For the Love of Money (7 page)

At the end, he said that talking like this had been really hard for him, because his seven-year-old son was in the audience. But even though he was embarrassed at everything he'd done, how low he'd fallen, he needed to tell the truth. Because when his son was born, he promised himself he'd never lie to him.

A lump formed in my throat, and my eyes welled. I tried to stop them but tears ran down my face. Elyn grabbed my hand. I clenched my teeth and waited for the pain to pass. It was the accountability—a father trying to be a better man for his son. I felt a deep gash across my heart. I looked up at Elyn. She looked back with kind eyes and rubbed my back.

I was relieved when I finally boarded the plane back to San Francisco. After takeoff, I ordered a drink. Then another. I felt better.

CHAPTER
11

Fight Club

¤

S
ix months later, I convinced a Canadian financial news website to pay
ON24
$100,000 for our content, and Sharat gave me a $15,000 bonus.
ON24
had grown to over two hundred employees and started construction on a new floor of offices. An
IPO
seemed imminent.

To celebrate I went to a rave that weekend with a new friend from work, and we ran into two Vietnamese girls who worked at
ON24
. The girls—Kylie and Eunice—had a baggie filled with Ecstasy. I bought two pills from them. I don't remember much after that. I woke with a vague memory that someone had been angry with me.

The next Friday, I was on a conference call when an e-mail bleeped in my in-box:

If you do not immediately pay the money you owe to my girlfriend, I will come down to your office and fuck you up. What kind of a person doesn't pay his debts, and to girls? If this is not taken care of today, I am going to fuck you up beyond belief. You have been warned.

My body went cold. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I guessed he must be connected to Kylie and Eu
nice. When the call ended, I e-mailed them to meet me in a conference room. When they walked in, neither looked me in the eye.

“Um, do you know someone named Duc?” I asked.

They looked at each other nervously. Then Kylie spoke.

“He's my boyfriend.”

I glared. “I just received a threatening e-mail from him. Do you have any idea how much trouble you can get in for that? What is he talking about anyway?”

Kylie's eyes flashed. “You owe me eighty dollars, and you haven't paid it all week.”

I suddenly recalled the strange looks I'd gotten from them in the hall at work that week. I figured I'd just been rude to them while in a blackout.

“What the fuck?” I said. “Why wouldn't you just tell me that? I don't even
remember
. I could get you fired for this. I can't
believe
I received a threatening e-mail at my desk today. This is a place of business. An
office
!”

I was quaking with anger.

Kylie cut in. “I told him not to. But he said we had to get the money.”

“Don't try to dispel the blame,” I sneered.

“You better pay,” she said. “He can get crazy.”

I stiffened. She didn't know it, but her words sealed it. I didn't care about these girls. I didn't care about Duc. But I wouldn't back down. I hadn't backed down from a fight since I beat up Jorge at Camp Fox ten years earlier. I left the room without a word.

I went downstairs to the
ATM
and got $80, then bought a coffee with a twenty and took the change and put it in my pocket with the three remaining twenties. I summoned the girls to the conference room.

“Here's your money,” I said when they arrived. “I would've paid you if you'd asked. I'm only giving you seventy-nine dol
lars. I'm keeping one dollar. I want you to tell your boyfriend. If he's unhappy with that, he can come here and talk to me about it.”

I walked out.

I felt like I'd regained some power. But I couldn't stand the thought of Kylie and Eunice laughing with Duc about how quickly I'd paid up. I went back to my desk and typed out an e-mail:

I don't know who you think you are, but don't ever send me threatening e-mails, especially to my work address. I didn't realize that I owed the girls money, and as soon as I found out I paid them. But because of the way you handled this, I kept $1 so you would know that I wasn't going to be pushed around. If you want the $1, you can come down here to get it.

Furious, I hit Send. In five minutes I got a reply:

I'll be there at 4 p.m.

It was like I could see it all happening again—the downward spiral—but couldn't stop it. I was an adult, a businessman on the verge of his big break; I was also that bullied boy who'd had enough. At 3:45 p.m. I went into an empty conference room and stared out the window. I didn't want to lose my job. And I was scared, trembling. But I had a trigger; Duc had pulled it.

I took the elevator down to the ground floor. I walked past the security desk and into the daylight and noise of Market Street. I put two quarters into a newspaper machine and pulled out a
Chronicle
and stood there pretending to read it. A corporate warrior on a coffee break. My heart pounded in my chest.

I felt him before I saw him. He was a muscular Asian in a black, puffy jacket, and by the time I saw him he was already in my face. His eyes were two inches from mine.

“Give me my fucking dollar,” he said.

I stepped back and put my hands up, placating. “Whoa, guy,” I said. “Whoa. Not here. We need to go somewhere we can talk.”

