In mid-October 1990, Tom had been separated from his wife, Susan, for over a year. At that time, she remained in their home with their six-year-old son eight blocks away on the other side of the Capitol Hill neighborhood of Washington, DC. Tom lived in a small efficiency apartment on the third floor of a five-story building in a section of the neighborhood where the yuppies still hadn’t dare to venture, with low rents and high crack cocaine use.

Late on a Tuesday night, the baby with the single mother and three older siblings cried in the apartment next door, and the pungent odor of boiled okra drifted in from the hallway. Tom sat at his desk unable to concentrate on the legal briefs he had brought home. He grabbed his coat and left the apartment. In the building’s vestibule, he held back for a moment, fearful of yet another confrontation with a stranger, then stepped over a sleeping body huddled in dirty blankets in the entryway.

 He drove to the bathhouse near Logan Circle he sometimes visited when he craved physical contact with another body, and the bars required more energy than he cared to muster. He ventured out to quench his lust for another man’s muscled body pressed against his own, and to escape the voice in his head ticking off a growing list of shoulds and should nots.

He paid the entry fee to a thin elderly man sitting behind a glass-enclosed counter and proceeded to the locker room where he stripped, wrapped a towel around his waist, put his sneakers back on, and placed his wallet and carefully-folded clothes in a locker. Wearing the elastic band with the key on his right wrist, he first stopped in the darkened lounge where other towel-clad patrons sat on bar stools or relaxed on sofas. A television mounted high on the wall played gay porn, while another set behind the bar showed a European soccer match.

“A scotch,” Tom said to the bartender as he slid the prepaid ticket across the bar top. Seeing only men with flabby, worn-out bodies and weathered features, and uncomfortable with the stares directed toward his trim, muscled frame, he downed the drink in three gulps. He slipped off the bar stool, and the bottom of his shoes made a sticking sound as he walked toward the door.

In addition to the locker room, gang showers and lounge, the bathhouse provided, for an additional fee, small rooms with single beds. Tom prowled the hallways connecting the rooms, checking out the other men, some standing in open doorways. In more than one room with an open door, couples performed in full view of passing eyes. Sounds of heavy breathing and sighs of pleasure punctuated the otherwise muted space.

The selection sucks tonight, he thought as he turned a corner, and his eyes locked on to those of an older man in decent shape and handsome enough – not Tom’s first choice, but it was getting late. More importantly, the older guy had a room. Tom followed his new, nameless friend into his private accommodation. They dropped their towels, to neither one’s disappointment, and got to work. No pleasantries. No small talk.

With his sexual tensions released, Tom picked up his towel, and walked into the hallway where he caught a glimpse of a familiar face. The recognition came a second later. Sydney McMullin, a senior partner from the law firm, stood twenty feet away wrapped in a towel with most of his pale, saggy skin exposed in the dim light. Shit! Tom’s heartbeat raced as he made an abrupt about-face, and went straight to the showers. Did he see me? In the shower room smelling of disinfectant, he lathered his body with soap and hot water, washing away the scent of sex, while ignoring the activity at the other end of the room. Did he recognize me? He washed away the sweat, but not the fear.

Tom lived in constant fear of being exposed, never getting too close to anyone for too long, and that fear hung over him as he drove home. He imagined the claims Susan might make to justify her demands for sole custody of their son if she knew of the late nights at the bars hooking up with countless men, the Ecstasy-fueled dancing at the clubs, and the anonymous sex at the bathhouse. How would I look to a judge? His reputation would be destroyed and the future expected for him would be gone forever.

He played back in his mind past interactions with the partner, looking for clues, and wondering what to expect. He hoped Sydney also didn’t want to be seen, and nothing would ever be said, and the incident would remain unspoken. He lay awake all night, dreading the next day.

#

Two days later, Tom arrived at work to see a meeting on his calendar for later that day – a meeting with Sydney McMullin. Throughout the afternoon, Tom would start reading a draft document, and his mind would slip back to the second he saw Sydney at the bathhouse. He would type a few words on his keyboard, and five minutes later the sentence remained unfinished. The clock on the wall marked the seconds, one by one.

