Kapitoil Read online

  2. But boxes are an inefficient method of storage because they waste the space between the balls. So if I have a method of wasting zero space and packing the court 100% with racquetballs, I would use this equation:

  A. (16,000)(123)/the volume of a sphere. The volume of a sphere is (4/3)(r3), or in this case (4/3)()(1.253), or approximately 8.3 repeating cubic inches.

  B. Therefore, (16,000)(123)/8.3 repeating = approximately 3.5 million balls.

  3. So, by packing them in boxes we can fit in approximately only half as many balls as we could in an ideal scenario in which the balls waste no space between them. But the ideal cannot exist, because then they would not truly be balls anymore.

  4. The compromise between the box scenario and the ideal scenario is what supermarkets do with spherical fruits, which is a best-practice method of stacking them in pyramids, and this is another reason I value pyramids. In fact, this pattern is also the way some crystals align themselves under pressure, which is why diamonds are so sharp, because high pressure forces carbon atoms to align in the most compressed pattern possible: a regular, repeating structure. Most people think diamonds are beautiful because they mirror light, but I prefer to think of them this way, which is also one of the ways I think of Zahira and her name, because her brain’s connections are so sharp.

  But I do not have time to evaluate the supermarket approach because the door opens behind me and Mr. Schrub appears. He is wearing white shorts and a white shirt with a collar that are parallel to mine, except his look higher quality.

  We hit to each other, and I strike slowly at first, because I am uncertain how skilled he is and do not want to look like I am showing off, although I also do not want to look like I am a poor player. But he is better than I anticipated, so I hit harder, and after a few minutes we launch a game.

  He lets me serve first. I know from the warm-up that I can defeat him if I want to, but I decide to win the first game, then lose the second game, then lose the last game in a close match. Typically this outcome pleases competitors I should lose to in Doha, and I think the same will happen with Mr. Schrub. I am not truly invested in the outcome of a match, but I merely enjoy playing it, although it is more fun when I can play my hardest and challenge my own limits.

  I win the first game 15–9, but I intentionally let him score a few points. I am not a skilled liar with words, but it is easier with actions. He smiles and says, “Good game.”

  When the score is 13–10 in my favor for the second game, I plan to lose the point on my serve so that I am not in danger of serving again on match point, but I accidentally win it when Mr. Schrub can’t return a ball I hit. “Avoidable hinder,” I call on myself.

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Schrub says.

  “I obstructed your path,” I say. “It is your serve.”

  He waves his racquet like he is negating the idea. “Your point, fair and square. I’m just slow and old.”

  Now I am nervous again, because if I win another point on my serve I will defeat him. But if I hit a very poor serve or shot, he might detect that I am trying to lose. So I decide I have to aim precisely and miss a shot by only a few inches.

  I serve, and we rally for a few shots and Mr. Schrub continues hitting hard. I am surprised he does not play more cautiously, as people often do if they are afraid of losing. But that is how you must be in business as well: Reject fear and take calculated risks. On my fourth shot I swing very hard and aim at the base of the wall, but I aim to hit the floor just before the wall so Mr. Schrub wins the point, and it is almost as if, before I strike it, I can observe the ray that links my racquet and the ball to my target.

  Fortunately my mathematical brain makes me very skilled at racquetball.

  He takes the ball for his serve and does not say anything, and I let him win the next five points, although I make it appear close. “Good game,” he says again, although this time he does not smile. “Tiebreaker to 11.”

  I take an early lead but allow him to reduce the margin of deficit. When it is 8–8, Mr. Schrub says, “Looks like your program’s better than your backhand,” which is not very good sportsmanship, but I smile slightly and let him win the point when I hit a weak forehand that he smashes.

  Before he serves, he says, “You can’t win with a pussy-willow shot like that.” I win the point, and then win a point on my serve to make it 9–9. Then I let him win two points in a row so that he serves for the match at 10–9.

