Palm Trees at the End

The Panama hat was a mistake. I'd bought it in the airport, thinking it would make me look like I belonged at the corporate retreat, but now it just sat on the bar next to me, a felt confession that I was trying too hard. Outside, palm trees swayed against a violet sky, their fronds like tired feathers on some exotic bird that couldn't quite take flight.

"Bear market," Marcus said, sliding onto the stool beside me. He'd aged three years since I'd last seen him in the Chicago office. "That's what they're calling it. But we both know what it really means."

I signaled the bartender for another whiskey. "Means I'm out, you're probably out, and the partners keep their bonuses."

"Dog-eat-dog," Marcus said, and something in his voice cracked. He pulled a wallet-sized photo from his breast pocket—his daughter, maybe seven or eight, missing a front tooth. "She turns eight next week. I promised her a trip to Disney."

The reality settled in like an old injury flaring up in cold weather. Thirty-nine years old, and I'd finally made it to the firm, only to watch it dissolve around me. The corporate version of survivorship bias, except I wasn't going to survive this time.

My phone buzzed on the bar. The dog sitter. Bonnie, my golden retriever, had been vomiting all morning. The vet thought it might be something she'd eaten—garbage, maybe, or one of those toys I kept buying to compensate for how often I left her alone.

"Everything okay?" Marcus asked.

"Dog's sick," I said. "Stomach issues. They're running tests."

"Expensive."

"Everything's expensive now."

We sat there for a long time, watching the palm trees bend in the wind. I thought about how strange it was—that these trees could only grow by bending, that flexibility was their strength. Meanwhile, I'd spent my entire career trying to be unbreakable, to bear every burden without complaint, to never show weakness.

Tomorrow morning, the partners would announce the restructuring. Half of us would be gone by noon. But tonight, there was still whiskey, and Marcus's daughter would still turn eight next week, and somewhere in Chicago, a veterinarian was trying to figure out why my dog was sick.

I adjusted the Panama hat on my head. It still looked ridiculous, but I'd wear it anyway. Some things, you just have to own.

"First round's on me," I told Marcus. "Before I can't afford rounds anymore."