has an easy shot, and he lines up and retracts and extends his stick several times, then he looks at me from the corner of his eye quickly as if he is certifying that I’m watching, and shoots. It misses, very slightly, and the white ball rolls into a strong position for me. He says, “Can’t believe I missed that,” and shakes his head, and now I know he missed on purpose, because when people are truly upset with themselves for making an error they are either more angry or mute.

I pocket Dan’s number 9 ball, which leaves his last one. Now it is easier to focus, because (1) there are fewer variables (fewer balls), and (2) there is less need for prediction (I don’t have to worry about placing the white ball after this). I strike the ball cleanly and Dan’s number 7 ball rolls into the pocket.

Dan puts the three $20 bills in my hand and holds it above our heads and says I am the winner and still undefeated, even though I have never played before so of course I am still undefeated, but I don’t feel triumphant, as it was a fraudulent win and Dan intentionally lost to me because I am now a higher-up.

Then Jefferson invites the two females to play against him and Dan, and I find Rebecca, who stands behind the two females. She compliments my pool skills.

“You could perform as well if you tried,” I say. “It is merely a combination of geometry-based strategy and hand-eye coordination.”

She smiles and says, “You certainly have a distinctive way of seeing the world.”

I smile as well, but it is forced, because while I do enjoy the use of numbers and logic, her comment suggests that it’s all I have to offer others and that, parallel to Dan, I have a narrow worldview.

Possibly Rebecca recognizes I’m offended because when I ask how the pod is, she says, “It’s something to listen to Dan and Jefferson’s repressed flirtations without any other witnesses. A truly unique experience.” I want to tell her that I would like to have other witnesses in my office as well, but I don’t want the risk of her asking what I’m working on or to appear ungrateful for receiving a private office. Then she adds, “Except you can’t say something is ‘truly’ unique. It’s either unique or it’s not. Like pregnancy.” I had not previously considered this idea. Placing an adverb before “unique” is similar to multiplying a number by zero: It will remain zero no matter what the modifier is.

I consult with her about the Y2K project, but she instead asks how my sister is. I tell her Zahira has developed an interest in biology and is performing well in school. “But I wish she displayed more interest in economics,” I say. Rebecca asks why. “It is an interesting field and one that she would excel at.”

“Maybe it’s more important for her to find out what she’s interested in and what she excels at,” Rebecca says.

I do not reply, but it is a valid point, and possibly Zahira is not truly stimulated by my conversations and emails about finance and programming.

Rebecca lights a cigarette and accidentally exhales smoke in my face. “Oh, fuck, I’m so sorry,” she says as she waves her hands to push it away, although once smoke has touched you it has already inflicted its odor and damage.

But I say, “You do not need to apologize to me. You should apologize to your own body.”

“Thanks, Mom,” she says. “I was in the mood for a lecture about something I only get reminded of 50 times a day.”

“Then why do you not stop smoking?” I ask.

“Stop smoking,” she says as if she is considering the idea for the first time. “Why didn’t I think of that? I should just quit — it’s so easy to do!”

I look directly at her and say, “That is an attitude of defeat. Your body is more powerful than cigarettes, and your brain is more powerful than your body, and you can overpower them if you truly want to.”

Her eyes move slightly as they stay with mine. She deposits her cigarette inside her beer bottle. “Sounds a little Tony Robbins, but what the hell, nothing else has worked,” she says. She looks at the long line for the restroom. “Save my spot?” I tell her I will, although I don’t think anyone will occupy her spot to talk to me.

But soon a man in a costume with wings on his back that mirror light bumps into me. “Excuse me,” he says, and from his voice I decipher he is a homosexual.

“It is not a problem,” I say.

“Let me make it up to you,” he says. “What are you drinking?” I tell him Coke and vodka, and he says, “My kind of guy.”

I hope Rebecca returns before he does, but he’s back quickly. “One vodka and Coke for Mr.?” he asks.

“Karim Issar,” I say, and I shake his hand with great force.

“Easy, tiger,” he says. “I need that. Jamie Spalding.”

He asks where I’m from and what I do and how long I’ve been in New York, and I answer each question in a calm and quiet voice, which is simple because my normal voice is not very stimulated and is a facet I’m working on, as business people respond to enthusiasm and energy.

When I tell him that I don’t mind working long hours, and in fact I prefer them because sometimes I’m uncertain what to do with myself when I don’t have a project, he laughs very hard, even though nothing in my statement is humorous. Then he touches my chest and says, “Do you consider dancing a project?”