  “I can’t believe you’re about to lose to a guy two and a half times your age,” he says. I was able to ignore his previous insult, but I dislike when anyone predicts that I am going to fail at something. In addition, he would be 2.5 times my age only if he were one year older.

  He serves, and I win the point with a strong backhand that he cannot return.

  I make it 10–10, and now I have match point, although I still plan to lose this point and let him win on his serve. “C’mon, Karim,” he says. “You gonna choke now? You wanna run home to Mommy?”

  I squeeze the racquet hard, which slightly pains my hand. “Is that it? You’re a mama’s boy?” he says.

  He returns my serve, and I play a strong point and he mirrors my skill, but soon he makes an error and hits a floating shot, and I leverage the situation by jumping up and swinging my hardest on a smash and even yelling, which I never do.

  Mr. Schrub watches the ball go past him. He smiles the widest this time and shakes my hand. “Thank God,” he says. “For a second there I was afraid you were actually going to let me win.”

  I do not know what to say. “It’s okay, Karim,” he says, and puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’ve had plenty of people lose on purpose to me. I’ll take an honest, hard-fought loss over a fraudulent win any day. I can tell you’re a real player. A competitor.”

  He invites me to recuperate with him in the sauna. We relax in the hydrated heat and do not say anything for a few minutes except when Mr. Schrub makes sounds because his body pains him. “Ah, I’m mature,” he says. “That’s what my wife calls me—a ‘mature man.’ I don’t know how many more years I have in me to do this.”

  At first I think he is talking about racquetball, but then I realize he means work. It surprises me, because he is only 64, and many people in business work at least a decade more than that, but also he could have easily retired a long time ago, so the solitary reason to continue working is because the challenges still motivate him, as they do for me.

  “What are your plans, Karim?” he asks.

  “I am planning to return to the office after this,” I say.

  He laughs. “That’s not what I meant. But on that note, what are you doing tomorrow night?”

  “I have no plans except to work on Kapitoil,” I say.

  “I’d like you to take the night off and be my guest in my luxury suite at the ball game. Game four, the Yanks could win it all.”

  I tell him I am delighted to attend and ask what subway line I should take. He makes a face as if he tastes something bad. “Too crowded. I’ll send a driver to pick you up from the office. He’ll take care of everything.”

  I almost say, “But the subway is fast, cheap, and entertaining; a car is none of those,” but I practice restraint.

  We then consult about Kapitoil, and he asks insightful questions about the algorithms. When we are finished, Mr. Schrub walks me to the elevator. “Anytime you want a rematch, Karim, let me know,” he says, although of course I would never invite him to play. He winks and shakes my hand. “As long as you don’t let me off the hook.”

  As I walk to the subway I call Zahira. It is after midnight in Doha, but she will be up studying, and I know my father will be asleep.

  After she tells me that she received a perfect score on her biology test and I praise her, although I certify to praise her for studying hard and not merely for being intelligent, I say, “Zahira, I just played racquetball with Mr. Schrub.”

  She becomes very stimulated, because although Mr. Schrub does not interest her the same way, I
have told her much about him. “I am also going to a baseball game with him tomorrow, and it is because of the success of my new program,” I say.

  “You wrote another program?” she asks. “I thought you said this was a bad time to try out new programs.”

  “It is the same program as before,” I say. “I reconsidered and decided to show it to my higher-up.” She does not say anything, and I add, “I also went to a classy nightclub with my coworkers the previous night. I apologize if I email less frequently now because I am too busy with work and networking.”

  “I know you are,” she says. “I tell all my friends about you. And I also remember what you always told me.”

  “That if you work hard, you can achieve anything?” I ask.

  She speaks very clearly: “That being a success at work does not equal being a success at life.”

  I am a block away from the subway entrance. “I am about to lose our connection in the subway,” I say. “I will email you later.”

