Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

I AM so fast! Watch me run!

The street shone up at him. Bounced.

“Whoa!” said someone’s body. Byron twisted sideways and squeezed through the slow grown-ups.

Boring grown-ups. I am so fast! Watch me run!

There were people everywhere. There were books and magazines on the sidewalk, lying flat, watching the sky. There was an ice-cream truck.

“Francy! Francy! Can I have ice cream?”

“You ain’t had any lunch. Later.”

I am so fast! Watch me run!

In the park, there were dogs. Big black dogs. Little silly dogs. There were skateboards. Where’s Luke?

“You looking for Luke?” It was Pearl. She doesn’t like me anymore.

“Yeah! Yeah!”

“He’s playing with David in the sandbox.”

David. He’s that big boy.

I am so fast. Whoosh! “Hey, Luke! Wanna race?”

Luke’s face was round; his eyes glowed. He looked at Byron as if he didn’t know him. He’s so slow. Not like me. I am so fast!

“Luke! Luke! Wanna race!” I’ll win.

“Ugh!” Luke acted funny. “I’m building!” he said.

“Yeah,” that big boy David said. “We’re making a space station.”

Luke and David stood over a tall sand building. They had a pail of water. Luke poured a little over the sand. It changed colors! Got dark and solid. Luke made it into a long shape and put it on their sand building. It stayed up!

“I wanna do that!” Byron moved in front of Luke and reached for the pail.

“Byron!”

David pulled the pail away. Some of it spilled.

“You spilled!” Byron told him. He was bad. Obviously, he was bad.

“You can’t play. We don’t have enough for you.”

“I don’t want to.” Byron took Luke’s arm. “Come on, Luke. Let’s race.”

Luke sat down! His legs disappeared. He fell onto his tushy. “No,” he said. He stared up at Byron. His eyes glowed.

“He’s making the space station with me,” David said. “You can watch.”

“Luke, you have to race with me.” Byron had to make sure Luke understood. He was bad sometimes, didn’t do what he was supposed to.

“I don’t want to race!” Luke shouted. “You hear me! I don’t want to race!”

“I’ll go slow, so you can catch up.” I am so fast!

“No,” Luke said.

“Here.” David gave Luke the pail. “We need more antennas.”

“Oh, right.” Luke poured a little of the water.

“You’re not doing it right,” Byron said. Luke poured too slowly.

But Luke didn’t stop. He made his little towers. Dark and solid they were, but Luke could shape them anyway and they stayed on the sand building.

“Here,” Byron said, and reached for one of them. “This will make it better.”

“No!” Luke grabbed Byron’s hand. “This is mine, Byron! Go make your own.”

I’m too strong. He can’t hold me.

Byron, the fast, fast strong man, pulled to get his hand free. Luke didn’t let go. “Let go!”

“Don’t touch my antennas!” Luke said, and squeezed Byron’s arm. “Okay? I’ll let you go now, Byron, but don’t touch my antennas.”

Pull. Pull.

He couldn’t get free. He didn’t understand. He was so much stronger than Luke. Why couldn’t he get free?

“Byron,” Luke said. “Are you going to leave my antennas alone?”

“They’re stupid. I don’t want to touch them!”

Luke let go. Byron could still feel Luke’s fingers, although they were gone. They still squeezed.

I’m not strong today. Didn’t have my lunch. Have to eat to be a big, strong boy.

“Come on, Luke. Let’s race now.”

Luke didn’t hear.

“Luke! Pay attention! Let’s race now!”

Luke heard. Finally. He moved close to Byron. He put his face right up against his. He could feel the warm tip of Luke’s nose. Byron was so glad. Luke’s mouth opened.

“NO!”

It hurt so much. The hot, ugly air of Luke. Byron fell down, blasted down. Luke loomed over him, dark against the bright sun. Luke’s blue eyes glowed — angry cat, ugly cat.

“I said no, Byron! How many times do I have to tell you? No! No! No!”

BESIDE ERIC’S Quotron, lying atop his in box, was the sheet of all positions in Tom’s account. In three weeks, the next quarterly report would be sent to Boston. If Eric couldn’t make a dramatic improvement by then, the quarterly statement would show a 12 percent decline in the value of Tom’s portfolio. Should Tom buy a Wall Street Journal , or a Barron’s , or any other financial publication, he could easily see that the Dow Jones industrial average was up more man 8 percent during this same period. The S&P 500 had done even better, up 11 percent. And if Joe decided to complete his betrayal, he might send Tom a statement of Joe’s performance: up 20 percent. Joe might not even need to inform Tom himself: the Boston Beans, having switched management, might insinuate the facts of Joe’s success casually into a country-club conversation with Tom.

Of course, Eric was behind Joe’s and the major average’ gains for only the past nine months. A sensible man, with a normal amount of courage, would give Eric more time. After all, Eric had been successful for three years; the money he had lost for Tom over the past nine months was money Tom didn’t have three years ago. But Eric knew Tom wasn’t a sensible man. Tom had allowed an old Wasp investment firm to mismanage him for twenty-five years without a complaint, and yet Tom had complained to Eric after only nine losing months.

“Shouldn’t we get out of some of these small companies?” Tom asked when he and Joan had visited New York two months ago. He said “small companies” with his head tilted, mouth in a sneer, as if small companies were ugly, distasteful things, grubby little delis run by fat, greasy Jews.

Tom’s last words were: “I might have to withdraw some money by the end of the year. I’m considering a real-estate deal out West. I’ll let you know ahead of time, of course. I may not. I have to study the situation.” A warning? A politely worded introduction to the final bad news? A last chance?

Ask yourself, Eric said in the shower, ask yourself: What is the difference between me and Tom’s former incompetent money managers? They were old boys, good goyim; I’m a high-school-graduate Jew.

Ask yourself, Eric said to the black gutters, as he rode his bike between the glacial walls of the tall trucks: would Tom question me over a bad nine months if I knew how to wear peacock-colored clothes and could sail a boat?

Ask yourself, Eric said to his morning coffee, staring at the sheet: would Tom keep one of his own on such a short leash?

Then why pick Joe for a replacement? Eric didn’t believe the real estate story. Tom would give his money to Joe.

There he sat, that old owl, each day looking more and more like a rabbi. Joe and Sammy whispered to each other all the time now. There were no more dinners with Joe’s contacts; there was no more talk of tapping Eric as Joe’s successor. Joe smelled blood; he thought he could wrest Tom away and leave the whole operation to Sammy. Of course, they’d keep Eric on, the house whipping boy, the dutiful number two.

Leave, Nina advised. Tom will stick with you, clients will go with you, you’ll make money for them, you’ll be on your own, you’ll be happy.

She didn’t understand the danger.

Neither did Joe. Tom would eventually leave Joe also. The old fool doesn’t realize that.

Maybe Tom wouldn’t, maybe he’d stay with Joe. Maybe it’s something about me.

Eric wasn’t a good salesman. That’s what his mother said of his father’s failure: your daddy wasn’t a good salesman. When Eric explicated his investment philosophy for clients, he was nervous: he spoke rapidly; he admitted he might be wrong; he didn’t possess Joe’s pompous air of wisdom and sagacity. Joe’s manners were bullshit, of course. But it was bullshit that reassured the customers.