THE TRANSACTION

by Wilkinson Riling

A natural optimist, Thaddeus Coltraine had a knack for always seeing the glass as half full, any empty space remaining was just waiting for a refill as far as he was concerned. Because of his world view he could tell himself he had one of the nicest offices one could find anywhere on Wall Street. Granted, with no windows there wasn’t a view, but in his mind the other amenities were unmatched. Deep rich, recessed mahogany paneling warmly lit by art deco sconces spaced evenly along the interior walls and centered by a bowl chandelier of matching illumination. Fabric wall paper with intricate leafy patterns in a gold matte finish gave the room a muted opulence contrasted by a floor of dark multi-colored ceramic tiles placed in geometric patterns one usually finds in classic Roman atriums. Thaddeus was celebrating his tenth-year servicing Manhattan’s elite movers and shakers. An even more apropos description based on his work location, the restroom of New York City’s most exclusive nightclub “Dorians.”

Six pristine tear drop urinals sporting gold-plated fixtures and individual dividers lined the far wall of the rectangular room. On the near side, a long black marble slab held stone vessel water basins with sensor faucets and swan shaped necks. The LED strip framed mirror spanned the length of the sinks. Individual mahogany doors to five private water closets took up the other side. At the far end of the restroom a slightly larger door opened to a handicapped stall. A wooden stool against the wall served as his “office” chair. An inflatable donut made his hardwood seat tolerable by easing Thaddeus’s chronic lower back pain.

His attendant workspace counter was neatly arranged with OCD precision. He was more than fastidious. Linen hand towels folded in perfect triangles were laid out like freshly folded laundry near a stack of two-ply paper towels placed exactly within arm’s reach. Rolls of replacement toilet tissue, still in their designer wrapping, stood stacked behind several bottles of cologne and mouthwash arranged in a military like display. Several combs and a hairbrush, packs of chewing gum, monogrammed matches, packs of cigarettes, antacids, pain relievers and condoms made up the rest of the assorted toiletries and items. A basket of expensive mints was purposely positioned right next to his chair in front of his tip jar.

Like the items on the counter, Thaddeus paid for his own “uniform.” Tuxedo trousers with a black tailcoat and a red vest over a white cotton pressed shirt accented by a red bow tie. The starched white collar contrasted perfectly against his walnut brown skin. His charcoal hair, curly and peppered gray, was consistent with his trimmed brows and thin mustache. His smile, grandfatherly, yet wry. A kind of smile that knows something you don’t know, not in a cunning way. More like a knowing-what’s-in-your-wrapped-present kind of way. His eyes, brown and honest. They didn’t stare, but they didn’t look away either, nor did they look down like some Stepin Fetchit with hat in hand.

His job was relatively simple. Keep the counters clean, the soap dispensers filled, replace empty toilet rolls, attend to the patron’s apparel needs as much as possible, (he had needle and thread and a hand whisk broom for that.) and clean up any mess that may occur, including unfortunately, any blockages in the stalls. Over the years he’s seen more than his fair share of those. A nearby closet housed a plumber’s helper, bucket and mop and a plethora of deodorizers, even a bag of kitty litter used at times to soak up puddles of vomit. Those instances were a rarity, for which he thanked God. Still, part of his role was to serve as an interim to the janitor and the industrial plumber.

There were of course certain on-the-job rules he had to follow; no reading or scrolling on the phone, no eating or smoking. Rest assured; Thaddeus had no pangs of appetite while at work and quit tobacco years ago. The biggest rule; do not speak unless spoken to and never, ever request a tip. Under these conditions he received four fifteen-minute breaks spread out over his 6 pm to 2 am schedule. A bus boy would throw on a maître D’s three button Perugia jacket and cover Thaddeus on his break which he took in only two places; the kitchen or the back stall of his restroom “office” if and when his irritable bowel insisted. Though he was meant to use the employee bathroom by the kitchen, this was the one luxury he gave himself with a wink and a nod and a few bucks to the bus boy.

