I’m packed into the Friday night Metroliner, a travel artery for upwardly mobile professionals hitting weekend destinations along the Eastern Seaboard. A man claims the seat next to me, nodding a stiff greeting before retreating into his Blackberry. He’s in his forties, trim, with a full head of hair and a caramel tan. He wears a canary yellow button down, Italian loafers and pressed khakis — likely his version of Casual Friday. Squeezing a black leather computer bag between his feet, he unzips it with an exaggerated flair - perhaps for my benefit? - and pulls out a Thinkpad, affixing a headset to his right ear. As the train lurches forward, he starts taking calls, chatting breezily into the earpiece and staring straight ahead. A few harried passersby still searching for empty seats pause to stare, wondering why the smartly-dressed businessman in the third row seems to be talking to himself.
Oblivious, he gabs away in a crisp tenor, nodding and gesturing with the air of someone who knows other people are listening. His tone, the careful balance of bravado and deference that men in $200 shoes use to speak to men in $400 shoes, gives away the nature of the call. He tosses out phrases like “multi-tiered structural platforms” and “strategic proactive maximization,” emphasizing each syllable as if he was trying out a brand new dialect of synthetic corporate speak.
“It’ll take some careful marketing to go all the way with this thing, Tom,” he says. “We’ll have it mapped out by Monday. I’ve got my team working on it as we speak. I have no doubt, and I think you’ll agree with me, that this initiative is the way to go.”
Noticing my stare, he glances my way with a casual smile that says “Apologies for the disturbance - I can’t help being indispensable.” After forty minutes or so, he hangs up the phone with a flourish, clicks open his Outlook and begins typing away. Thirty seconds later, the phone rings again.
“Hel-lo, X Smith speaking,” he chirrups.
The second the woman’s voice comes through the other line, his face falls and his shoulders sink. Glancing around, he turns his back to me and curls around the phone like an injured worm.
“Victoria, I can’t do this right now. I’m on a train,” he whispers urgently.
The response is shrill and angry, but the words are unintelligible.
“I told you, I’d take them the third weekend of every month. I thought we’d agreed on this. We can have the lawyers hash it out and make life miserable for everyone, or we can try to work it ou–”
More yelling ensues, and he sinks further into the brick red upholstery.
“Yes, I know I said that. I shouldn’t have said it. I’m sorry. I moved everything out, just like you wanted. I changed the car registrations. I just want to make sure I see my kids. One weekend a month is crazy - you know it is.”
He’s sweating now, moisture beading under his starched yellow collar. His tanned features have turned red, the blood vessels in his cheeks swelling to full capacity. He shoots me another look, more injured beagle than master of the universe. “Victoria, can we please talk about this later? I– I can’t do this right now. I am asking you. Please.”
The other line goes dead and he drops the phone in his lap, a picture of mute defeat. I sit motionless, pretty certain that just about anything I’d consider doing or saying at that moment would only make the situation worse. Ten minutes of palpable awkwardness pass, my neighbor slumped in his seat with a hand over his face while I pretend to be engrossed in Evelyn Waugh. At last it comes again, the inevitable phone ring.
“X Smith.” The breezy lilt is now a dead monotone. “Tom! How are you? Did you get a chance to look over those charts?” In seconds he’s back, sitting erect, head tilted up, voice smooth and confident. “Of course! I’m happy to talk them over now. There couldn’t be a better time.”