Katz Against Pavlov: A Novel About Walking Part 1: Katz Wakes Up

KATZ AGAINST PAVLOV

A Novel About Walking

By: Stefanie August

Luna Publishing, Inc.

All Rights Reserved

Original ©2016

Smashwords Edition 2018

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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PART 1:

KATZ WAKES UP

Charles Darwin Katz was not having a good day. In fact, he was not having a good life, at least not the one he had lived up until six months ago. The top seller at a boutique investment firm on Wall Street; one Lincoln-Lester Wealth Management, Charles was engaged to the boss’s daughter, the sole heiress to the throne of Lincoln-Lester, and poised to become a partner, having worked his way up from coffee boy in a two-bit brokerage house for low end investors, to being one of the most highly respected asset managers on the Street for over 20 some odd years.

After repaying all of his training fees to the hustlers who had paid for his licensing, taught him how to pitch, sell, close, and then sat back and reaped the rewards of Charles’s hard labor by demanding 75% of his client book or cash up front to leave their establishment for higher ground; after years of dealing with the ups, downs, highs, lows, and everything in between of that which is known as The Market; after learning that he was going to be made partner of Lincoln-Lester as a wedding gift upon marriage to the company’s heiress, Charlotte Denise Lester, only daughter to Oliver Old Man Lester, whom Charles had graciously bested in a squash match at the NYC Racquet club 10 years prior; after being taken into the fold by the Old Man because he liked Charles’s ambition and the fact that Charles had listened to Oliver pontificate about his market trials and tribulations over copious martini’s at Harry’s Bar; after Charles had risen from scraping broker to being one of the top wealth management advisers on the Street with a portfolio of close to $900 million that he managed for his select clients; after having nearly a third of that amount in personal assets that he had meticulously invested; after all of this: Charles Darwin Katz was miserable.

Charles woke up on a dreary day in November to a cold New York drizzle. He was groggy, his head ached, and his ears rung. Tossing and turning all night, he had dreamed that the NYSE bell was ringing over and over again, as if he were stuck in a perpetual Groundhog Day movie. Opening his eyes against the gray morning light peering in through the slats of the electronic window shades, he stared up at the ceiling of his well-appointed bedroom trying to make sense of his dream. In the dream Charles had heard the NYSE bell ring, then had jumped out of bed realizing that he was going to be late for something – but late for what – he can’t figure it out. In the dream he feels anxious and as the dream had progresses his anxiety grows.

He had opened his closet to pick out a suit, only to find a knapsack and a pair of hiking boots inside its cavernous depths. What had happened to all of his single breasted hand tailored bespoke suits and white shirts bearing his initials on the cuffs? Where were the 50 or so vintage silk ties in bright colors and patterns to go against the muted tweeds and dark pinstripes of his wardrobe that he had collected and worn as his personal statement pieces to show that he was man of success and talent; a taste maker and no dilettante to fashion – someone who exuded confidence and a flair for the creative – equally evident in how he cultivated his clients to how he invested their money. Where were his clothes that represented years of slaving away on Wall Street so he could retire at age 50 and do absolutely nothing?!

In the dream Charles searches his penthouse which is decorated by his soon to be wife, thinking that she had hidden his clothing as a joke. He calls Charlotte on his cell phone only to learn that that she not done anything to his wardrobe. He senses that he has been robbed – but of what? He becomes confused and angry – who had robbed him and why? Rummaging through the apartment, opening closets and dresser drawers, he goes back into his bedroom and stands in front of the closet peering at its strange new contents. Suddenly Charles realizes that perhaps his entire wardrobe gone missing is not important. A giddiness comes over him – the type of feeling one gets when they are about to lose control and shout out loud just for the hell of it. He holds up the hiking boots, noticing they are old and tattered with mismatched laces and a large hole in the right toe.

Feeling giddier, he dons the hiking boots, puts the knapsack on his back over his flannel pajamas flannel pajamas and leaves his apartment without locking the door. Walking to the elevator he watches it rise from the lobby 21 stories above the South Street Seaport. Suddenly he feels the strongest sensation to run. Turning away from the elevator, Charles runs down the hallway to the fire-exit, down 21 flights of concrete stairs counting the flights as he runs; out into the alley between the buildings that surround his ivory tower, out into the street toward the Holland Tunnel, up Broadway through the crowded streets of the stock market with business in full flourish; with people dressed to the nines scurrying like mice from one building to the next, while cabs and cars and buses jostle for movement in the packed streets of lower Manhattan.

Charles continues running down the middle of Broadway straight through the throng of people and traffic. As he runs he hears the bell from the NYSE ringing louder and louder. Each toll drives him to run faster; farther away from his future wife, farther away from his pending partnership and life of hard won acquisitions, farther away from his office, his health club, his wealthy clients, and the work that he has been mired to. Running until he can barely breathe, he senses that he must get through the Holland Tunnel before the bell stops ringing, otherwise he will be trapped.

In the dream Charles continues to run as if his very life depends on it - through the tunnel - jumping over cars and cabs, as horns honk and drivers open their windows to curse at him. Running until he is on the New Jersey side of the tunnel, with sweat covering his body, dripping from his face, his flannel pajamas soaked through, the knapsack a dead weight on his back; his bare big toe poking through the hole in the hiking boot. He slows to a trot, then a pace, then a walk, finally collapsing by the side of the highway to lie on his side in the grass attempting to catch his breath. Removing the knapsack Charles rolls onto his back. Still on the ground staring up at the cool blue mid-fall east coast sky, the bell in his head is silent. Unable to contain himself, Charles lets out a whoop of joy, then lies back on the grass smiling, realizing that he is free.

Skidding up Broadway to get to his 8:00 am. meeting, Charles Darwin Katz slipped along the sidewalk on his way to his office in the frosty November rain; his Burberry umbrella gripped tightly in one hand, his hand-tooled leather brief case in the other. He’s scheduled to meet a new client, one of the top industrialists in the Emirates, an uber-wealthy Arab with billions in real estate and commodities all over the world. Oliver Holmes Lester, current sole proprietor of Lincoln-Lester and also known as the Old Man due to his expertise in catching whales, a term used to describe those wealthy enough to exude millions if not billions, had been beside himself with joy when Prince Samir al Mushadi (better known as Sam to his friends and close acquaintances, and Your Excellency to all others), had been table companions at a luncheon during a conference on foreign investment in Dubai. The Old Man had listened attentively to the Prince complain that he could not locate a suitable firm to manage his copious American holdings, and had swiftly presented the Prince with his gold embossed card before any of the other 11 bankers at the table realized what was happening; watching the Prince’s face light up as he read it; exclaiming it to be the will of Allah that they had met, and that Lincoln-Lester Wealth Management was to be his exclusive American investment firm.

The Old Man called this his Baker's Dozen coup – 13 at the table including himself, the Prince, and those 11 other (highly miffed) bankers - had brought him what he was certain would be Lincoln-Lester's most prestigious and wealthy whopper to date. Prince Samir had also explained that he was an avid student of Civil War history and was thrilled that the company bore the name of one of America’s great President’s; at least in the Prince's estimation. Oliver had explained to the Prince that his partner Earnest A. Lincoln (a joke bestowed on his long-time partner’s parents; immigrants from Estonia who had worked their way out of the slums of the lower East Side to open a butcher shop in New York after years of slaving in the meat packing district), was now deceased, having succumbed to a massive coronary one week prior to his retirement. The company had retained Earnest A.’s name in his honor, explaining