Classic bossa nova sounds of Stan Getz & João Gilberto played low from hidden speakers. Had he his druthers, Thaddeus would prefer John Coltrane, no relation. The last name was spelled differently, but while in Vietnam a friend turned him onto the dark brooding tones of jazz which he found calming. In the confines of the restroom, however, Thaddeus was stuck listening whatever the speakers bolted to the walls were fed from Spotify’s algorithm and Coltrane rarely came up. Overall, the job wasn’t difficult.

“Dorians” opened up ten years ago smack dab center in the financial district. Located on the 38th floor of the Hyatt Centric Hotel. The employees of financial institutions from Black Rock to Credit Suisse flooded the nightspot on weekends. New York based celebrities and sports stars were also frequent patrons, accessing secret VIP rooms, exclusivity among the exclusive. But as far as he was concerned, in his “office,” all are equal when it comes to the call of nature and that’s how Thaddeus treated each individual, with equal professionalism.

On this Friday night, Thaddeus arrived a few minutes early, checked his donut to be sure it was properly inflated. In addition to his lower back issues, the cushion provided him relief from a recent hemorrhoidal flare up. From a small tin, he took and placed a dab of Vick’s VapoRub to the base of his wide nostrils just above his moustache his first line of defense against any unpleasant odors.

Thaddeus bent the rules a bit over the past few years but didn’t feel he was breaking them. Applying an ear bud to his left ear, he took his seat. Though he didn’t scroll on his phone per se, he did have his Bluetooth connected to the Audible app on his phone secreted in his vest pocket. Connected via WIFI to his singular earbud he would listen to audio books with authors from James Baldwin to Dostoyevsky to Stephen King. He believed in making the best use of every moment. He consumed knowledge, interesting Ted Talks, Master Classes, podcasts of note and online debates were his diet. Despite the lone ear bud, he could still hear the techno beats thumping through the restroom door from the bar outside. Weekends were not as subdued as the weekday shifts as a younger crowd filled the night club while a guest DJ was put to work.

Traffic to his “office” at the start of the evening was light with a few regulars using the facilities early on. Some knew Thaddeus well and referenced him by his nickname, “Scatman” or “Scat” for short. Not because he had musical rhythm or his smile was an echo of Scatman Crother’s own pearly whites, but due to the very definition of scat: Droppings. Especially those of carnivorous mammals. One could argue there was nothing more carnivorous than a Wall Street wolf.

Speaking of which, a young commodities broker, a regular, by the name of Dean Benjamin entered wearing a power suit jacket over a striped, blue shirt with a throw-back to the eighties solid white collar and paisley navy tie with matching suspenders. He flashed Thaddeus a smile and was already unzipping his fly as he strolled past to a center urinal to relieve himself. “Scat, my man! How’s it hanging?” Dean asked facing the wall.

Thaddeus smiled. “Oh, hangin’fine, Mr. Dean, just fine. Thank you for asking. How are you?”

“Me? Like it’s Black Friday and I’m first in line at the Pussy Store!” The man was in his mid-twenties but still talked like a frat boy. He continued, “You should see the women out there tonight. Yes, sir, tonight the Dean machine is going to be obscene!” He shook off any remaining drops and zipped his fly. Turning, he made for the sink. A dispenser spit out a small squirt of liquid soap. A sensor set off the faucet, and warm water streamed from its cranelike neck. Dean Benjamin gave his hands a vigorous rub rinsing them beneath the running water. Thaddeus was already standing with a linen hand towel to dry him off.

“Thank you, Scat.” Dean leaned over looking at Thaddeus’s wares. “I didn’t have a chance to stop at home, what cologne do you have that will draw the ladies in? Not that I need anything more than this face, but do you have something that compliments the gift that is me?”

Thaddeus looked carefully at several of his cologne bottles inspecting them one by one and looking back at Dean as if trying to find a match. “Tom Ford is a popular one, but for you? Ah, here we are, Versace Eros. A lady killer I’m told.”

