When I returned home to our apartment on the Upper East Side, my little children Isabella and Isaac, as they often did unless they were utterly engrossed in an art project, TV program or napping on the couch, ran up to me with smiles, giggles and hugs around my legs. “Daddy’s home!”
As accustomed, they quickly backed off and returned to their activities, giving me a few minutes to change out of my suit and into something more comfortable.
“How was your day?” asked my wife Cindy. She emerged from the kitchen where she was preparing dinner.I sat down on the couch.
“I was fired again.”
“Oh,” sighed Cindy.
“I’m not surprised. We knew this was going to happen. Are you OK?”
She did not seem too upset. “I’m OK. Are you OK?”
I approached and hugged her. “Now you can do your own thing. You’ve always wanted to be a trader. Now’s your chance, or you can start you own valuations firm.”
“They must have sensed how miserable I was.”
“The Managing Director called you into his office?”
“No, the Senior VP from the Washington office.”
“That Managing Director couldn’t even tell you himself? Just like last time. I don’t like the way they treated you.”
“He did exactly what he said he would do. When he hired me, he told me, ‘You’ll pay your dues for a couple of years, and I’ll give you a new career.’ It was good while it lasted.”
“They should have made you the Managing Director. You should have been telling them what to do.”
“I have six weeks. I’ll start looking for a job tomorrow.”
“You’ve been looking for a job for two years.”
“Oh, come on. I’ve sent out a few resumes and made a few calls. It’s not easy. You have to know someone. It’s always the politics. Who will do the work when I’m not there?”
“Don’t worry about them, worry about us. You’ve got to figure out what to do!”