The daily digest of Twin Cities culture | Secrets of the City

Benjamin Blake is a freak. He is part of the new freshman class of Adelphus & Smyth Financial. He is also absolutely out of his mind. He likes to walk around his apartment with his dress socks over his hands, making his fists talk to each other. The left is always his supervisor TJ Anderson and the right is the sock version of himself—or Monster Ben, which is what he likes to call it. The hands bicker back and forth, always ending in an argument where Monster Ben seizes TJ Anderson’s neck in a death bite, punctuated by his left hand’s fading scream. Monster Ben holds TJ Anderson’s neck until pins and needles let him know it is time to stop.

Benjamin is an award-winning triathlete who has never been beaten in an amateur sprint triathlon. He likes to ride his speed bike around Lake Calhoun until the creases of his pelvis bleed. He likes to rub Vaseline between his toes, under his groin, and over his nipples before he goes for blistering fifteen-kilometer runs at two in the morning. He likes to swim the butterfly stroke at full speed, until rolling waves seep over the lane lines and swamp the lungs of lap swimmers. After exercising, he likes to stand naked in front of the mirror and call himself a stupid, fat motherfucker until he wants to beat his reflection into bloody glass. He lies awake in bed at night, fantasizing about college girls in tight pink leather tying him in a monkey knot, facedown on his Ikea dining table. They pound the muscles in his back with Wiffle bats and plastic hockey sticks until the chinks in his spine finally set. Each time they hit him, he gives in more and more, until he can no longer hold back from touching himself.

Benjamin remembers his first day at Adelphus & Smyth Financial. He had been on time, but the rest of the class showed up late—some in wrinkled business wear, some in business casual. TJ Anderson, their new supervisor, stood at the front of the room frowning. Every time a freshman straggled in, his frown deepened. The information Benjamin had read on TJ Anderson said that he was a third-year team lead, two steps away from junior partner and invincibility. TJ Anderson had climbed the corporate ladder quickly, and it showed, because when he cleared his throat the freshmen immediately quieted. Benjamin closed his mouth and breathed through his nose. The slender girls pressed their legs together.

“The alpha male is the leader of the wolves,” said TJ Anderson. “So, if you kill a deer, you go out of your way to bring me a bite. And not just any bite. You bring me the prime rib. You bring me the filet mignon.” He paused. “Ladies, ignore this next part… Guys, if you pick up some hot ass in a bar, you let me hit it first. Understood? You are my little insignificant omega bitches. You do what I want, when I want. Okay, ladies, you can listen now.”

He pointed to the door at the back of conference room 2B. Their heads followed his fingers. “That is the cat door back there. If you can’t handle this, feel free to walk out. Understand, though, no man or woman walks out the cat door—only pussies.”

When Benjamin laughed, TJ Anderson asked him, “And what is your name, tons-of-fun?”

Benjamin told him.

“That’s refreshing to hear you laugh, 7,” said TJ Anderson. “I’m glad to see such positivity. You know, it’s that type of attitude that moves employees ahead, laughing at alpha wolf’s jokes. But, you have to realize, 7, I wasn’t joking with you. I was being quite serious. If I were telling a joke, I would say that you would get out of here before midnight on Friday. Now that’s a joke.”

The List of Rules for incoming Adelphus & Smyth freshmen:

1. First-year employees of Adelphus & Smyth will make an annual salary of $65,000 and a silver-level benefit package. There are no set hours of work per week and first-year employees are not eligible for overtime or comprehensive return time.

2. First-year employees are required to pass the five parts of the Certified Public Accountant (CPA) examination by their third year of employment or face termination.

3. First-year employees must carry their Adelphus & Smyth cell phone at all times. At night, first-year employees must tuck their Adelphus & Smyth cell phone into the covers of their bed or sleeping area.

4. First-year employees will have three goals in life: pass the CPA examination, become an Adelphus & Smyth partner, and run a marathon in more than four hours but less than five hours.

5. First-year employees will spend their free time either: studying in groups or individually for the CPA examination, eating or consuming alcohol with other Adelphus & Smyth employees, fantasizing about becoming an Adelphus & Smyth partner, sleeping, pursuing a life partner, or running on a treadmill between speeds of four to six miles per hour.

6. If the first-year employee is male, he will consider the Dave Matthews Band his favorite musical group. If the first-year employee is female, she will consider Kelly Clarkson her favorite musical group. If the first-year employee is not of European descent, he or she will consider Ben Harper his or her favorite musical group. Other musical varieties may be appreciated as long as they are on the playlist of an Adelphus & Smyth-sponsored varietal station.