He handed Dean the square blue glass bottle. Dean spritzed his wrist, giving it a sniff. “Christ, I think I’m getting hard! Good choice!” He misted his neck behind each ear. “Now a final check of my hair.” Dean picked up a comb from the counter. His dark hair was a feathered coif with a high fade and tapered sideburns. He raised the comb but stopped before he started and leaned back imitating The Fonz from the old Happy Days TV show. “Aaaayyyy., it's da Fonz!” He set the comb down ready to leave.

Thaddeus gestured for him to stop. Taking out his hand whisk, he brushed away any lint left clinging to Dean’s sport coat. “Now, you’re ready.” Thaddeus held up a warning finger and pointed to the exit that led to the bar. “Remember, like the sign on the door says, you’re a gentleman.”

Dean pulled out his money clip releasing a fresh twenty. He placed in Thaddeus’s tip jar, smiled and winked. “But, of course.” He started off again, but Thaddeus halted him again. “Wait.” He held up a wrapped mint. “Mint? “

Dean blew a breath into his own hand and took a quick sniff. He popped the mint in his mouth and with a final wink and a smile, he exited.

Thaddeus took the used towel and after wiping down the basin and counter, tossed it into a hatch leading to a hamper hidden behind the wall. He replaced the lid to the bottle of cologne and reset it in position like a chess piece. His sore back demanded the chair. As he went to sit, a customer waddled in.

Thaddeus watched, thinking the man had seen better days on Wall Street. He was paunchy, his suit wrinkled and worn like a crumpled brown paper bag. His loosened tie swung, a pendulum with each unsteady step. His trading floor badge still clipped to his suit coat despite the fact it was after hours. Thaddeus stood to assist, but the man steam rolled past him and entered the center water closet stall, squeezing past the door and closing it.

Thaddeus had seen this type of floor trader before and recognized him for what he was, a drinker, a gambler and a perennial loser. A man who always went for longshots, riding moments of feast or famine, win and lose, but because of their lack of will power, moved from brokerage house to brokerage house unable to keep steady work until age itself phased them out for the young wolves ready to mark their own territory.

What was about to be unleashed within that small private water closet space was anyone’s guess. There was nothing that could surprise Thaddeus.

He'd experienced it all over the years or thought he had. With a hand bracing his lower spine, he eased back into his seat and raised the volume of his earbud and continued listening to the next chapter from Stephen King’s latest novel.

Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be enough to drown out the occasional moan from behind the stall door, a fitting harbinger to the olfactory horror yet to come.

Three young professionals entered the restroom. The tallest one, dressed casual-chic like he stepped off of an Abercrombie and Finch catalog cover, disappeared into the nearest stall. The other two, similarly adorned, took up positions at the urinal wall leaving an opened space between them snickering and chuckling the whole time.

The one on the far left spoke out. “Can you believe it? Fucking Malcom Crandall? Did you see him on the dance floor? Fucking weirdo. Trying to moonwalk like Michael fucking Jackson.”

The one to the right answered, “This is who Bear Stearns fucking makes floor manager? What a joke! We both have been there longer, outperforming him on every portfolio dumped in our laps.”

“I’m telling you, Paul, Crandall doesn’t get it. He thinks he got that position on merit. You can’t tell me that black fagola’s not a fucking DEI promotion. Tell me how a degree in finance from Howard University even comes close to our Wharton pedigree? This diversity bullshit is going be the end of democratic capitalism.”

Paul shook his head in agreement. “His degree doesn’t come close in value to ours and he’s gonna learn there’s no jumping ahead in line.” Paul glanced back at Thaddeus who seemed to be elsewhere in his head.

Paul leaned over whispering to his friend, “Psst. Mike, I set Crandall up with that MegaWave Technologies portfolio.” He continued, “It’s a dog. An AI start up, burning through cash like a California wildfire.” Paul chuckled as he directed his stream directly on the urinal cake in the drain.

“Malcom Crandall thinks closing that deal will be his ticket to the top. It’s going to be a nail in his coffin. They are days away from going bankrupt.” Paul tapped up and down on his feet as he finished urinating. He glanced back in Thaddeus’s direction once more. He whispered again. “Psst, Mike! When MegaWave goes bust, he’ll be lucky to get that job.” His head nodding in Thaddeus’s direction.

