Three weeks before my internship would expire, I simply walked away, ending it on my own. On that final day Leavitt was again talking about Michael Milken, what a great man and genius he was, and finally I had enough. Though my career taught me to respect and even revere the financial titans, I couldn't deny everything that Milken had done wrong—financing deals that never should have been financed, fueling an obscene buildup of corporate debt, committing the insider trading that finally sent him to prison. I couldn't celebrate the day he was released, as Leavitt had the previous winter. I couldn't keep ignoring the wrongs, as Leavitt did, just to hang onto my job for a few more weeks.
The Milken reverence would have been enough in itself, but Leavitt continued to order me to delete buyouts from the study, especially the worst cases like Federated Department Stores and TWA, and I realized he had gone too far, beyond informed discretion to blatant manipulation. Clearly he was massaging the numbers until they meant nothing at all, becoming nothing but false evidence for his predetermined conclusions. True, I did much the same on projects in my corporate finance classes, but there I was just a student angling for good grades and not an academic authority who was relied upon by policymakers for unbiased research. My crime may have resembled his, but mine was a misdemeanor to his felony. Mine wouldn't impact anyone, while his could hurt thousands or even millions.
Halfway through his latest Milken monologue I suddenly interrupted, telling Leavitt that I wanted to end my internship early, that I had an interview out of town the following week and needed to start packing up my apartment. Too many things going on, and I'd have to let the job go. He accepted casually, not asking about the interview or even shaking my hand. He said little more than that my last check would be at the department office in about a week.
Outside the heat had slackened somewhat, dipping into the eighties, but the humidity was thick as ever. Within seconds of passing through the double doors I felt my back become coated in sweat, my polo shirt instantly stuck to my skin.
I retreated down Sixth Street, thinking over my finances. Including the last paycheck, I had less than $200 left, but thought I might scrape by for the final few weeks. My rent was paid in full but there was no hope of getting the security deposit back—somehow the landlord would fabricate reasons why I still owed him money. Physical damage, heavy cleaning required, late rent charges, anything to keep the two hundred bucks. And I wouldn't dispute it, figuring it was the price for escaping Champaign. What little money I had left would have to pay for food, gas and a motel room in Minneapolis for my interview.
The following month I might be employed, living somewhere else on my own, but more likely back home with my parents, choking down my pride and bravely pretending it was anything but defeat. Somehow I would get by.
As I approached John Street, a thought suddenly came to me, and when I reached the corner I made an abrupt left turn. The Grind was on my way home, and just ahead.
Through the front window, I was heartened to see the figure that moved within, behind the gold-trimmed black lettering. Her name was Ellen, Elizabeth, something like that, working the counter. I remembered her from the last time I met Wheatyard there, and hoped she knew him.
It was mid-afternoon, a time when apparently even slacker grad students had better things to do. Other than the two of us the place was empty. As the heavy door closed behind me and the tinny bell jingled overhead, she rose from her tall stool behind the counter. From her posture I couldn't tell if she was irritated at the interruption of her solitude, or happy for someone to talk to. Summer afternoons were quiet on campus, especially for a shop devoted entirely to hot coffee. The morning going-to-class crowd had long since subsided, and those who braved the slightly cooler evening wouldn't be around for hours. The Grind's owners must have been coffee purists, as they resisted the heresy of iced drinks and the summer customers those might bring. Meanwhile, loyal employees like her paid the price, enduring loneliness and sacrificing tips.
"What can I get you?" she asked, eyes bright but her smile only muted.
The last thing I needed on that sticky day was a scorching coffee, but it seemed awkward to just blurt out my question, like some pesky journalist. So I felt compelled to order something.
"Small Kenyan."
"Coming right up," she said, turning her back to me as she moved toward the dripmaker. I couldn't help noticing what a fine back it was. As was the rest of her.
As she brought the steaming mug—not a small, I noticed with gratitude—she began to say something, probably the price, but I interrupted her. Maybe that was rude, but paying up would have ended our encounter. If I could put off closing the transaction, including the small tip I could barely afford, she might feel inclined to tell what I was so eager to know. And also stoke that other, sudden interest.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure," she said, hesitating, a mildly puzzled look coming to her face.
"You've seen me here before, right?"
She nodded.
"Do you remember the guy I was with? Scrawny, scraggly beard? Trenchcoat?"
Her face relaxed, breaking into a broad smile. "Oh yes," she said, shifting her head slightly closer, as if confiding in me, passing along a secret in an empty room. "I know him pretty well."
"Really?" I couldn't imagine the connection—the scruffy outsider and the All-American girl from next door.
"He used to come here all the time, but not as much lately. He always tried to chat me up, but he was so awkward, like he really wanted to say something but couldn't think of the right words."
"That's strange," I replied. "He's never short of words when he's talking to me. Or talking at me."
"Well, with me it was different." She grinned deeper, dimples alluringly puckering at the corners of her mouth. Behind me I heard the door open and the bells jingle. "I think he had a crush on me."
I stepped back, ostensibly to let the other customers go ahead but in reality because I was so dumbfounded. I couldn't remember Wheatyard showing any interest in women—no comments, no stares, not even the slightest pause as an attractive female walked past. I would have immediately recognized any such interest—during my years of solitude, of being strongly attracted but lacking the will and the words to act, I did plenty of furtive staring at girls who would soon pass, unimpeded, from my life—but I saw none of that interest from him. As far as I knew, his enthusiasm for women extended no further than Virginia Woolf or Jane Austen.
Then again, this girl—Emily, as I now read, the name hand-chalked on the menu board—and her dimples and ponytail and perfect teeth and slender but shapely body...well, even a monk like Wheatyard could be smitten. I was feeling a bit of that myself.
The other customers both ordered cappuccino, and I saw that Emily would be occupied for a while. Coffee in hand, I drifted to the front of the shop, to a table that faced the wide street windows. Steam poured from the mug's jet-black surface as I pondered this latest mystery.
But once the customers were served and found their own table, and Emily was free again, I continued to sit. Surely the two of them never got together—her tone, mentioning Wheatyard's possible crush, suggested his interest went unreciprocated. Maybe she couldn't tell me anything about him at all, and maybe, if she didn't want to get to know a unique character like Wheatyard, then she'd have no interest in an ordinary guy like me.
Maybe, I thought, I had no business being there, or even daring to consider the possibility. When she slipped into the backroom on some errand I quickly rose from my seat and hurried to the door. The bells jingled above me as I exited. The coffee remained, half-finished on the table. In my haste I neglected the common courtesy of returning the mug to the counter, but at that moment leaving seemed the best thing to do.