A few minutes before the meeting, Tom took the stairs up two floors to the executive offices. Robert, who had been Sydney’s administrative assistant for years, wore an Armani suit, and, as always, sported a well-coiffed head of hair.

“Go on in. He’s waiting.”

Tom entered the well-appointed office with floor-to-ceiling windows on two walls, and closed the door behind him.

“Tom, have a seat.”

Sydney was the firm’s managing senior partner who oversaw operations of the national, as well, as the regional offices, and had been with the firm for forty years. He was well past looking his age, overweight with a puffy round face, but if you looked close enough, the remnants of a, perhaps, once-handsome man came through.

Tom took a seat on the couch set against the wall. Sydney sat on a separate chair.

“What did you want to see me about?” Tom asked, not looking Sydney in the eye.

“Just checking in. I do that with our up-and-comers. Make sure everything’s okay. How’s the joint venture coming along?”

At the beginning of the year, Tom had been assigned a project involving a joint research and development effort between two multinational chemical companies, one based in the United States and the other in Germany. The firm had little experience in that sector, and the project presented myriad challenges, not the least of which included environmental and antitrust regulations.

“Everything’s fine. It’s complicated, but we’re making progress.”

“Good. That’s very good.”

Sydney got up and sat on the sofa.

“Tom, I’m aware you’ve been looking forward to being made junior partner soon, and that’s not out of the realm of possibility.”

“Well, yes. I would like to advance and grow with the firm.”

The older man moved closer. Tom pushed himself back into the corner of the sofa.

“And, I’m willing to help you grow.” Sydney leaned over and put a hand on Tom’s thigh, giving it a squeeze. “Would you like that?”

“Uh…, yes. I’d appreciate your…, uh, management’s help,” Tom gulped.

“Excellent. I’ll have Robert set up a dinner for some time soon, and we can talk about your career.”

Sydney stood and walked behind his desk. “That’s all. You can go.”

Tom returned to his office and closed the door. Holy shit!

#

The dinner with Sydney was scheduled for the first Thursday evening in November. As the time drew near for Tom to clean off his desk for the day, he still debated if he should go. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have been thrilled with a one-on-one meeting with the managing partner. But this wasn’t an ordinary circumstance. Tom knew what was what. He knew he had been seen at the bathhouse, and Sydney had made it clear more was at play than just business. When everyone started packing up to leave, Tom decided to keep the date, since he didn’t think he had a choice, and see what benefits he might garner without any quid pro quo.

The University Club, founded in 1904 and moved to its location on 16th Street NW in 1936 after merging with the Racquet Club, was housed in a seven-story building, and furnished in a manner consistent with a decades-old gentlemen’s club. When Tom arrived, the maître d’ led him to a small corner table in the club’s plush, softly-lit dining room with wood-paneled walls and wide beams stretching across the ceiling. Sydney, already seated, perused a newspaper folded in half.

“There you are. Right on time,” Sydney said with the demeanor of an old familiar uncle as he set down the paper.

Tom took a seat, and forced a tight smile.

“Have you been here before?”

“No, I haven’t. Nice place.”

A waiter approached the table with two menus.

“Those won’t be necessary,” said Sydney. “Bring us two Glenlivets on the rocks. Tom, you drink scotch, right?”

Tom nodded.

“Good.” Looking back at the waiter, Sydney said, “We’ll both have the house salads and porterhouse steaks, and don’t forget strawberries Romanoff for dessert.”

During the dinner, Sydney talked only business, and Tom learned about the politics of completing mega-mergers and how a young man could prosper with the right connections. Wondering if he had read the situation wrong, Tom relaxed while sipping Remy Martin Louis XIII Cognac from a delicate glass snifter.

“Tom, we both know we’re men with similar interests,” Sydney said.

Tom’s stomach dropped a few inches in his gut, his face flushed hot, and he started to perspire.

“How…, how do you mean?

“Let’s not beat around the bush. We both know we saw each other at the other club.”

Tom sat speechless.

“I’ve had my eye on you, and when I saw you, I was very pleased.”

