bites to realize that his food tasted a bit strange. Had they hired a new chef? He dipped his spoon into the green sauce and sipped it. It wasn’t bad, he reflected—just different. He dumped the container onto his rice and finished his meal.
Twelve hours later, Sam lay in a fetal position on his bathroom floor, shivering. He groped for his cell phone and dialed up his office.
“I think it’s food poisoning,” he told a secretary. “Are you guys going to be all right without me?”
The secretary laughed. “Yeah, I think we’ll manage.”
Sam worked for a company called Chapman Consulting. He didn’t have any particular interest in consulting, but of the two hundred résumés he sent out senior year, it was the only place that had offered him a job. He’d been extremely frightened to start work; he knew nothing about finance and was terrified he’d be exposed as a fraud. But so far nobody had noticed his ineptitude.
His boss was a friendly alcoholic named Mr. Dougan who wore the same pin-striped suit every day. He explained to Sam on his very first day of work that Chapman Consulting was something called a tax dodge. The financial specifics were over Sam’s head, but basically a billionaire named Mr. Chapman had founded the company in the 1980s to hide some of his money from the government. Chapman Consulting never actually “did” anything. The company was purely for show: a physical space that nosy IRS agents could visit.
Mr. Dougan had been given his position as a reward for covering up some of Mr. Chapman’s investment crimes. He arrived at the office each morning at eight and began to drink immediately.
Chapman Consulting occupied all three floors of a stunning midtown brownstone. There were about a dozen employees, women mostly, spread out all over the building. Since the company had no real business, they spent their days playing solitaire on their computers. When one of them won a game, her computer emitted a celebratory beep. Other than these beeps, the office was completely silent.
Sam’s hours were nine to five. As soon as he arrived, Mr. Dougan called him into his office and ordered him to close the door. He then instructed him in a quiet voice to search through all the couch cushions in the building, collect all of the loose change he could find, and bring it back. This task usually took about thirty minutes. When Sam returned with the change, his boss had him divide the coins into two piles. He then dispatched him to Empire Bodega across the street with instructions to spend 50 percent of the change on beer and the other 50 percent on lottery tickets. When Sam returned with the purchases, Mr. Dougan hustled him back into his office, closed the door, and carefully divided the beers between them. When they were finished drinking them all, they took turns scratching off the lottery tickets. If any of the tickets were winners, Dougan immediately sent Sam back to the bodega with the same instructions as before. The cycle continued for as long as there was change to work with.
Sam liked his job. Before Chapman Consulting, he’d worked as a Starbucks barista—and he was much better at this one. He had a good eye for finding coins, and he never made a mistake dividing them. Even better, his boss really seemed to like him.
“You’re doing a great job,” Mr. Dougan often whispered to him when he came back with the beer and the tickets. “Close the door and drink your beers.”
Sam felt a real fondness for his boss and hated to disappoint him. On days when the couches held little or no loose change, he supplemented his findings with coins from his own pockets. He felt bad about calling in sick and leaving Mr. Dougan on his own. But there was nothing he could do; he was too ill to stand. He’d spent the last eight hours within an arm’s reach of the toilet bowl. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, but he was completely naked. His bathroom looked like a crime scene.
It occurred to Sam that
Twelve hours later, Sam lay in a fetal position on his bathroom floor, shivering. He groped for his cell phone and dialed up his office.
“I think it’s food poisoning,” he told a secretary. “Are you guys going to be all right without me?”
The secretary laughed. “Yeah, I think we’ll manage.”
Sam worked for a company called Chapman Consulting. He didn’t have any particular interest in consulting, but of the two hundred résumés he sent out senior year, it was the only place that had offered him a job. He’d been extremely frightened to start work; he knew nothing about finance and was terrified he’d be exposed as a fraud. But so far nobody had noticed his ineptitude.
His boss was a friendly alcoholic named Mr. Dougan who wore the same pin-striped suit every day. He explained to Sam on his very first day of work that Chapman Consulting was something called a tax dodge. The financial specifics were over Sam’s head, but basically a billionaire named Mr. Chapman had founded the company in the 1980s to hide some of his money from the government. Chapman Consulting never actually “did” anything. The company was purely for show: a physical space that nosy IRS agents could visit.
Mr. Dougan had been given his position as a reward for covering up some of Mr. Chapman’s investment crimes. He arrived at the office each morning at eight and began to drink immediately.
Chapman Consulting occupied all three floors of a stunning midtown brownstone. There were about a dozen employees, women mostly, spread out all over the building. Since the company had no real business, they spent their days playing solitaire on their computers. When one of them won a game, her computer emitted a celebratory beep. Other than these beeps, the office was completely silent.
Sam’s hours were nine to five. As soon as he arrived, Mr. Dougan called him into his office and ordered him to close the door. He then instructed him in a quiet voice to search through all the couch cushions in the building, collect all of the loose change he could find, and bring it back. This task usually took about thirty minutes. When Sam returned with the change, his boss had him divide the coins into two piles. He then dispatched him to Empire Bodega across the street with instructions to spend 50 percent of the change on beer and the other 50 percent on lottery tickets. When Sam returned with the purchases, Mr. Dougan hustled him back into his office, closed the door, and carefully divided the beers between them. When they were finished drinking them all, they took turns scratching off the lottery tickets. If any of the tickets were winners, Dougan immediately sent Sam back to the bodega with the same instructions as before. The cycle continued for as long as there was change to work with.
Sam liked his job. Before Chapman Consulting, he’d worked as a Starbucks barista—and he was much better at this one. He had a good eye for finding coins, and he never made a mistake dividing them. Even better, his boss really seemed to like him.
“You’re doing a great job,” Mr. Dougan often whispered to him when he came back with the beer and the tickets. “Close the door and drink your beers.”
Sam felt a real fondness for his boss and hated to disappoint him. On days when the couches held little or no loose change, he supplemented his findings with coins from his own pockets. He felt bad about calling in sick and leaving Mr. Dougan on his own. But there was nothing he could do; he was too ill to stand. He’d spent the last eight hours within an arm’s reach of the toilet bowl. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, but he was completely naked. His bathroom looked like a crime scene.
It occurred to Sam that
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