The Buy Side (27 page)

“I LOVE Y”
On the way home, I get a call from the co-op board. When I get there Jenn greets me at the door of the triplex holding my eight-week-old puppy, Houdini. He’s a Japanese Chin who looks like Gizmo from the movie
The Gremlins
. So cute. I mentioned once to Jenn that I wanted a dog, and two days later she had a list of breeders and the types of dogs that would be good for my lifestyle. A week later we were in the car driving to Maryland to pick up Houdini. She plants a kiss on me before I even make it into the apartment. It’s a long, wet, sensual kiss, a kiss I’ve been missing. Her smile makes me somehow feel better than I am. It’s amazing. I immediately take off my sport coat and throw it on the couch, and we kiss again.

“Well?” she asks, playfully pushing me away. “Tell me how it went.”

I think about the call I just received and look down at the ground in front of her. “Oh, baby,” she says softly as she holds me.

“I just wasn’t any good in the interview,” I whisper. When I look up into her eyes, the scene falls apart. There’s something about her eyes I just can’t lie to—even when I’m just playing with her. She sees I’m having trouble staying in character.

“You got it, didn’t you?”

“They just called before I got home.”

“I knew it,” she says, squeezing me. “I just knew it.” We kiss again and then I make my way up to my bedroom. I take off my clothes and put on shorts and a T-shirt. “Come with me,” she says as she takes my hand. Jenn leads me up to the rooftop, where there’s a table with a white tablecloth, a lit candle, and two wineglasses with the bottle on ice. Pink clouds blanket the sky. The sun is setting and the evening lights of Jersey City begin to twinkle on the darkening Hudson River. The water is calm as a few luxury boats idle by. We sit down at the table and uncork the bottle. I pour hers first and then mine. We toast to new beginnings. There is no need for words. I pour the rest of the
wine into the glasses. The temperature has dropped a bit since sunset. I hold the glasses in one hand and take her hand with the other and lead her to the bedroom.

“I LOVE YO”
I run my finger up and down and around her entire back. I can feel the electricity between my finger and her skin. It makes me feel like I’m a part of her. I close my eyes while slowly tickling her back. I lie down with her behind me. She runs her fingers through my hair. I was always on the move, always had to get to the club, the next party. I used to tell myself I didn’t want to miss anything. But the truth of the matter is, I was never content, no matter where I was or who I was with. With Jenn I can just sit and talk, reach across the table and hold her hand. I like lying here next to her. I never want her to go, and I never want to leave. I don’t know when that’s ever happened before. It’s like I’m no longer running, no longer afraid to just be … I don’t mean to say I’m giving everything up. I’ll still go out with the guys once in a while. And I’ll still have to have the weekly business dinner, and maybe I’ll stop at the White House every now and again. But it definitely won’t be like it was. I’ll just blow off some steam before I run back to my lady. I close my eyes and begin to drift off into a most comfortable sleep. Jenn is soft and warm against my back. It’s then that I hear her whisper, “I love you.” A tear begins to well up in my eye and then starts to roll down my cheek. It isn’t hard at all for me to answer her. The words come naturally, and from a place deep inside me. And once I say them, a peace like I’ve never felt comes over me. I’m at the top of the mountain, and from here I can see clearly forever. I have never been happier.

“I LOVE YOU.”

FOUR MONTHS
later, Jennifer tells me she’s pregnant. She calls me from L.A., where she’s meeting with talent agents. Her voice is small, almost like a frightened child’s. Although I never articulated this to her, on some level I was hoping for a pregnancy. It would settle me down, stop the top I’ve become from spinning. And anyhow, it’s not as if it’s a huge surprise. One day in the office, the conversation turned to birth control. When I revealed we weren’t using any, Melinda remarked, “Ah, the old pull and pray method.” “Right,” I said, “except all we do is the pray part.” Jenn’s news is amazing. I can’t believe this. On the phone, I tell her I love her and I’m thrilled.

A few weeks later, Jenn moves into my Bleecker Street co-op. Whether or not we were going to live together was never in question. But we decide there’s no reason to rush out and get married. Let’s get the baby thing right first. Over the next few months, evidence of my bachelorhood begins to disappear. During the day, while I’m at work,
Jenn transforms the apartment into a home. She has exquisite taste that is both bohemian and eclectic. It suits the raw building space nicely. We both have a love for Moroccan décor, and she has plenty of it from her house on Long Island, and what she doesn’t have we go out and buy. The only room left unadorned is the second bedroom, which we plan to use as the nursery. Furniture, the color scheme, and toys for the room are on hold until we find out whether we’re about to have a boy or a girl. We both agree on getting that information as soon as possible.

Throughout the spring and into the summer, we stay inside a lot. On weekends, we take our dogs, Houdini and M.C., for walks to Washington Square Park and sit on the benches in the dog run. I got the second dog before Jenn moved in because I felt guilty leaving one dog home alone. We watch a lot of television. Jenn is devoted to HGTV, and I buy DVDs for the first couple of seasons of
24
, to which we’re both soon addicted. I suffer through hours and hours of romantic comedies. But I love our eating regimen. We order in every meal: Mexican and American for me, Italian or Chinese when it’s Jenn’s choice. One weekend we barely get out of bed due to Jenn’s morning sickness. We eat every meal while propped up in the last vestige of my bachelor days—the Charles P. Rogers sleigh bed (Jenn would soon replace it with one bought at a store called Hip and Humble)—and sleep between television shows and movies.