Mike followed Paul's eyes to Thaddeus who appeared to be paying them no attention. They looked at each other and broke out laughing. Finished, they zipped up in unison and stepped over towards the sink, their laughter continued in contained snorts and guffaws. Mike whispered, “That or a shoe shine boy.” They washed their hands straining not to laugh.

Their friend stepped out of the lavatory stall, his knuckle tapping a nostril. He joined his co-workers at the basins for a hand wash. Thaddeus stood quietly with three separate towels draped over an arm. The tall one turned to take a towel when Thaddeus tapped a finger to his own nose. “Sir, you might want to check the mirror.”

Sure enough, white flecks of cocaine formed a ridge around his right nostril. Once more, he swiped a hand past the sink sensor it wetting it in the flow, and wiped away the tiny remnants of coke.

Still washing up, Paul spoke. “Craig, you got to stop that shit man, stick with ecstasy. Coke is laced with fentanyl these days.” Now speaking freely as if Thaddeus wasn’t even there.

Craig took a towel from Thaddeus while addressing his friend’s reflections in the mirror. “Everything’s laced with Fentanyl these days. Relax, I got myself a trusted source, so don’t worry. Now let’s go party.” Craig threw the towel on the counter and left. Paul followed suit.

Mike stopped and handed Thaddeus his used towel. He looked at the items on display. “Boy, gimme one of those condoms. How much?”

Thaddeus couldn’t remember the last time someone called him boy and kept all their teeth. He ignored the insult and forced a smile. “One dollar.”

Mike grabbed a foiled condom and reached for his wallet. “Just a buck? Well, I’m feeling lucky.” Placing the prophylactic inside his billfold, he removed a dollar. With a snarky grin he stepped back and let the buck fall to the floor. “There’s always someone you can fuck. Or fuck over.” He went through the door, melding into the techno beat pulsating in the bar beyond.

Thaddeus bent to pick up the dollar. A flash of pain caused his lower back to lock up. He didn’t think he could stand straight when a sound as loud as an elephant's trumpet blasted from behind the center stall bouncing off the walls with a short echo. It was a fart so loud Thaddeus forgot his pain shot up and stared warily at the water closet half expecting the door to blow off its hinges from a second volley. From behind the door, the portly man from earlier spoke out weakly. “Sorry, I guess the food here doesn’t agree with me.”

Thaddeus rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t agree with most people. Undercooked and overpriced, if you ask me.” Thaddeus placed his dollar in the tip jar and took a seat, relieving the pressure again off his lower back. “You do what you have to do, sir. I’ll be here to assist you when you finish.”

A few moments later there was a flush. Thaddeus could hear the man wrestling with his belt and trousers then the door swung open. The man, slightly less heavy, squeezed out and crossed to the sink to wash his hands. “Can you believe those little shits?”

Confused, Thaddeus replied, ”Sir?”

The man clarified his point. “Those three asswipes that just left here. Screwing over their fellow trader with that junk bond portfolio. Cocksuckers.” He stood from washing his hands and looked at Thaddeus with tired eyes. “The world doesn’t have to be dog eat dog, y’know.”

Thaddeus nodded. “No, sir. It doesn’t. On that we agree.” He handed the man a hand towel. "I guess it's just business."

"I guess." Drying his hands, the man got lost in thought seemingly speaking to himself. “Even I expected MegaWave to be the next Nvidia, but their security issues outweighed their potential. Unless they merge with a cyber security firm, I wouldn’t go near that stock if you paid me. That dude is getting screwed.” The man snapped out of his trance and handed Thaddeus the damp towel. “Uh, thanks.”

“Sure thing, Mister?...” He waited for a name.

“Bob Clark. Call me, Bob.” Bob reached into his pocket he pulled out a fiver and placed it in the tip jar. “Thank you.”

“Been a pleasure, Bob. You can call me Scat.” Thaddeus gave a grateful nod and held up a candy mint. “Mint?”

Bob answered with a scoff, “If it was a suppository, Scat, I’d say yes. Sorry, about the stink.”