“Give me my fucking money,” he repeated, pushing into me. “You should have just given them the money. Then you wouldn't have to deal with me.”

“I'm looking forward to dealing with you,” I growled. “Come with me.”

I turned heel and walked into the building. He followed. I walked up to the security desk and quickly wrote down the name Duc on the sign-in sheet. I nodded to the security guard and pointed to the furious gangster next to me as if to say,
This gentleman is with me.
I strode to the elevator and pushed the button.

“Give me my fucking money,” Duc said loudly. While I tried to shush him two other office workers came up behind us, waiting for the elevator. I kept my eyes trained on the doors, trying to will Duc not to make a scene. The doors opened. The four of us filed into the elevator. Duc and I stood closest to the door. I pushed 2.

Duc, losing it, turned toward me as the doors shut. “What the fuck?” he said.

I didn't even turn as I spat out, “Not now—wait.” When the doors opened, I stepped out quickly, half expecting him to take a swing at me right there. He didn't.

I strode down the hall to the new
ON24
offices. They were renovating the space, which was now gutted and empty. Duc followed. I took keys out of my pocket and opened the lock. We stepped through the door into a cavernous room, the skeleton of an office. Massive concrete columns military pressed
the ceiling. There were piles of lumber and drywall. The dirty windowpanes admitted only a few rays of light.

I tossed my newspaper on the ground. “Okay,” I said, facing Duc. “Now we can talk.”

“Give me my fucking money,” he said.

“A dollar? You came here for a dollar?” I said, trying to shame him, even though I would've done the same.

“Fuck you,” he said.

“Do something then,” I taunted.

He did. He reached up to my face, grabbed my glasses, folded them in half, dropped them on the ground, and stepped on them with a crunch. Then he flew at me. I kept my feet apart, kickboxing style, and jabbed him in the face. He came in again. I was taller and had reach. I pivoted and hit him again. My punches felt weak to me, but I could see a red bump swelling over his eye.

He changed tack and tried to tackle me. Which was, it turned out, a mistake. I may not have been a good college wrestler, but I was a good high school wrestler. Against someone with no wrestling experience, it almost wasn't fair. As his momentum started to topple us, I shifted so my left hip was pressed against his right hip, and we were facing the same direction. I reached my left arm behind his back and grabbed his left bicep with my left hand. When we hit the floor, my body trapped his right arm underneath, so now we were pressed together, wriggling on the floor, with both of his arms pinned and my right arm—and my right fist—free.

I started punching him in the face. As he realized the helplessness of his position, he became frantic. His flailing took on an air of desperation. I realized he was terrified.

I stopped. I didn't really want to hurt him; I just didn't want to deal with the self-hatred of backing down.

“Just give up, dude,” I said.

He tried to bite my face. I hit him again, as a warning. It
was clear he was trapped, that he'd lost, but he wouldn't give up. He tried to head butt me. I arched my back to keep my head away. As he struggled harder and harder, my hold got tighter and tighter. I punched him in the face again and again.

I got scared. I got scared that he'd never stop, that I'd keep hitting him in the face.

I let him go. I stood up. He stayed on the ground. I pulled a dollar bill from my pocket, crumpled it up, and threw it at him. “There,” I said. “There's your dollar.”

He stood up, picked up the dollar, and walked over to the service elevator that ran directly up to
ON24
's offices. He pushed the Up button, then turned to me. “You are going to pay for this,” he said. The doors opened. He stepped inside and was gone.

I learned later that Duc walked out of the elevator, face bleeding and swollen, asked where the
CEO
's office was, and walked into it.

“Sam Polk did this to me. I want him fired,” he said. I can only imagine what Sharat's face looked like as he pushed his glasses up on his nose.

CHAPTER
12

Sex in the City

¤

I
was fired, of course. I was devastated. What hurt the most was that Sharat hadn't stood up for me. I knew it was ­ridiculous, but I'd fantasized about him calling me from his cell phone, telling me not to worry, that he'd take care of every­thing. The ache in my heart was so intense that I'd go into my bedroom and turn the stereo all the way up, so loud that I disappeared into the music. But eventually the song would end, and I'd be back in the crushing reality of my life.

What I wanted more than anything was to call Ben, to be comforted by my twin, whom I missed every single day. But I couldn't—he still refused to talk to me.

I called Columbia, to see if by some miracle I could come back for the semester that began in two weeks. They had a space for me. Once again, I fled across the country.

I just wanted to get my life back on track, make it through college. I'd planned to major in economics, but I declared an English major, figuring that since I'd always been a reader, that gave me the best chance of graduating. I swore off drugs, off fighting, off crime. I promised myself I'd stop getting in trouble.

