Things I can’t Explain (12 page)

She started Nuzegeek with no real experience in the area of hard news, but already her news zine has pretentions to become the next HuffPo meets Uproxx, which is kind of like the last
Daily Beast
. Evidently she's a quick study.

We shake hands and the first thing I notice are her eyes. They're silvery-gray, inordinately large in her slim face, and there's no mistaking the intelligence behind them. Her dainty features and soft ebony skin are set off by jet-black hair cut in a sleek bob. She's definitely power-dressing in a Burberry Prorsum ensemble, wearing a blazer, top, and streamlined skirt combo with a man's belt holding it all together. Her fashion sense is impeccable.

“Welcome, Clarissa.” MT leans forward and smiles. “Tell me what I need to know.”

The next twelve and a half minutes are me talking me: me and college, me and Hugh, me and my journalistic sensibilities. I slip in a reference to the Great Recession and the rebound, which I back up with a few money-related phrases I pilfered from SeekingAlpha.com.

“But enough about
me
,” I say, finally feeling comfortable with the dazzling MT, who does in fact emit a little snort at my tiny joke. “I hope you wouldn't mind telling me about Nuzegeek and how you started this amazing new take on the news.” A suck-up line if you've ever heard one, but I can't tell you how effective and important it is to suck up. A lot of people my age forget how essential it is to ask their potential employers what they aspire to and what they want. It elevates both of you.

Her answer? Honestly, I don't have a clue. But it sounds great, lots about long reads, complex topics, and immersive storytelling, entrepreneur-speak for what we know and love as “writing.” Very little of what she says has anything to do with actual news as far as I can tell. But it's filled with encyclopedic details—maybe she does have H-SAM. More important, I can see that she's thrilled to lay out her vision.

“Well, Clarissa, I very much welcome your enthusiasm,” MT says, reclining in her white ergonomic desk chair. I like this MT. This is going well.

“I suppose there's only one question remaining,” I hear a male voice say from the doorway behind me. I know immediately it's Mr. Upper-Crust from the elevator because I catch a whiff of his astronomically pricey Creed cologne. Or perhaps that's just his disdain I smell.

Maybe it's not going so well.

“Do share with us, Clarissa, what your thoughts are on the Federal Reserve's current monetary policy of extended bond buying, and what affect you expect such a policy might have on the nation's long-term economic forecast?”

Seriously? What are my thoughts on the Federal Reserve?

“Clarissa, this is Dartmoor Millburn,” MT says. “He's our financial editor.”

“We met,” I say dully and smile. As Dartmoor glides to the chair beside mine, I can feel the ambition radiating from him. It's ridiculously apparent how much he wishes he were the one seated before that window instead of MT. I kind of wish he were, too. Then I could push him out.

“Druscilla printed me a copy of your résumé,” he explains, waving it in the air and crossing his long legs. He settles in with a piercing gaze from that baby face of his, looking ready to begin the Spanish Inquisition. “Sadly, I see nothing on this piece of paper to indicate you have an iota of financial expertise. And we aim to the highest standard for financial news on our website, Internet zine, start-up venture thing,” Dartmoor says, fumbling for words, then smiles, trying to reclaim his composure. Clearly he hasn't quite adapted to his own digital transition.

“Perhaps,” he suggests dismissively, “you should try Jezebel or PopSugar.”

Perhaps you should try removing that big ol' cricket bat you've got stuck up your ass.

I don't say that out loud, though.

Unfortunately, the only thing I know about the Fed's monetary policy is that I don't have any. Money, that is. Judging by Dartboy's smug expression, he knows, too.

And there it is! The kernel of a notion reveals itself to me. Well, it's worth a shot.

“You know,” I begin, “I can understand why you ask about the Fed, and it
is
important for your readers, but financial reporting shouldn't be just for people who trade hedge funds and drive Lambos and Jags.” I watch MT to see if this is working. “It should also be for people who have a panic attack every time they use their debit card. After all,
these people
are the demo that has the most to learn from Nuzegeek.” I've got MT on the corner of her white-gold Herman Miller Aeron chair. “I think Nuzegeek shouldn't just cover the people who
have
money, but also people
without
, and in that case, I'm fully qualified, because I understand that problem quite well. That's literally my point-oh-two cents.”

