* * * *

I try to visit the bathrooms on the trading floor as little as possible. They are disgusting.

Actually, they aren’t disgusting compared to most bathrooms. They are cleaned almost continuously throughout the day. What is disgusting is that they are so large, and, stalls notwithstanding, I don’t like the idea of defecating in the presence of another human being. I avoid it at all costs. Additionally, the mechanics of it are a little difficult; I’ll go in there only in the mid-afternoon, when nobody else is in there.

Still, the pressure is beginning to build, having had four Diet Cokes. I’m not quite to the point of severe discomfort yet, but I will be soon. That’s the point at which I make sure I am completely under the desk. But this is the best part, when the pressure turns to a pinch—which turns into pain—right before lunch is always the second best part of my day.

The best part is yet to come.

* * * *

Ring ring ring. No answer. T22, MIA.

Simultaneously, the light flashes red, on the direct line. It’s my wife.

“Hey.”

“Hey. I have a question for you. Actually, two questions.”

I know what this is about. “Shoot.”

“What did you do with Jennifer’s birthday presents?”

“In my car. Returning them. Next?”

She’s silent, for an extra second, and sighs, but declines to interrogate me about it.

“Okay, next question: why are there adult diapers in the attic?”

I have feared this question for years, but I have rehearsed an answer to it thousands of times.

“Ah, I didn’t want to tell you, remember when I had that awful stomach bug, after we had dinner with Eric and Heather?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it was worse than you thought. I couldn’t stop going to the bathroom, and I needed to go to work—I couldn’t just stay home, so…”

“You wore diapers to work?”

“Yeah, for a while. It was embarrassing, I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Honey, you should have just stayed home if you were sick.”

“You know I can’t miss even a day of work in this market. I felt horrible, but I had to keep coming in.”

“You need to take care of yourself,” she says.

“I know.”

“This job is killing you. We need to have a conversation about this.”

“Some other time, okay? I have a massive trade to manage today.”

“Love you.”

“Love you.”

I need to find another hiding spot for that shit.

* * * *

“Your family only made three thousand bucks a year?” asks Tod.

“Yeah.”

“How is that even possible?”

“It’s complicated.”

Tod looks at me.

“Great, you figured me out, I’m a cheap bastard because I grew up poor. You can pick up your psychology PhD at the next window.”

“I had no idea.”

“It’s fine,” I say, “I don’t hold it against you. Truthfully, I wish I was more like you. I wish I didn’t have to worry about it.”