Then the forty-fourth floor’s overhead lights flick off. They do that when no one’s walked down the hall for fifteen minutes. My dual computer monitors save me from total darkness.
“And William, have you tried disabling iterative calculations in the options—”
“Yeah, did that—doesn’t work. You can call me Bill. What’s your name again?”
“Kamaliyyah.”
“Any other ideas, Cam?” I adjust my headset and take a sip of my Red Bull. After dinner, the only thing keeping my eyelids from drooping is a steady drip of caffeine—natural or synthetic.
“I assume you’ve checked your circularity switches—” he begins.
“Yep.”
“…and run the troubleshooting utility and cleared the cache—”
“Cleared cached config, cleared cached workspace. I tested the RT servers, the AC connectivity, uninstalled then re-installed all the add-ins.”
“You’ll be receiving an email from me in the next couple seconds. If you could reply, please attach your spreadsheet, and let me know which tab you’re having the issue with.”
I follow his instructions, though I don’t need his explanation. I know the drill.
“It’s the fifth tab—‘PF Financials.’”
The line is silent as Cam gets to work while I pick up the mini Nerf football on my desk and fire it across the floor, just missing the stack of deal toys lining my VP’s cube—a vice president at the bank and the dictator of my life.
“No circular references…add-ins seem to be running properly,” Cam says, more to himself than to me. “Let’s see…”
“The tab to the right is reffed out too, but I redid all the formulas. Doesn’t make sense.”
“Let’s have a look…do you mind…can you give me a few moments? I need to use the restroom.”
“Sure.” I exhale as I say it, loud enough to convey my disapproval of his not having a catheter at his desk.
Rose made the rounds early tonight, around 10:45 p.m., when I was still eating dinner. The smell of old sushi and soy sauce nauseates me, even though I threw my dinner in the trash of the vacant cubicle across the room. Raku Restaurant opened a week ago and has a good deal on tuna rolls—four for under the bank’s twenty-five-dollar dinner allowance. Fifty percent chance I’m gonna get sick, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.
The investment banking job description that was hammered into me during the never-ending business school recruiting circus flashes in my mind: “Exceptional problem-solving abilities; keen interest in global markets; superior financial analysis skills; strong team player.” Someone forgot to mention “graphic artist” and “ability to get people in India to unfuck up your shit.”
I finish off my Red Bull.
“Sorry about that, Bill. Can you provide any context on this spreadsheet?” Cam’s back. Thank God. Allah too.
“Can’t really tell you.”
“Of course. I shouldn’t have asked—private information.”
“Nah, didn’t mean it like that. I don’t really know what type of transaction it is—just got an email tonight with no context.”
“Okay, I think I see what the problem is,” says Cam. My pulse quickens. “The most recent version of the document has a link to another spreadsheet that is probably deleted. The earlier version of the document isn’t linked to it. I’d like you to try deleting all the cells on the fifth tab below row 113. That should get rid of the broken links that are causing the problems.”
I do as told. “Still reffed out.” My eyes dart to the bottom right corner of my right computer monitor: 2:54 a.m.
“Have you tried disabling macros?” he says.
“Twice.”
“There’s one other thing you could try.”
“Anything.”
“Have you tried restarting your computer? In many instances—”
I don’t respond, but instead emit a condescending scoffing sound. You’d have to be an idiot not to have closed Excel and restarted the computer.
“You know what,” I say. “Forget it. I’ll figure it out.”
“I’m happy to stay on the line.”
“No, I’ll figure it out.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Nah. Have a good night or afternoon, rest of the day.” I rip off my headset, hang it on the cubicle divider, and restart my computer for the first time since I can remember. When I reopen Excel fifteen minutes later, the problem is fixed.
Thanks, Cam.
I grab my keys and wallet off my desk while I attach the updated file to a new email and send it off to the rest of the deal team, whoever they are.
I log out before anything else can pop up on my computer. I don’t bother retying my shoelaces; I sling my suit jacket over my shoulder and jog down the hallway to the elevators.
But you’re never free. As I enter the elevator bank, my BlackBerry buzzes on my right thigh. I reach into my pocket to retrieve the device and withdraw it to find the tiny red light blinking—over and over and over: one new email.
