Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [17]
—Your hair better be on fire, friend. I’ve got a deposition due in an hour.
—How’s it coming?
—I’m three misdirections and a whopper behind.
—What’s the name of that bank where Tinker works?
—I don’t know. Why?
—We don’t have a plan for tomorrow night.
—He’s taking us to some highbrow place, somewhere uptown. He’s picking us up sometime around eight.
—Zowie. Someplace, somewhere, sometime. How’d you get all that?
I paused.
How did I get all that?
It was one hell of a question.
On the corner of Broadway and Exchange Place across the street from Trinity Church there was a little diner with a soda pop clock on the wall and a hasher named Max who even cooked his oatmeal on the griddle. Polar in winter, oppressive in July and five blocks out of my way, it was one of my favorite spots in town—because I could always get the crooked little booth-for-two by the window.
Sitting in that seat, in the span of a sandwich you could pay witness to the pilgrimage of New York’s devoted. Hailing from every corner of Europe, donned in every shade of gray, they turned their backs on the Statue of Liberty and marched instinctively up Broadway, leaning with pluck into a cautionary wind, gripping identical hats to identical haircuts, happy to count themselves among the indistinguishable. With over a millennia of heritage behind them, each with their own glimpse of empire and some pinnacle of human expression (a Sistine Chapel or Götterdämmerung), now they were satisfied to express their individuality through which Rogers they preferred at the Saturday matinee: Ginger or Roy or Buck. America may be the land of opportunity, but in New York it’s the shot at conformity that pulls them through the door.
Or so I was thinking, when a man without a hat emerged from the crowd and rapped on the glass.
Trip of a heartbeat, it was Tinker Grey.
The tips of his ears were as red as an elf’s and he was sporting a grin like he’d caught me in the act. Behind the glass, he began talking enthusiastically—but inaudibly. I waved him in.
—So, is this it? he asked as he slid into the booth.
—Is this what?
—Is this where you go when you want to be alone!
—Oh, I laughed. Not exactly.
He snapped his fingers in mock disappointment. Then, announcing he was famished, he looked around the place with groundless appreciation. He picked up the menu and reviewed it for all of four seconds. He was in the irrepressible good humor of one who’s found a hundred-dollar bill on the ground and has yet to tell a soul.
When the waitress appeared I ordered a BLT; Tinker leapt straight into uncharted territory, ordering Max’s eponymous sandwich which the menu defined as unparalleled, world famous and legendary. When Tinker asked if I’d ever had it, I told him I’d always found the description a little too long on adjectives and a little too short on specifics.
—So, do you work nearby? he asked, when the waitress retreated.
—Just a short walk.
. . .
—Didn’t Eve say it was a law firm?
—That’s right. It’s an old Wall Street practice.
. . .
—Do you like it?
—It’s a little stodgy, but I suppose that’s predictable.
Tinker smiled.
—You’re a little long on adjectives and short on specifics yourself.
—Emily Post says that talking about oneself isn’t very polite.
—I’m sure Miss Post is perfectly correct, but that doesn’t seem to stop the rest of us.
Fortune favoring the bold, Max’s special sandwich turned out to be a grilled cheese stuffed with corn beef and coleslaw. Within ten minutes it was gone and a slice of cheesecake had been plopped down in its place.
—What a great spot! Tinker said for the fifth time.
—So what’s it like being a banker? I asked as he attacked his dessert.
For starters, he confided, you could barely call it banking. He was really more of a broker. The bank served a group of wealthy families with large stakes in private companies controlling everything from steel plants to silver mines, and when they