  In the subway I think about how Mr. Schrub said I was a competitor. I am glad I deposited my voice recorder in my shorts pocket so that I can listen to it again.

  player = someone who succeeds in the field of business, athletics, or females

  pussy-willow = weak

  JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: OCTOBER 27

  On Wednesday morning I check my work email from home. Everyone in the office receives an email stating there have been several layoffs and that the selected employees have already been informed. I accelerate to work.

  Rebecca, Jefferson, and Dan are in the pod, which relaxes me, but when Dan sees me, he puts his head in his hands.

  “Did you hear the news?” he says.

  “You have been laid off?” I ask.

  “Yes.” He covers his eyes with his hands and vibrates as if he is crying. “And I’ve got prostate cancer.”

  Rebecca says, “Don’t be an asshole, Dan,” and I see he is vibrating from laughing. “He doesn’t have cancer.”

  “Sorry.” Dan wipes his left eye. “There were less layoffs than expected. And none of us are laid off.”

  “Yes, there were fewer layoffs than expected,” Rebecca says. “And none of us is laid off.”

  Rebecca has optimal grammar.

  “Neither of those subjects is something about which you should make jokes,” I say to Dan.

  I also have strong grammar skills.

  That afternoon I receive my paycheck. It is three times the normal value. I email Mr. Ray about the error and ask if I should contact Human Resources. He writes back:

  The paycheck is correct. We want to compensate you accordingly for the profits Kapitoil continues to bring in. Enjoy the bonus--you deserve it.

  I cannot believe this is the true amount of my salary. It’s about as much as I made in three months in Doha, or as much as my father makes in half a year at his store. But Mr. Ray is correct: I do merit it, because I have accumulated even greater profits for Schrub and its shareholders. Although some people lost their jobs, it’s probably because they’re not producing profits for the company. And if Kapitoil continues to perform high-end, possibly we can rehire those former employees or new ones.

  I find it difficult to work the rest of the day as I think about tonight. I still know very little about baseball compared to Dan and Jefferson. However, I have been reading about the mathematics behind baseball called sabermetrics, and I spend another hour in the afternoon researching the players on the Yankees and the Atlanta Braves. Today one of the Yankees’ stars, named Paul O’Neill, found out that his father died, although he’s still going to play.

  I have to leave work earlier than usual so the driver has time to navigate the traffic to Yankee Stadium. Fortunately Dan and Jefferson depart earlier than I do, so I do not have to explain why I am going, but when I retrieve my briefcase Rebecca says she will walk out with me.

  “Kind of early for you to be heading out, isn’t it?” she asks as we wait for the elevator.

  “As you said, I especially work a little too hard.”

  We step into the elevator, and her eyebrows squeeze together, which I find not sexy but still pleasant to observe. “When did I say that?”

  “After we saw the movie Three Kings, outside the Chambers St. subway station, when you were at the top of the stairs.”

  “You have a pretty good memory,” says Rebecca.

  “For certain subjects,” I say.

  Another female from the office runs to the elevator, and I press the button to reopen the doors. We zoom downstairs and watch the elevator monitor’s weather forecast. It’s difficult to have a conversation in the elevator when there is a third party.

  Rebecca updates me on the progress on the Y2K project as we exit through the lobby. “It’s going well,” she says, “but there’s still a lot of freaking out across the industry about what might happen.”

  Fear and panic cause severe market vacillation, and Y2K will present a golden opportunity for major earnings with Kapitoil.

  Because I’m concentrating on Kapitoil and do not respond, Rebecca says, “I hope I’m not wasting my fascinating cocktail-party chitchat on you.”

  “I am sorry,” I say. “I was thinking of another subject. It will not happen again.”

  “I’m teasing.” She punches my shoulder with minor force. “Lighten up. That’s your next goal.”

  I take out a pen, stop walking, and write on my other hand so that Rebecca can see: “GOALS: (1) LIGHTEN UP.” “I will make efforts to meet that goal,” I tell Rebecca. “Thank you for suggesting it.”