7. First-year employees will not exceed their physician-recommended body mass index.

8. First-year employees will not say the word “fuck” in any of its versions or tenses more than five times a day if they are male and five times a month if they are female.

9. First-year employees will wear nothing less expensive than a $400 suit (not including tie, shoes, and undershirt) if they are male, and a total outfit worth no less than $550 if they are female (the price of shoes, bras, and panties may be included, but all bras and panties must be purchased from a Victoria’s Secret lingerie store and must be generally acknowledged as at least “kind of sexy”).

10. First-year employees will submit to all senior members of Adelphus & Smyth without question.

“And in case you’re wondering,” said TJ Anderson. “That means me.”

During the third week of training, TJ Anderson asks Benjamin to bring him lunch from Subway, a turkey club with extra oil. Benjamin clutches the sandwich in both hands and imagines he is delivering a human heart wrapped in bread and white wax paper. When the lukewarm oil runs down the team lead’s chin, Benjamin pictures a collapsed ventricle and a burst of red fluid.

TJ Anderson wipes his mouth. “That fat fuck these guys have as a spokesman is a joke. They have him on TV 24-7, like he’s a national hero or something.”

“I didn’t notice,” says Benjamin.

“Motherfucker still eats Big Macs like we eat potato chips. By the bagful. Subway drops a fortune every year giving him lipo-suck and tummy tucks. I guess they don’t want to look like a bunch of assholes when he turns into a fat blimp again.”

Benjamin nods.

The team lead gives him a long stare. “There’s something wrong with you,” he says. “Usually I can look at a guy and see right past all his walls, but I can’t do that with you. Either you don’t have shit back there or you got one hell of a fortress.”

He takes a bite, chews. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m off my game today,” he says. “But you seem like a real hard kind of guy. That’s how I was when I first came here, tougher than the rest of these pussies. But you need to understand: All that stuff won’t save you. They’re going to break you down. We’re going to break you down. And you’re going to fight and kick, but when the smoke clears, you’ll be better for it. And I can promise you one thing: You’ll make one hell of an employee.”

Benjamin is silent.

“Well, you can leave now, 7, it’s not like you don’t have work to do.”

The weather turns cold. In December, Benjamin runs on the treadmill next to his desk mate, Joey Velvet. Benjamin’s machine is maxed out in speed and inclination. Joey plods along at five and a half miles per hour on a flat belt. Stains of sweat split Benjamin’s chest, armpits, and spine, and the neck of Joey’s T-shirt shows the beginning of dampness. “You’re going too fast,” Joey says. “It’s a waste of resources to work out so hard.”

Benjamin turns up his favorite rap-core MP3. Next to him, Joey’s mouth opens and closes, and his eyes narrow under designer glasses—the frames barely visible because of their fineness. Joey stabs at the ground with his slender index finger and shakes his head. He wants Benjamin to slow down.

Benjamin hits pause and the treadmill hisses and rights itself. He marches, dizzy, toward the restroom and sits on the toilet, dripping perspiration onto the tangle of boxers and shorts between his feet. He waits until he is sure Joey has left, then comes out and turns his treadmill back on as fast as it will go.

There have been times in his life when things have gotten in his way. During his senior year of high school, he turned his ankle on a root three-hundred yards from the finish line at the conference cross-country meet. Eight runners passed him while he clawed and punched the dirt, in too much pain to snap back up. By the time he hobbled to the finish line, not even the coach would go near his fire-red face and brown and green knuckles.

He had vomited, once, in the summer on the south end of the Lake Harriet trails. Rollerblading girls in bikini tops had turned their noses away from him, on all fours between the bike and foot trail, retching and discharging clear slime as if he had funneled poison. He had felt naked and weak, prostrated in the no man’s land between casual bikers and power walkers—people who do not know what it feels like to sprint until the vomit has to come up, people who think they are in pretty damn good shape when they flop face-down after a thirty-minute 5K. These people, in their spandex and unbroken New Balances, had looked away and jogged around, checking their pedometers and heart rates, careful not to step in the fluids his half-dead body had painted on the ground.

Death is familiar to Benjamin. It creeps around the edges of his workouts, showing its face during the last three or four minutes, reminding him it is there, watching him, waiting for his life to give out—waiting for the red line to burst and dirty smoke to trickle out of his eyes, mouth, and fingertips. He likes to know death is there, that he can outrun it, outmaneuver it, take himself to the brink where the air is scarce and his breath comes in low deep pulses—where he knows, without a doubt, that he is alive because the alternative is inches from his throat. Benjamin knows all about death.