I must remind myself that I am a guest at this party and in this country. “No, I do not,” I say. “But I have to rejoin my friends now.” Before I depart I shake his hand even though I don’t truly want to.

At the pool table, Jefferson introduces me to the cat (Melissa) and the English Middle Ages waitress (Bonnie). He says, “Karim works with us at Schrub. The boss fucking loves him — he took him to the World Series the other night.” I don’t know how he knows this, and I wish he didn’t know it. Then he whispers in my ear, “Bonnie’s been asking about you. Talk to her.”

I don’t believe him, and I also think he wants me to talk to her so that he and Dan can possess Melissa exclusively for themselves, and it frustrates me that Jefferson always secures the optimal female, but Rebecca is still waiting for the restroom and I do not want to be alone or have Jamie converse with me again, so I engage Bonnie. She is studying for a master’s degree in sociology at a university in New York, and although she is friendly and intelligent and I do not think females who are slightly overweight are unattractive, as Jefferson and Dan do, I keep looking over at Melissa and partially listening to her, even though what she is saying is vapid (she is discussing where she bought her costume and how the idea launched from a television show), but Jefferson and Dan pretend to be very stimulated.

Dan continues refilling my drink and I become dizzier but I don’t want to appear like a boring socializer so I continue drinking, and then Dan and Jefferson pour us all small amounts of tequila and we consume them as a group project. The liquid produces flames in my throat and my eyes hydrate and when I open them everyone has a compressed face. At one point Dan says quietly to me “Karim,” and because he uses only one syllable I can tell he is also drunk. “I know I can be a dick. I can’t help it. It’s not personal. I’m just that way sometimes.” When I say it is okay, he squeezes my shoulder and says, “No, really. I’m a bastard. I can’t stand myself most of the time.” I tell him he is a better person than he credits himself, and I think I see a tear in one of his eyes before he deletes it with his fingers but it may be a result of the alcohol, and he hugs me with force and makes me drink another small glass of tequila with him.

The remainder I don’t remember with clarity. I know that soon Melissa began talking to me, possibly because I was pretending not to pay attention to her, and people act according to a supply-and-demand equilibrium like prices do, and then she was touching my arm frequently and laughing at my jokes that I knew weren’t very humorous and licking her lips just below a small birthmark that looked like a decimal point, and she asked to hold my wrench and then pocketed it in my pants, and we all drank more tequila, and soon we were all dancing in the middle of the room and Melissa was dancing with her back to me but adjacent to my waist and her neck had the most delicious smell of vanilla and felt like silk sheets against my cheek, and when I turned around at one point I saw Rebecca standing in our former spot, and we looked at each other briefly although she was blurry but I could see she was smoking a cigarette again.

Melissa went to get another drink, and Rebecca came up to me and said, “Sorry to interrupt. Maybe I’ll see you on Monday, if you make it in,” and left. Sometimes I wish my voice recorder didn’t record everything.

Then Melissa returned and kissed me and tasted simultaneously like a soft dessert and alcohol.

Dan and Jefferson were both dancing with Bonnie dividing them, and she was alternating in kissing both of them, and then I saw Dan bend down with his President Clinton mask off and kiss Jefferson with his tongue and Jefferson permitted it for many seconds before he pushed Dan away and called him a fucking fag.

Melissa licked the inside of my ear and whispered, “Do you want to get out of here?” and I said yes and licked her ear but instead contacted her hair with my tongue.

In the elevator we kissed more as we descended, and she also put her hand inside my pocket and said she was looking for my wrench and laughed, because it was the pocket without the wrench. When we exited the building it was much colder than before and my body was vibrating from the temperature and the alcohol. She said we could go to her apartment in the East Village. We waited for several minutes but couldn’t receive a taxi because they were in such high demand. Then a white man driving a bicycle with an attached carriage came down the street. Melissa stood in the street and waved her hand, and when he stopped she entered the carriage.

I couldn’t believe the man was going to transport us with his legs all the way across Manhattan. But Melissa said, “What are you waiting for?” and I got in.

The man pedaled to her address. He looked like he was my age and wore a wool hat for the cold, but soon he perspired from the work. Melissa continued kissing and touching me. I looked at the driver’s legs periodically and tried not to pay attention to people on the street observing us.

When we arrived at Melissa’s apartment, I gave her my wallet because I couldn’t focus on the numbers on the bills. She paid and returned it to me and exited the carriage, and I gave him another bill whose denomination I couldn’t read.

Her apartment was on the fourth floor, and I was breathless at the top because I have had little challenging exercise in New York. Her bedroom and kitchen were in the same room. “I guess it’s not quite what you’re used to?” she said.