  Her facial expression is very confused. I wait a few seconds, then say, “I am teasing as well,” and punch her shoulder, although I contact the metal on the strap of her bag, which hurts but I pretend it is painless.

  She lets out a strong breath and laughs. “Maybe I need to lighten up, too. It’s been a long day—I wouldn’t mind unwinding.”

  Outside, black cars wait next to the sidewalk in a line as if for a funeral, and I see mine, with a sign that displays “13” in the window.

  “Which way are you heading?” Rebecca asks.

  “Oh, I forgot a disk in my office,” I say, although I pronounce “Oh” with too much volume.

  “Want me to wait?”

  “No, that is unnecessary. In fact, I have some more work to do.”

  “Burning the midnight oil, are we?” she says. “See you around.”

  She walks toward the subway and I return to the building. There is probably a better means of negotiating the situation, but it is hard to strategize the right thing to do when you have to act quickly.

  I wait inside the building until Rebecca disappears, then knock on the dark front window of car 13. The doors unlock and produce a sound like a bullet firing.

  The face of the driver surprises me. “Do you remember me?” I ask.

  Barron turns his head a quarter of the way. He still has a mustache. “Sorry, I drive a lot of people.”

  “It was on October 3rd,” I say. In some ways it feels longer and in other ways it doesn’t feel that long. “From John F. Kennedy Airport. My name is Karim Issar.”

  “I go to JFK all the time. Yankee Stadium, right?”

  “Yes.” I don’t say anything for a minute, as I don’t want to make him feel uncomfortable that he can’t remember me. Although I am truly the one who should feel uncomfortable, because it means I’m not that memorable, which I already know, e.g., I don’t talk loudly or dress with unique fashion or have an appearance others consider very sexy.

  Then Barron depresses the gas pedal harder as we pass a yellow light, and after we safely cross, I say, “Do you remember I asked you how many gallons of gas your car guzzles?”

  He is quiet at the next red light for a few seconds, then says, “Oh, yeah—I remember you.” He turns his head all the way back this time. “What’s happening?”

  “I am going to the Yankees game.”

  “You must be doing pretty well for yourself if I’m driving you to t
he World Series.”

  “I did not pay for the ticket myself,” I say.

  His eyes observe me in his mirror. “My bad.”

  We drive for several minutes and reach FDR Drive. The picture of Barron’s daughter is still underneath his sun-protector.

  “How old is your daughter?” I ask.

  “She just turned seven,” he says. “Sorry—six. They grow up quick here.”

  Zahira also grew up quickly, but for different reasons. In other ways of course she’s still a child, e.g., she has never had alcohol or a boyfriend, because I will not let that happen to her until she’s truly an adult.

  The traffic becomes denser, so I don’t distract Barron anymore by talking. The car reroutes off the highway and onto the streets, and the buildings aren’t like the buildings in Manhattan, which are either modern or historic. These are obsolete and they all look the same, like ugly red rectangles, and although my family’s apartment building in Doha isn’t luxurious, it is superior to the apartments in this section of Manhattan and the Bronx and its architecture is unique from the other buildings. Everyone on the street is black or Latin American. I haven’t seen anyone in my building who is, minus the doormen and one black couple.

  We approach Yankee Stadium, which is a massive white building whose shape is a hybrid of a circle and a triangle, and Barron stops and gives me a business card with his number on it and his full name: BARRON WRIGHT. “Call just before the game’s over, and I’ll tell you where to meet me,” he says.

  “What are you going to do during the game?” I ask.

  “Get some dinner around here, listen to the game in the car. Not worth driving all the way to Queens and back.”

  I don’t like the image of Barron eating a discounted dinner and waiting inside the car for the whole game, but I merely say, “Thank you for driving me.” He nods but angles his head out his window at the other cars so he won’t cause a crash.