As soon as I arrived in New York, I went to my favorite bar, The West End. I'd planned to return a conquering hero.
Instead, I returned in ignominy. I walked through the front door directly to the bar and ordered a Rolling Rock. I looked around to see if there was anyone I knew. No one. No free tables, either. Standing alone, I felt a rush of embarrassment. I walked into the other room. A few tables stopped their conversation to look at me and then turned back toward each other.

I was about to walk back to the bar when I heard a shriek. It came from a table in the back, a table full of girls. They were all staring at me. Sloane Taylor leapt to her feet, ran toward me, and launched herself into my arms.

“Sam Polk,” she practically screamed. “What are you doing here?”

I looked around the room. Everyone was staring at me. I smiled, stood up taller.

“Surprise,” I said. “I'm back.”

Sloane told me she had to return to her table—it was a team dinner—but that I should call her. While everyone watched, I punched her number into my phone.

I invited Sloane over to study at my place, a room I'd rented on the sixth floor of a frat house. I was in such a state of disbelief that she might be interested in me that it wasn't until several hours later when Sloane was squeezing by me—the room was tiny—that I made a move. I pulled her into my lap and kissed her. She pulled back, laughed, and said, “Whoa, tiger.” Then she leaned in to kiss me again.

When she agreed to stay for the night, I felt like I'd won the lottery. The next morning we both woke up with hacking coughs: bronchitis. We spent the next few days holed up in my room, with Sloane regularly lighting cigarettes, then looking at me and saying, “What? Am I a quitter?” Her eyes would slit and her whole body would shake when she laughed.

Sloane was everything I'd ever wanted in a woman. She wasn't just hot. She was
popular
. She'd been arguably the most
popular girl at her elite Los Angeles private school, one that sends multiple kids a year to each Ivy League school. When I'd tell other kids from her school that I was dating Sloane Taylor, their eyes would widen. Other women would come up to me and say, “Your girlfriend is breathtaking.”

But Sloane was no cheerleader. She was a killer, captain of her state championship tennis team in high school, and a starter for Columbia. She got straight As. When I first heard her Valley girl talk, peppered with
like
and
dude
,
I thought I was smarter than her. Soon she was editing my papers.

There was one thing about Sloane that gave me pause. She was taking a few months off drinking and drugs at the suggestion of her spiritual counselor. I'd never met anyone with a spiritual counselor before. She called hers Linda. They spoke on the phone every week. Sloane said that they were dealing with some particularly tough issues, and that Linda had recommended she stop drinking and drugs for the duration. Sloane said she didn't mind if I drank or smoked the occasional joint, so I didn't mind that she didn't.

I began to understand why Sloane liked me when she introduced me to her father. She invited me to stay with her parents in Los Angeles over Christmas break. She picked me up from the airport and drove me to their stately two-story house in Bel-Air, an affluent neighborhood on the west side of
LA
.

The house was empty when we arrived. Soon her dad returned from golfing at one of the two country clubs he belonged to. Jack was a short, barrel-chested man with silver hair. Within a minute of our first conversation, he mentioned that he'd gone to Dartmouth undergrad and Stanford Law School, shook my hand harder than he needed to, and cut his daughter off midsentence.

Jack dominated that house. He spoke to his wife like she was an employee. At the dinner table, he'd lead conversations about current events but was interested only in his own opin
ions. If you disagreed with him, he became dismissive. He talked about all the books he'd recently read, declaring each one
“good” or “bad.”

That's how it was in my house, too. Our family revolved around Dad, who considered himself an intellectual, and spoke like he and Thomas Friedman were close friends (“Tommy”).

I'd been thinking a lot about my dad. A month before, my mother reported that she'd received a phone call from a woman named Sherri. Sherri told my mom that she'd been having an affair with my dad for ten years. The reason she was calling was that my dad had just broken it off with her in order to pursue a new relationship with a younger woman. Sherri thought my mom deserved to know.

Within a day my family had been demolished like a condemned building. Daniel and Julia, thirteen and eleven, were yanked out of school and shipped off to North Carolina for two weeks to stay with relatives. Dad moved out, into an apartment. I wasn't particularly surprised, or even that upset by the news, but I had no interest in going home for the holidays. That's why Sloane invited me out to spend Christmas in
LA
with her parents—she didn't want me to spend the holidays alone.

Sloane seemed desperate to impress her father, even though he treated her with the same understated contempt with which he treated his wife. But he
was
impressed by Sloane. He talked constantly about her accomplishments. Also, she was the only one in the family who'd go toe-to-toe with him during arguments, and he obviously loved that about her.

Sometimes he expressed his love physically, especially when he was drunk. He was always grabbing her, or pulling her into hugs. Sometimes she struggled to break free.

I disliked Jack Taylor for how he touched and spoke to his daughter, but I also admired his accomplishments: Ivy League schools, power job, money. He was a member of two country clubs. He drove an antique Mercedes; his wife drove a brand-
new
SUV
. Their house was expensive but understated. The carpeting and furniture were all made of soft fabrics in different patterns that somehow seemed to match. Their weekly family restaurant had a sommelier.

