Chapter 2
This is basically my idea of hell.
All of the above tends to separate you from regular society.
Because of this, mingling with total strangers happens to be pure torture. “Regular” people who have never been close to money or fame have only two things to talk about: money and fame. Specifically, my money and fame.
I wait for it.
“Dallas Wilder? Eeeee! Oh my god, I can’t believe it’s really you!
” The woman is nondescript-looking. Mousy, nondescript hair and eyes a color that’s …
nondescript. “I’ve never been so turned on by risk management, haha.
It was so impressive.” I catch a hint of cheap perfume.
Her fingers brush my arm and I instinctively flinch.
Eight more minutes. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” I try to tone down the boredom in my voice.
A small crowd gathers around me, competing for my attention.
“Dallas, I am such a fan.”
“Dallas, can I get your autograph?”
“Mr. Wilder, your ideas about asset allocation were beyond fascinating. I’ve never really thought about the balance between risk and reward like that.”
“Are you by any chance hiring, Mr. Wilder? I would love to send you my résumé.”
“I can really see the family resemblance to both your mother and your father. What was it like growing up the way you did?”
“Hi, Dallas. Wow. You are, like, so much more gorgeous in person.” A blond woman’s fingers slide a scrap of paper into my jacket pocket. “Want to get a drink?”
This happens everywhere I go. The rabid attention. The hopeful, desperation-laced invitations.
I want to feel a connection, especially considering the state I’m in.
I feel nothing.
Zero. Except maybe a profound sadness that I’m very unlikely to ever find my person. The one that blows me away with … I don’t know … extraordinariness.
Unfortunately, I’m used to this. Everyone I’ve ever met aside from my family and a few of my employees, who don’t count, have so far been so very uniformly ordinary. I’ve lived my life underwhelmed by everyone and everything except the way money compounds.
I can buy anything I want. But the one thing I want can’t be bought.
An actual desire to be with someone.
And I can’t fake it tonight. Maybe it’s New Orleans. There’s a grimy romance to the place that makes my cravings that much more intense.
The women who surround me are probably accomplished. They’re definitely aspirational.
But everything feels so fucking transactional and infuriatingly performative. Like we’re a bunch of bad actors playing roles that are way beyond our scope.
Someone laughs too loudly. Someone touches my sleeve before I can move away. Multiple women slide their business cards into the pockets of my jacket.
Surely we’ve hit nine fucking minutes by now.
“It was nice to meet you all.” I try to disguise how dark my mood has become. “If you’ll excuse me—”
I slip through the crowd and toward the door, ignoring the protests and the disappointment fading out behind me. I discard the business cards into a trash can as I walk past it.
Todd appears. “Well done, Einstein. You made it to eight. I’ll allow it. Try to enjoy New Orleans, bro. You have tomorrow off.”
I give him a look. “Off?”
“We don’t head back to New York until Sunday afternoon. I’ll call you on Sunday morning.”
“I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
Todd grins. “You need a day off, Dallas. It’s healthy once in a while.
Put on a hat and some sunglasses and go listen to some live music.
Do your best to blend in. Have a beer. Chillax.
Even Einstein took breaks from the Theory of Relativity every now and then.
Did you know he slept ten hours a night? ”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. You look sort of wrecked, just saying.
And your brothers insisted on it. They’re worried your workaholic tendencies are getting out of hand.
Sleep, walk around, listen to some street music, whatever.
Anything but poring over numbers for at least twenty-four hours. Actually, make it thirty.”
For once, that sounds ridiculously good. I sigh heavily without meaning to. “Okay, boss. Have a good night. See you Sunday.”
The paparazzi cameras flash as I climb into the hideously obvious white stretch limo.
As we pull away from the curb and through the New Orleans streets, I roll the window down to feel the warm, humid air.
New Orleans has a flavor all its own. All the colors of gritty neon and the smells of decadence and decay feel like they’re tuning into something deeper. For the first time in a while—a long while—something stirs in me that isn’t laser focus, complete boredom or total exhaustion.
I don’t know where it’s coming from, but it almost feels like an unfamiliarly starry and hopeful sense of anticipation.