“Uh, it’s not what you think. I’m married, have a son–”

“Oh, come on. So am I. I have three children, and grandchildren. And everyone knows you’re separated from your wife and living in a run-down apartment.”

“Our marriage is ending for other reasons.”

“Perhaps. But it doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. Listen, I can make sure you go far in the firm. You’ll be a junior partner before the year’s over. All we need to do is be friendly with each other.”

“Friendly?”

“Let’s cut to the chase. I have a room here at the club for the night.”

Sydney slid a key across the table towards Tom.

“Meet me up there in ten minutes, and if things go well, your career will be set.”

Tom struggled to breathe as Sydney got up and left. He thought about his career, and how he was close to missing a deadline. He thought about the ever-increasing credit card debt, the home equity loan, the legal expenses, the rent, the second car. He thought about future alimony and child support payments. How bad could it be? Give him a blow job? Receive one? He cringed, thinking what the older man might be into.

#

Tom had always worked hard and excelled at what he did. He carried into his adult life the work ethic his father had instilled in him. But no matter how hard he worked, he always needed more time, and time was getting difficult to find. He had to limit himself to eight hours per day in the office. A few days each week, his son, Nicky, had to be brought back to the house or dropped off at school in the morning, and picked up in the afternoon. On the weekends when Tom was the sole parent, he couldn’t slip away for a few hours to get caught up.

Tom’s new-found pleasures also ate into his time, laying waste to his years of disciplined living. He enjoyed the nights at the clubs and hooking up with countless partners, making it difficult to return to the grind of everyday life. He yearned for the freedom away from his responsibilities, and what was expected of him, as if making up for a lost adolescence spent over-achieving – long hours of studying and cross-country training. When he was out and being himself, or what he thought was himself, he was his very best by just being. The more he experienced that other self, the more Tom questioned his life’s profession. A lack of time and a waning interest crept up on him, and, before he knew it, he was behind.

#

Following the dinner, Tom avoided the tenth floor and any all-office events at which senior partners would be present. He focused on his work while struggling to meet a deadline with the specter of Sydney McMullin hanging in the periphery of his mind’s eye. He sat in his office mid-morning on a Wednesday staring into the computer screen and trying to concentrate. He had cursed the day the PCs arrived, and much of the typing shifted from the secretaries to the professionals. However, when pressed for time, he appreciated the ability to edit documents without the delay of the back-and-forth.

“Tom, you’re wanted in Jack’s office,” his assistant shouted from her desk.

Jack, the senior partner for the joint venture and only ten years older than Tom, gave his subordinates a lot of leeway in communications with clients and stayed out of the way. He used his skills in managing upward to good effect.

“Not now.”

“He’s waiting.”

Tom entered the meeting room off Jack’s office and took a seat in one of the eight chairs at the oval mahogany conference table. Another partner joined the meeting. Tom’s jaw dropped, and his mind went blank.

“Sydney’s going to join us,” Jack said.

Tom had not seen Sydney since the night at the University Club. He grew nauseous as fear gripped his body, and the other man appeared to look right through him. He didn’t hear what Jack said next.

“Tom, are you okay?”

“Uh…, Oh…, yes, I’m fine.”

“I received a call from the client this morning,” Jack said. “They want confirmation that the last sub-agreement, the one spelling out future commercial rights, will be in their hands tomorrow. They’re anxious to wrap up the full agreement, and they want time to review the documents. Last week, you told me everything was on track. Is that still the case?”

Tom searched for his words while those eyes continued to bore through him.

“Yes, we were on track, but it’s a bit more complicated than expected. I just need a few more hours.”

“Isn’t it only boilerplate at this point? I thought we had already worked through the thornier points. You have everyone’s comments and edits?”

“Well, we’re dealing with a lot of non-US subsidiaries which compounds the issues. I have everyone’s final comments and only need to clean up contradictory clauses, that sort of thing.”

“Can you get it done by the close of business? We promised a clean copy in Wilmington by tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, I can. It’ll be ready for the Fed Ex pickup.”

“Are you sure? This absolutely must get done.”

“I’m sure.”

Jack turned to Sydney.