“Love it!” MT cries, slapping her palms on the desk and standing. “Love, love, love it. I think that's exactly what our bloody readers want and it's a prized demo that we can build brand loyalty with.”

Dartmoor narrows his eyes and a little smile creeps into one corner of his mouth. Despite the fact that the guy is a total snob, I have to admit that he
is
pretty dreamy. Not devil-may-care cute like Sam, or suave and scruffy like Nick, but definitely sexy in a
GQ
-meets-
Forbes
sort of way.

He knows my idea is a great angle. He just hates that it's
my
angle.

“Dartsy dear, I didn't know a hedge fund from a hedge
hog
when I founded this company,” MT reminds him. “I think Clarissa deserves a shot.” I'm fascinated watching them exchange glances. Despite MT's cutesy nickname for Dartmoor and coy self-deprecating anecdote, which I am certain isn't true, I can see that Dartmoor, aka Dartsy, has just received a massive mind meld from MT. She's the boss and he knows it. He chooses another tack.

“Very well,” he decrees. “I think we can all agree to a one-article tryout. I'll expect a detailed pitch by the end of the week.”

Why do I feel like I was just challenged to a duel at thirty paces?

 

CHAPTER
11

In the hall, Dartmoor scuttles up behind me, leans close, and growls in a whisper, “Over my dead body are you getting this job.”

I stop in my tracks and turn so suddenly he stumbles to avoid crashing into me.

“Guess those thousand-dollar John Lobb brogues aren't built for traction, huh,
Dartsy
?”

Druscilla looks up from the French manicure she's giving herself. I can tell by her expression that people around here don't usually talk to Sir Dartmoor like this. Somewhere in my interview skills database I know I shouldn't be standing off against the guy who holds my future in his hands. But he's just threatened me, and I won the first round in MT's office.

“Just be forewarned that I will be scrutinizing the economic underpinnings of whatever drivel you write to ascertain for a certainty that you don't besmirch this publication.” He
is
kind of cute when he gets mad, and you gotta love a guy who can say “besmirch” with a straight face.

“Why do you feel this need to blackball me?” I demand. “You just met me. I can't imagine you're threatened by little ol' me?”

“Obviously you have no experience,” Dartmoor counters, trying to recover his waspy calm as he adjusts his silk Charvet. “But I have bigger concerns.”

“Such as?”

“Genetics.” He gives me a smug look.

It takes me a minute to figure this out. When I do, I get a little queasy. He's seen my résumé, he knows my last name. I'm betting he was late to the meeting because he Googled me, discovering I'm related to the infamous Ferguson Darling. I feel my shoulders go slack.

“My brother?”

“Yes,” he hisses, “and I refuse to let your family name sully the reputation of this news … web … zine … thing, whatever it is.”

Suddenly I'm wondering how quickly I could turn that pricey necktie into a noose.

“Ever hear of a little thing called civil rights?” I shoot back. “I'm sure you know it's against the law to refuse to hire someone based on a relative's rap sheet.”

I have no idea if this qualifies as job discrimination, but it should. Since Dartmoor doesn't challenge it, I barrel on.

“Better be ready, you preppy, baby-faced elitist,” I say, my voice rising to a threatening pitch. “I'm going to write such an amazing article it will be impossible for MT
not
to hire me. Not even if Michael Milken was my great-grandfather! Not even if Bernie Madoff was my favorite uncle. Not even if Jordan Belfort was my sugar daddy!” God, did I really just say that?

I stomp to the elevator, congratulating myself on such a scathing retort. Maybe I know more about this financial shit than I thought. But after the doors close, I try to cool off and realize I'm shaking. Closing my eyes, I can't believe how angry I am at that little twerp.

Not Dartboard Razorburn or whatever his name is. A different little twerp. The twerpiest twerp ever to walk the planet, who has been a major burr in my butt since the day he was born: my little brother.