But it was the small things I really loved. The
New York Times
,
Los Angeles Times
, and
Wall Street Journal
were delivered to their porch each day. Their liquor cabinet was stocked with brand-name labels—Ketel One, Grey Goose. Their Sub-Zero refrigerator kept vegetables restaurant crisp. They had
DVD
s of movies currently in theaters. Even their Chinese takeout was somehow better. And Jack wore pressed khakis and Ralph Lauren sweaters . . . on a
Saturday
.

It was during this visit that I began to understand that Jack Taylor's life is what graduating from Columbia made possible. He was a management consultant at McKinsey. McKinsey recruited on Columbia's campus. So did Goldman Sachs, J.P. Morgan, and Bain. If I could get my foot in the door at one of these firms, I could have a life like Jack Taylor's, the life my dad always wanted, instead of the life I grew up with—rented houses, junky cars, paycheck to paycheck.

Halfway through my visit to the Taylors', Sloane and I went out for a run, and I accidentally tracked dog shit up the stairs and into the bedroom. We didn't discover it until her mother knocked at the bedroom; she had followed the tracks from the front door. She insisted it wasn't a big deal and refused to let me clean it up. I saw her an hour later, sitting on the stairs, scrubbing the carpet with a brush.

I was so mortified I felt nauseous. I couldn't even
walk
through a nice home without ruining it, let alone live in one. I imagined Sloane's parents whispering about me in the privacy of their bedroom, shaking their heads.

As Sloane and I got closer and closer, I started to show a side of myself that I'd never exposed before. On Valentine's Day, I woke up at 4:00 a.m. to go all the way to the end of
Manhattan to buy two dozen red roses from the flower market, then sat outside for three hours in the February snow to get free tickets to a Broadway show, and on the way home stopped to buy live lobsters from a fish store. When Sloane came home that night, I'd covered her apartment in roses and candles.

I felt something that I'd never felt before, which was that I was no longer the absolute center of my world. Now Sloane was.

I told her I loved her; she told me she loved me back.

But it wasn't all roses and Broadway shows. She was bossy and got frustrated with me easily. She wasn't afraid to tell me what was wrong with my clothes. The harder she was on me, the more desperately I craved her. The more I pursued, the more she pushed me away. Our most frequent struggle was around sex.

I craved sex. I wanted it more often, in more varied styles. She wanted it less often, in less varied styles. I wanted her to do things that made her uncomfortable. So we fought. When I got drunk, I angrily demanded it.

She didn't understand how important sex was to me. Sex was the most validating thing I knew. I'd been desperate for sex since puberty but largely unsuccessful in getting it, at least from the women I wanted it from.

But in a relationship it was supposed to be different—­easily accessible and frequent. After two or three days of not having sex, my resentment started to build. I'd feel angry that I wasn't being taken care of. Each day that resentment would grow bigger and bigger. If we hadn't had sex in a week and one of my friends made a comment about how hot Sloane was, instead of feeling pride I'd feel shame. Then anger. At her.

When we did have sex, I'd feel relief, especially if I lasted more than a few minutes. I'd be kind and sweet to Sloane, while inside I'd be patting myself on the back.
Yeah
, baby.
Well done
. Then a day or two would pass, and the resentment would start to build again.

What began as a skirmish became a full-fledged battle when Sloane and I decided to spend the summer in Los Angeles. We rented an apartment together right off the Sunset Strip, a small one bedroom with a balcony in a
Melrose Place
–style complex.

I got a job at a small Internet company and spent my free time on the couch smoking weed, drinking coffee, and watching old movies from Blockbuster; or, if Sloane wasn't home, looking at porn on the computer. When Sloane was home, we fought. The same thing happened over and over again. Sloane and I started kissing on the couch. I moved to take her clothes off. She pulled away.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said, and we started again. I could tell she wasn't into it. But I pressed on, firmly, until she said, “Stop. I can't do this right now.”

I tried to be nice, but inside I was furious. I turned on the
TV
and didn't look at her. She snuggled up close to me. I put my arm around her but wouldn't look at her. Finally, she asked, “Are you mad?” and I said, “Not at all.” But I was.

Somehow I had to punish her for not sleeping with me, for
making me feel this way.
I tried again, later, when we were in bed for the night.

“Sam,” she said, “I don't feel like it.”

I knew I wasn't being the guy I wanted to be. I was drinking too much and smoking lots of weed. I was aware that what I was doing in the bedroom was inconsistent with being in love. But I couldn't stop pushing Sloane for sex. I needed the feeling that came after I fucked her. I needed it to fill the void.

After months of this, she said
enough
and insisted I go with her to see her counselor, Linda Redford, for couples counseling.