In fact, it was similar to what I was used to in Doha. “It is sufficient accommodations,” I said, although I did not pronounce the words clearly.

She took my hand and led me to the bed, and soon we discarded all our clothing. She said she liked my body and that my skin had “such beautiful coloring.” I said I liked how smooth hers was (although one small section of her left leg was not because of a shaving error) and how soft her hair was, and we spent a long time touching each other’s skin and faces and hair and I forgot all about Kapitoil and work and being a foreigner and everything else, and all I thought about was how luxurious my body felt next to Melissa’s and that I had won the cream of the cream female at the party.

Finally she opened a drawer next to her bed and removed a condom. I had a moment of clear thought in which I truly understood what I was about to do and what it would mean and how I might feel after it, and my initial reaction was to tell her that I needed to go home, but then she exhaled warm air on my neck and my body defeated my brain and the thought deleted and I asked her to place it on me.

I don’t remember all the details. I wasn’t as nervous as I always predicted I would be, probably because of the alcohol, but when I had difficulty releasing her bra she slightly laughed and made me feel like a novice. I don’t believe I was very skilled, because I didn’t truly know what actions to take, and at one point I remembered what I had done to Rebecca and I temporarily lost the desire to continue.

But it was still mostly pleasurable, and I spent much time touching her left breast and observing how it felt like nothing else on my body and nothing else I had ever remembered touching, and the pleasure reached its peak at the end, when it was as if my system crashed but in a delightful way, and for several seconds all my thoughts were voided, which never happens to me. After we finished, we rested on our backs without contacting and she said, “I came really hard, twice.”

She fell asleep quickly, but I didn’t, because my body no longer had power over my brain and my thoughts were becoming clearer and the effects of the alcohol weren’t as robust. I placed myself under the blanket, but Melissa’s body was facing up on top of it. There was no method to place her under without waking her. But she seemed like she would be careless if I saw her without clothes.

And then I truly started to think about what I had done. I wondered what my mother would say. Possibly she would understand, because she was modern, but she might also say that I was rejecting not only Muslim values but also personal values, e.g., I didn’t know or even respect Melissa very much and the main reason I was with her was because she was sexy and I wanted to prove that I could obtain her so that I would also feel sexy, which was never something I was invested in before.

Although we had done an act that was the opposite of violence, in some ways I understood how a person might feel after committing murder. In my brain I kept hearing my voice repeat the word “aasef,” but I simultaneously knew that apologizing achieved nothing, which only increased the volume of my interior voice in a cycle.

I remained awake because of these thoughts and also because I was not used to sleeping next to anyone, especially not someone I met just a few hours before. In some ways that part presented more highly privileged information about another person than intercourse itself. At 5:00 a.m. my mouth felt like chicken bones and sand were blended inside it, and I removed myself from the bed slowly and fell down when my weak legs contacted the ground.

I drank cold water from the sink faucet in her restroom for a full minute. I had never valued water as much. Her sink was covered with long blonde hairs that were black on one end and white toothpaste remainder like lines of writing in the sky from airplanes. When I lifted the toilet seat, I almost ejected when I saw how dirty it was on the reverse side, so I closed it and used the toilet while sitting down. It was difficult to believe such a dirty restroom could produce such a clean body.

I considered leaving my email address with her, but I knew we didn’t have many intersected subjects of interest and another meeting would not be profitable. So instead I wrote on a piece of paper: “TO: MELISSA — Thank you for an enjoyable night. FROM: Karim.”

It was dark and cold outside and I was still partially drunk. A taxi drove down the street and I raised my hand, but when it stopped I told the driver, “My bad — please resume.” He cursed at me in his language and left. I walked north and west, and with every step I wanted to eject, but I told myself I merited walking home. Bags of trash sat along all the sidewalks like palm trees in Doha and the smell made me feel even unhealthier, so when it was possible I walked in the dividing islands of the streets to avoid the smell and other people. In one hour I was at my apartment, where finally I did eject everything I drank the previous night in my restroom, and I then drank water until I felt I had consumed an equal quantity to the alcohol, and showered for a long time and washed myself well but was too exhausted to pray.

high roller = gambler with significant funds at his disposal

mechanic = worker who repairs machines

pocket = deposit an object inside a pocket

pre-game = drink alcohol in the apartment before external parties to reduce panicked feelings

redneck = negative term for someone who lives in the southern U.S.

repressed = emotions that a person attempts to restrict

tool = someone who is leveraged by others