Fergwad ruins my life … again!

 

CHAPTER
12

So here's the skinny on my detestable little sib: If Ferguson was precocious as a child, he became downright unstoppable as a young adult.

Fergbreath turned out to be smarter than any of us even knew. He received a full scholarship to the Sanford and Skilling College of Business and Commerce and was recruited by a Wall Street brokerage firm even before he earned his degree.

Ferguson quickly made headlines for being the youngest broker ever to rock a Bluetooth headset. He dazzled the suits down there on the tip of Manhattan Island, and for a brief moment, I was actually proud of my kid brother. He'd grown up and he was making a name for himself in the world of high finance. Despite his being a right-leaning free-market fanatic, we'd get together now and then, occasionally meeting for brunch. He'd tell me about some industry award he'd just won or the supermodel he was hooking up with named Veracruz. I would sip my mimosa and admire my baby brother in a whole new light. We were both enjoying life as young, successful, upwardly mobile New York professionals who'd been lucky enough to nail our dream jobs.

But nothing is good enough for that little twerp. He always has to walk the crooked line. The new and improved version of Fergface didn't last long.

One morning I was at work going over the weekly column with Hugh when Tom Burkenhalter, one of the paper's financial analysts, knocked on Hugh's door and wanted to know if I had a comment.

“About what?” I asked, thinking he was pulling my leg.

“About your brother going to prison,” he said.

That's when I knocked over Hugh's cherished “I AM the Liberal Media” coffee mug. And Hugh, God love him, looked up from behind those reading glasses of his, put a comforting hand on my shoulder, and kept it there while the idiot analyst persisted. Fortunately, the coffee cup was empty. As you probably know by now, I consider it bad luck to spill. One of about a half dozen other serious superstitions I regularly adhere to.

MY EVER-GROWING LIST
OF
SUPERSTITIONS

  
1. Spilling coffee = bad luck.

  
2. Cheese you spray from a can = bad luck.

  
3. When your path is crossed
by a walk-around character with saucers for eyes = bad luck.

  
4. Buying paintings by a celebrity = bad luck.

  
5. Leaving hair in the tub after a bath = bad luck.

  
6. Not smearing your name on your birthdaycake = very bad luck.

  
7. Anything gold = bad luck.

  
8. Bad taste = bad luck.

“
You're sure you don't have anything to say about the fact that your one and only sibling has just been accused of losing seven hundred million dollars in a single day?”

“All right, Burkenhalter, you're not interrogating my assistant like this,” Hugh said. “And I'm holding you personally responsible for my broken coffee mug. It was a present from Dick Cheney.”

“Take it easy, Hugh, I just thought I'd give Clarissa a chance to comment on the fact that her brother will be the youngest person ever sent to prison for insider trading.”

Good old Fergwad. Aim high, right? Go big or go home. Or, in this case, go to jail. Go directly to jail without passing Go. Coxsackie Correctional Facility, to be precise. It's a maximum-security joint usually reserved for the most violent of criminals. This place has it all—armed guards, barbed wire, electrified fence, the whole bit—and as far as I know, no Ping-Pong or croquet.

I'm sure you're asking why a white-collar criminal with no priors would be sentenced to time in the hellhole that is Coxsackie, as opposed to one of those country club prisons where they let you remove your electronic ankle bracelet so it doesn't interfere with your tennis lessons.

Well, because like all Ferguson-related catastrophes, this one had an unusual twist: The seven hundred million buckaroos he'd “mismanaged” were part of a series of trades at the recently formed hedge fund where he worked, Red City Securities. Only Red City was a front for the Russian Mafia. As you might imagine, those comrades are not an especially forgiving bunch. They were
nyet
happy about Ferguson's sleight of hand.

When the SEC brought its case, Ferguson claimed he had no idea Red City was actually part of the Bratskaya Semyorka, or the “Brotherhood of Seven,” as they were known by INTERPOL. He swore he thought the comrades were speaking Swedish and vehemently denied knowledge of the hedge fund having any nefarious Cossack connections. Then he wet his pants.