Thaddeus reassured Bob that all was well. “It is what it is.”

Bob nodded, took the mint and left slightly more sober than when he arrived.

Thaddeus rocketed up from the chair thinking “Screw my back!” He spun on his foot and grabbed the bottle of Tom Ford Cologne and began misting the room 360 degrees. “Two hundred and fifty a bottle, and right now worth every cent.” He sniffed the air. “And I do mean scent!” Satisfied he dissipated the funk, he returned to his seat as the restroom door swung open again.

Thaddeus found himself staring at what he believed to the most attractive black woman he’s seen in a long time. Standing around six feet tall in leopard pumps, a matching skirt and a white silk blouse. Diamond stud earrings shone bright against ebony skin. Long black hair in a shag perm hung just below the shoulders.

The customer stopped dead in her tracks as if hitting an invisible wall. “Damn! Smells like porta-potty on Fire Island!” She was reacting to the smell Thaddeus had tried to cover up with multiple sprays of cologne to a point of overkill.

Thaddeus had barely sat down. “Miss, the ladies room is on the other side of the barroom.”

The dark amazon patted Thaddeus’s cheek. “Relax, Pops. The line at the ladies is jammed like the Lincoln Tunnel at rush hour. I’ll take but a minute.” The deepness of the voice made Thaddeus blink. The lanky stranger walked past him with a stride of confidence and purpose, her heel steps echoing off the tile floor.

Stopping in front of the center urinal she spread her stance, hiked up her dress revealing a pair of red speedos. After some digital manipulation, she stood straight and began to relieve herself. Thaddeus heard the strong stream striking the porcelain basin. It slowly dawned on him he wasn’t looking at a woman at all. This was a first for Thaddeus. He leaned back against his chair trying to get his bearings and assess the situation. He thought this person is obviously trans.

The ”transexual” finished and returned everything on her person to its proper place. She smoothed out her dress on her way to the sink and stooped to wash her hands. She spoke to Thaddeus using the reflection. “And how are you this evening?”

Thaddeus stood, reaching for a towel. The deep sound of her voice inconguent with the visage in the mirror confusing him. “Fine … fine. Miss … mister …um …” He stuttered, for the first time momentarily at a loss for words.

Facing him, she smiled. “No formalities or pronouns here. Call me Mal.” She took the towel to dry her hands.

Thaddeus returned the smile. “Nice to meet you, Malcolm.” He had no idea why he called her that.

Malcolm startled. “Malcolm? How’d you know my name? Wait. My hands. Tell me my hands gave me away. They are rather big, yes? You must've figured out I’m a man.” Malcom held out a hand as if half expecting Thaddeus to kiss it. “The name’s Malcolm Crandall. It’s a pleasure to meet… you?” Malcolm waited for a handshake.

They shook hands. “Thaddeus. Thaddeus Coltraine. But people call me Scat.”

“Scat? So cute!” Mal turned back to the mirror to apply a lavender lipstick. “Scat, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way. But what are you doing here? I mean how did you end up working in a place that smells worse than a New York Subway car in August.”

“It’s really not that bad.” He said.

“Oh, it is that bad. What makes it worse, is they make you dress like the plantation master’s butler and cow tow to the man like you’re some house Uncle Tom. Where’s your pride, man?”

Thaddeus saw no point in telling Malcolm about his military service. How he interrupted his time as a star athlete by dropping out of high school to serve his country. How he still had shrapnel in his lower back from a mortar that obliterated his jazz loving friend over fifty years ago. How ten years ago he finally got the PTSD that kept him from holding down a job under control to where noises like the thumping rhythms from the outside bar no longer set off panic attacks. Or how she, of all people, shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. Thaddeus saw no point in going there. He thought for a moment then answered. “I pride myself in doing a good job. Treating everyone with equal respect… and minding my own business.”

Thaddeus sat back on his stool, folded his arms and straightened up. “I’ve got my pride.” As if on cue, the air from his inflatable donut leaked out like the motor of a Model T shutting down or a slow leak from a whoopee cushion.