“You see? Tom’s on top of it. I’ll inform all parties that everything’s under control.”

“I see.” Turning to Tom, Sydney added, “I’m disappointed this hasn’t been wrapped up by now. It’s late, but not too late.”

#

Tom called Susan at 4:00 p.m.

“I hate to do this, but I can’t get away from the office. I have a deadline I absolutely cannot miss. I won’t be able to pick up Nicky tonight. I’m sorry. I can take him tomorrow.”

“Thanks for the last-minute warning.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And your nights are Wednesdays, not Thursdays. If you don’t want your son tonight, then that’s just too bad. You’ll see him next week.”

“It’s not that I don’t want him. I can’t leave right now.”

“Your nights are Wednesdays!”

“Come on.”

“No, you come on. You always put your work ahead of your son.”

Tom didn’t have time to argue.

“I gotta go.”

“You do that, and, by the way, I’ll be sure to document this.”

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Tom hung up the phone, and went back to work.

The end of the day approached, and he was back in high school with the class bell ringing as he tried to unlock his locker, only to misdial the combination over and over again. Weeks’ worth of comments from multiple reviewers still needed to be addressed, along with a long list of edits and revisions. He still had fifty pages to review, and he kept finding mistakes.

“Tom, the Fed Ex guy is here,” his assistant announced.

“Tell him to go ahead. I need a few more hours. I’ll print and FAX the final draft later tonight. We’ll Fed Ex, or private courier, a cleaner version in the morning so they’ll have it on Friday.”

At 5:00 p.m., the office started to empty, and Tom was soon left alone. He got a Coke and a Snickers from the vending machines in the lunch room, and returned to his desk cluttered with several versions of the document, each one with a different set of comments. The entire floor was dark and quiet when the two-woman cleaning crew arrived to empty waste baskets and dust surfaces, office by office. Tom worked through the night – reviewing, editing, and reviewing, again, until he completed the 120-page document. He printed it, and fed the pages into the FAX machine. “Please let there be paper at the other end,” he prayed. He held his breath as each page slipped into and out of the machine, followed by the confirmation, “Sent. 11/15/90. 2:51 a.m.”

#

Tom’s situation had not improved five weeks later when he returned from lunch on the last Friday before the Christmas holidays. An agreement on the venture had not yet been reached, and completion would be punted into next year. In addition to the main project, several other items needed to be wrapped up by day’s end. The office buzzed with excitement.

“What’s going on?” Tom asked Sykes in the office next to his.

“Promotions were announced this morning. Harlan finally got junior partner.”

“You’re kidding me?”

“Nope. Looks like it wasn’t your time.”

Tom looked down the hall where several people stood in Harlan’s doorway giving their congratulations, and envy pierced his heart. He went back to his office, closed the door, sat at his desk, and let the weight of failure settle on his shoulders. Failure – a word with which he was never to be associated. The floor of Tom’s world disappeared from beneath him as the window to achieving his goal of junior partner by age thirty-five slammed shut. He would need to wait another year, and if it didn’t happen then, his position at the firm would be at risk. He would either be let go or become one of those poor souls perpetually stuck in a position from which they never escape. He risked becoming the Senior Associate who aged while surrounded by colleagues growing relatively younger with each passing year. All his achievements sat on the precipice of being lost – his career, his family, his home. Everything was about to slip away.

As the office emptied out, Tom stayed seated at his desk with the door closed hoping to avoid invitations to happy hours. His mind wandered as he struggled to focus on the work needing to be finished before the week-long closing. He couldn’t stop thinking about the additional expenses expected in the new year, and beyond. Worst-case scenarios came to mind – no job, piles of debt, his secrets laid bare in family court, limited access to his son. Is it too late to save my career?

He wondered if he should have acted differently, changed the course of events, when Sydney slid the key across the table after dinner at the club;

…when he got up from the table with key in-hand and walked into the lobby;

…when he hesitated at the foot of the broad staircase leading from the lobby to the upper floors;

…when he took one step towards the staircase, then pivoted in the other direction;

…and when he dropped the key at the front desk, and left the building.

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