As idyllic as my life has become, when Jenn enters her second trimester, I feel the need to escape once in a while by going out for beers with Ethan and Jason or some of my Wall Street friends. I’m always home before midnight, and only once or twice (that Jenn knows of) do I return having had too many cocktails. But one night I come home a little after one a.m. I’m not as drunk as I am wired on cocaine; I stopped by the White House. Sleep is impossible. I crawl into
bed next to my sleeping, pregnant girlfriend, facing away from her because I don’t want her to catch me awake. I toss and turn. I need to fall asleep, but I tiptoe to the bathroom for one last hit, creating the cocaine paradox. It’s awful. And in that forced consciousness a desire builds within me to confess to Jenn. Soon the urge is overwhelming, as if somehow an act of contrition will alleviate the torment. I can’t tell her about the cocaine, I reason to myself. That would be just stupid. When I look at the clock again, it reads 4:30. I’m not going to be able to go to work. An hour goes by. I can feel Jenn coming awake. Still groggy from sleep, she looks into my eyes. I can tell by her expression that she knows something’s wrong. She’s not sure what to say. I did something bad last night, I mumble. She sits upright and cocks her head. I think she thinks I’m about to tell her about another woman. I had a few beers, I say, and then some guy gave me some pills. Her expression begins to sink from accusation to sadness. I tell her they were painkillers—a small lie to cover a big truth. I had to tell her something. A tear begins to roll down her cheek. She clutches her pillow and rolls away from me. Her back heaves as she gasps for air between cries and moans.

I was hoping for anger, not sadness. I begin to rub her back, but she wiggles my hand away. I sit silently, frozen in the fear that anything I say will only make things worse. Finally, she turns over and looks at me. Her eyes are red. “Do you know what it’s like?” There’s a quiver in her voice. I don’t think I’m supposed to answer. “Growing up with a shadow that follows you all the time?” she asks. New tears begin to streak her cheeks. “When I was thirteen,” she continues, “I asked my mother where my father was buried. When I found out it was only a quarter of a mile from where we lived, my heart sank. I couldn’t believe I’d been so close to his grave site for so many years and never knew.” Up until now, Jenn had told me little about her father. I knew
that he died of drug overdose, or possibly a suicide, when she was four, but I didn’t know the details. “When my mother was at work the next day and my stepfather was in the basement, I ran to the garage to get my bike.” I’ve never been to that house, but I can see it clearly in my head. The tiny garage is cluttered with tools and junk and her bike is a pink ten-speed that has many years and miles on it. “I rode my bike to the cemetery and I found the entrance,” she says. “I had no idea where my father was, so I went to the office and they told me. I rode my bike on the path through all the headstones to his grave. I was so scared, but I didn’t care. I needed to talk to him; I needed to see where he was buried. When I found the spot, when I saw his name, I dropped my bike. I’d forgotten his middle name was Ira—it made me chuckle at first.” Jenn takes a breath and smiles at the memory. “He’s so Italian,” she says, both laughing and crying. “Anyway, I lay down on the grass and spread out my arms out like I was hugging him. I couldn’t stop crying. I wanted to know: Why? Why did he do this? Why did he leave me? I felt so alone. I couldn’t catch my breath. I began having deep belly wails. I looked around to see if anyone could see or hear me, but no one was there. I was even more alone.” She begins to cry harder. “I just wanted him to be there. Everyone told me how wonderful he was, but he couldn’t quit using drugs. He left me. I had so much sorrow and grief and no one to share it with.” I take Jenn’s hand and squeeze it gently. “I snuck out of the house every day that summer and rode my bike to his grave,” she says. “I’d spend hours there.” I picture a thirteen-year-old version of Jenn sitting in a graveyard, crying, on a beautiful summer day. I begin to break down, but just then Jenn’s face turns angry. “I won’t allow that to happen to our child,” she says. “I can’t.”

“WHAT’S A
Fatburger?” Jerry, my accountant, asks. I’m talking to him on my cell as I walk through Grand Central Station. I should’ve involved him sooner. He sounds concerned, and I guess I understand. Restaurants are a great sinkhole for Wall Street money. But that’s because too many guys go into the business for the wrong reasons. They want to be part owner of a fancy bistro or a nightclub or bar to show off, to act like the boss or have a place to bring their girlfriends. It’s like paying a twenty-thousand-dollar cover charge. No thanks. For me Fatburger isn’t like that. I
love
Fatburger. I had one of their burgers on my first trip to L.A. ten years ago, and every time I go to the Left Coast I plan at least one of my meals there. I look at the clock in the center of the station. It’s almost six, and carpets of people are heading to the trains bound for Westchester.

Fatburger’s pitch is “It’s the biggest, juiciest burger you’ve ever seen,” and they’re right. The restaurants are modeled after the old roadside hamburger stand, with counters, stools you can swirl on, and rock-and-roll jukeboxes. About two years ago, a friend of mine who lives in San Francisco sent me an Internet link that mentioned Fatburger franchising opportunities. I made two phone calls—just two—and I had partners with the money and expertise to pull off the deal to bring Fatburger to the East Coast. Okay, we had the money, but saying we had the expertise might be a bit of a stretch. One of my partners’ friends, John, is the operator. He’s a lawyer and a day trader, but he isn’t doing either right now. All he needed was a little hamburger restaurant experience, which was provided by Fatburger. They sent him to burger school.

We wanted the New York territory: Manhattan, the boroughs, and
Westchester. But Fatburger wanted a bigger player for that prime cut of real estate, so we put our bid in for New Jersey, where John lives. It came down to just us and Queen Latifah for the contract. But we got the call and went to work. We had the grand opening of our first store in Jersey City in the summer of 2004, and have plans for nineteen more. “I’m gonna need to see the paperwork,” Jerry says. “Who puts a million dollars into something and doesn’t tell their accountant?”