They stared at each other in an awkward silence then Mal spoke up. “I meant no disrespect. I’m just saying you won’t catch me selling myself short or being beaten down by the man or have him define me or my limitations. They say they want diversity, I got no problem with that. Equity? Let me get my foot in the door, I’ll show you equity. Inclusion? I’ll put on a wig and wear a dress if it means getting included in the big-time money game."

Mal stood straight and gestured to her body. "Check it out, I made sure I hit all the right buttons for today’s hiring practices. A cross-dressing, African American, pan sexual.” Mal returned the lipstick to his purse. “Now look at me, overseeing what will soon be one of the most lucrative hedge fund portfolios on Wall Street.”

Thaddeus lost his smile for a moment trying to assess the situation. “I guess as a trans woman, you have a lot to be proud of.”

Malcom said, “Sweetheart, I am not trans. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, as they say. Can't you see I am playing the system. And if I have to cheat to get ahead, so be it.”

Another moment of silence hung in the air. Malcolm sensed Thaddeus's disapproval. Malcom reached for a dollar in his purse. “You’re damn right I’m proud of myself. The only thing I can do is work the system until I’m rich enough to change it. Trust me, I will get there.”

Mal held up a folded dollar and snapped it open in front of Thaddeus’s face. “I’m going out and getting mine. I’m not sitting on my ass waiting for some hand out.” Malcolm pointed to the tip jar and dropped a dollar in. “Ta-ta, Scat. It was a pleasure.”

“The pleasure was mine.” He replied.

He waited until he could no longer hear the heels on tile when he too decided to break a rule. Thaddeus took out his iPhone and with frenzied thumbs scrolled until a website appeared. The initials CSI filled the top of the frame. Beneath the logo the words, Coltraine Securities Index. The next line of text indicated it was run by a large brokerage firm we cannot mention here. With a swipe, the frame showed graphs of stock market trading data. He brought up MegaWave on the exchange, MWE. He selected 100,000 shares and hit “BORROW.”

With that one finger tap Thaddeus Coltraine was in all practical purposes majority shareholder in the AI start up. He then swiped left and typed in Encryptex. It was a cyber security firm had had been eyeing for months. He selected 50,000 shares and selected “BUY.” Now he was majority shareholder in one of the most cutting edge up and coming encryption companies. His after-hours trading done, his plan come Monday would be to dump his MegaWave stock thus shorting it, then contact his brokerage firm to arrange a merger between MegaWave and Encryptex, shoring up both companies and creating an AI player up there with some of the best performing stocks in the world. An unprecedented financial move all done in the palm of his hand.

Over the past ten years Thaddeus Coltraine had become a very rich man mining gold from the most unlikely of mines in the world, a Wall Street restroom. (A place Thaddeus wouldn’t even subject a canary to.) There, he learned to keep his mouth shut and at least one ear open. He overheard everything from stock trends, inside trades, mergers and takeovers, scandals and secrets all leaked by drunken people taking leaks. With that information, Scat invested wisely and out foxed the wolves at every turn.

Looking at his phone Thaddeus knew how the chips would fall come Monday morning. He knew Malcolm at first would think his or her ship has finally come in. Later in the day, as the stock goes into free fall, she would look to unload it before bankruptcy set in. Thaddeus would then swoop in and purchase the stocks at an incredible discount. Malcolm would most likely lose her wig and his job. For Thaddeus it was nothing personal it was just business.

The restroom door sprung open. Thaddeus looked up from his phone as Bob Clark, the rotund man from earlier, burst through the door, his face reddened and panicked. “Sorry about this, Scat, I guess I should’ve said no to that extra pork slider.” Bob shuffled across the tile floor like he was trying to cross a patch of black ice. Choosing a new stall this time, he ripped the door open and settled in for the coming onslaught.

Thaddeus once again took out the VapoRub and reapplied it to his nostrils. He then unwrapped two mints, lodging one in each nostril. Looking at his phone and the trade he just made for one last time, he returned it to his vest with a smile. “No problem, Bob and thanks for the tip.”