DHARMA FINANACE by Jeff Konkle
Greg Pastorius had always been a very busy man. His meteoric rise
within Batlay, Royan & Ranahan had been unparalleled by previous
analysts. Even Kurt Braun, who had made VP at the age of 39 had to
stand back in awe of the locomotion of Greg’s career. Greg was cut out
for this sort of thing though. He was top of his class at Dartmouth
undergrad and obtained an MBA from University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton
School of Business. He was recruited heavily by the hedge fund firm.
Mr. Batlay himself had made Greg the job offer. It had been a wise
investment for the firm too. Last week, Greg closed the Bertanando deal
in less than 42 hours, netting the firm millions and lining the pockets
of the men he eventually wanted to be.
Today was a big day for Greg. Many thought it would be his last day
on the 3rd floor. Greg would be the new Senior Director of Quality
Assurance. He’d ascend to the 21st or even the 23rd floor. Awaiting
him would be sixteen loyal analysts reporting directly to him, an
Administrative Assistant and a nice ergonomic chair. Greg was elated
today, but not because his stock options would be multiplying by five or
that his annual bonus was at 120% of his base salary. Greg had found
true happiness on the walk home to his apartment last night.
It was a soft day late in August. The air was cold in the morning
and stifling in the afternoon. A true glimpse of Summer aging to Fall.
Greg had put in his normal fifteen-hour day and was exhausted and a bit
delirious. He had been going at this pace since sophomore year of high
school. His drive was relentless and unyielding.
He lived close to the office and despite his weary body, he decided
to walk home in the ripening night. As he strode quickly back to his
apartment, thumbing his BlackBerry along the way, he took a
inadvertently left turn and found himself in a small public garden. The
plant life was sparse and minimal. Pathetic really. There were no
elaborate ornamentation or high-tech landscaping to capture his
attention. This tranquility of the small garden was piercing.
“Great,” he said to himself. “Where the hell am I?”
A tiny finch swooped from the overhanging pine tree and perched on a
shrub branch. Delicate-looking flowers, lilies if he remembered
correctly, surrounded the base of the shrub. The bird had a small wild
berry in its mouth. Greg took a step forward to get a better look. He
had never seen a bird so close. He was hypnotized by the finch. The
bird chirped and lost its grip on its meal. The falling berry struck an
anemic lily and the wrinkled petals shattered.
Suddenly the world was sharp and painful. Greg rubbed his eyes
because he realized it was the first time he had seen anything at all.
He witnessed the petals falling to cool ground and felt his own feeble
leaves dislodge and fall. He looked at the bird through wild, tearful
eyes. It had used a young life to destroy an old one. The circle had
been completed before his very eyes.
“Wh-what are you?” he asked the bird.
The finch cocked its head as if he knew Greg didn’t understand. The
bird chirped a high-pitched call. Its skull slowly peeled open to
reveal a red, raw elephant eye. The eye gazed at Greg and sent him
deeper into a trance. The bird said in a booming echo, “I am Shiva,
Devourer of Planets, Destroyer of Worlds. I am Brahma. I am Krishna. I
am you. I am the berry. I am the flower. You are the flower. You
are me.”
The tiny bird chirped again and fluttered away.
Greg’s mind was accustomed to the familiar pathways of sight. He
observed and analyzed all his life, but he never truly saw anything
until that day. He danced with joy all throughout the streets of the
city that night. His path was marked by discarded designer apparel, a
trail of forty-dollar socks. His eyes were tired. He went back to his
home and fell asleep in the hallway of his Brownstone, naked as a finch.
On Tuesday morning, he felt at ease, like the weight of a thousand
planets had been lifted from his chest. The path had been revealed to
him and he would reveal the path to others.
Greg arrived at work wearing Philadelphia Eagles gym shorts and an
old T-shirt with Bret “The Hitman” Hart on the front. No socks. No
shoes. Mr. Royan, co-founder and chairman of the firm, was waiting at
Greg’s desk. He had made a rare trip to the 3rd floor. He wanted to
congratulate his new Senior Director on the promotion.
“There you are Sullivan,” Royan said extending a hand. “Ready for
the big move? We got you all the way up on 21.” He trailed off. “Say,
what are you wearing?”
Greg took Royan’s hand. His grasp was not one of business caliber.
It did not indicate a closed deal or a cent squeezed. It was a warm,
smooth touch, reassuring and tender. Royan was discomforted by this
lack of frost.
Greg’s mind operated in the space between salivation and salvation.
“I’m wearing different masks of consciousness. We all are. Can I
accept not knowing who I am, being hidden behind an imposter? Can I
accept not knowing my name?”
“What the hell are you talking about Sullivan?” whispered Royan.
“Look if your high, all I’ll say is that we’ve all been there. But
sleep it off in your office for Christ’s Sake!”
Greg smiled. The smile was not one of business caliber. It did not
indicate a shrewd political move or a return on investment. “I’m excited
about many things. Eternal possibilities that scrape the curve of a
parabola touching God’s timely hour.”
“I see,” Royan shook his head. “I think the pressure’s finally gotten to you.”
“Seeing does not come from thinking. It comes from the shock of the
moment. I require an unmasked ego, acceptable to all possible forms of
light,” Greg’s eyes drifted to the window, to the Sun. “My mind is like
a sail on an ocean. It fills and empties as the wind blows.”
Greg was escorted out of the high-rise building that day. His mind
full of clarity at the decisions made. He was on the path to
enlightenment. Nirvana awaited him. He would join the holy union of
souls that comprise the energy of the earth.
As he walked back to his apartment, his mother called his cell phone.
He told her everything. About the bird and the berry and the flower
and how he quit his job to pursue the noble truth. There was a silence
on the phone.
“You quit your job!” his mother shrieked. “You can’t just quit your job!”
“But mom, don’t you see?” he protested. “It makes no difference. We’re all part of the energy.”
“In a down economy, you quit your job?” she repeated. “You had excellent benefits!”
“Mom, I’ve had my third eye revealed…”
“Harold!” His mother hollered away from the receiver. “Get in here! Wait until you hear what your son did.”
“I will learn to purify my vision, mom. My mind will engage in a new way.”
“Greg quit his job,” she muttered to his father on the other end of
the phone. “Your father wants to know if you’re stupid or something.”
“But mom!”
“You’re not moving back in with us Gregory. Your dad and I just
bought a time-share in West Palm Beach. We’re not going to just sit
around and take care of you.”
“But…I just thought the Earth would take care of me. You know, the spirits and the oneness…”
“You just can’t go seeking enlightenment in a down economy,” his mom
scolded. “Now go back in there and ask for your job back. Tell them
your blood sugar was low or something.”
“Ok.” With that Greg put his socks and shoes back on and trudged
back to Batlay, Royan and Ranahan. He waited in the courtyard in front
of the lobby, watching the sunlight reflect of the pond in the front of
the building. The light waves carried a billion particles that
represented all of humanity. A little finch landed near the water. It
chirped and lifted into the sky. The sight reminded Greg of his 401k.
He’d have to talk to HR to see if he would still have to pay taxes on
it.
Greg Sullivan opened the large glass door and walked back into a world of artificial light.
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Jeff Konkle is a stand-up comedian & a humor writer. Check out Jeff Konkle's NEW website @ KonkDaddy.com
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