For the Love of Money by Sam Polk Page A

admitted only a few rays of light.
    I tossed my newspaper on the ground. “Okay,” I said, facing Duc. “Now we can talk.”
    â€œGive me my fucking money,” he said.
    â€œA dollar? You came here for a dollar?” I said, trying to shame him, even though I would’ve done the same.
    â€œFuck you,” he said.
    â€œDo 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.
    â€œJust give up, dude,” I said.
    He tried to bite my face. I hit him again, as a warning. Itwas 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.
    â€œSam 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
    Â¤
    Iwas 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