He cannot remember the sight, but he remembers the sound. He remembers his little brother Eddie pitching him a Wiffle ball and the plastic grip of the bat as he swings hard, trying to hit it back into his brother’s face, but he keeps missing until Eddie pitches overhand, like a big league player, and Benjamin connects with the fat part of the bat.

At first the ball is a frozen rope toward Eddie’s face, but it veers off at the last second and bounces down the driveway. “Get it or I’ll pound you,” Benjamin warns.

He does not know if it is Eddie’s scream or their father screaming from the backyard or the scream of tires, but he remembers the air around him filling with noise like it had suddenly caught fire. He does not remember his brother’s body. Instead, he remembers the stillness of the stalled Bronco on the pavement, the strength of his father’s hairy, rough hands on his shoulders, and the taste of blood and grass beneath his face. He knows Eddie is dead. Everything after that point is blank, or, perhaps, blurry like a neighbor’s television through a rainy window. The scene unfolds in front of him again and again: His brother is gone, buried in a wooden box with dirt and roots wrapping around his bones, and Benjamin is alone.

According to the high importance email Benjamin reads from TJ Anderson, the first day of March at Adelphus & Smyth is reserved for employee motivation. The team is required to join TJ Anderson for a pep rally in conference room 2B. Benjamin clicks the mouse with his middle finger, deleting the message. He imagines stuffing TJ Anderson’s dead body into a thumbnail-sized recycling bin. He clicks the mouse again and erases the deleted email from existence.

Joey Velvet sticks his head into the cubicle and tells Benjamin to hurry up.

“Let’s just talk,” TJ Anderson says as the team files into conference room 2B. “No big deal, right?”

They take their seats. TJ Anderson stands in front of the focus desk with a loosened tie and pocketed hands. He smiles and nods to them; sits in a chair so they can see him at eye-level.

“You’ve all been watching that show American Idol, right?” he says. “That Simon is a real scream, isn’t he? You know, that faggotty looking teabag in the tight shirts. The one that says funny things like ‘You are simply the worst singer I have ever heard in my entire life.’ That guy is deadpan-hilarious.”

TJ Anderson laughs. He rises and looks around the room. In a British accent, he says, “4, being around you is fun, like being around cancer patients.” He laughs again. “13,” he says, “your financial summaries are about as articulate as a retard’s diary.”

He takes a lap around the room, patting each team member’s shoulder. “It’s OK,” he says. “I’m just fucking with you guys. That was me being Simon. Like from the show.”

He stops next to Benjamin. He sets his hand on Benjamin’s head. “Tell us, 7, what is it you like best about working here?”

Time passes. The snow melts. People quit. A female freshman is fired for insinuating sexual harassment. Benjamin fails the first level of the CPA exam. TJ Anderson is promoted to senior team lead, resulting in an increase of paycheck, but not responsibilities. Fred Herman takes a swing at Joey Velvet, receives a reprimand, and is fired. Benjamin wins the Twin Cities Amateur indoor triathlon, but fails the first level of the CPA exam a second time. A memo comes down from the CEO demanding a mandatory seventy-five-hour workweek through the busy financial months of April and May.

The administration begins their yearly investigation of freshman personal affairs. The head office delivers a referendum advising TJ Anderson to accuse Benjamin of focusing too much on athletic training and not enough on company relations and procedures. Benjamin writes a letter of resignation and signs it FUCK OFF in forty-eight-point font, but tears it up. Instead, he writes a letter of apology to the CEO for winning so many triathlons and promises to slow his pace and focus on the Adelphus & Smyth regulated goal of running a marathon between four and five hours.

Treadmill weeks come and go. Benjamin’s body refuses to keep anything down but yogurt and orange juice. He stands naked in front of his mirror and spits at the glass. “Stupid, skinny motherfucker,” he says. His reflection spits the words back at him.

All over, he is white and soft. The muscle tone in his once vein-covered arms has withered and his ribs stick out of his breastbone and sides. He runs his hands over his short hair, lean face, and vertical body. He wishes for the sinewy curves that used to define him, but they are not there. Only ghost white and ghost thin.

He balls his fist and thinks about putting it through the wall. Instead, he drops to the thick carpet and does push-ups until his arms collapse.

The Memorial Day sun warms the cool grass and white tents at the annual Adelphus & Smyth company picnic. Administration encourages employees to wear casual dress, but many show up in ties and khaki-colored slacks. Benjamin wears a sweatshirt and jeans. After grilled lamb chops and mimosas, Todd Duncan and Joey Velvet challenge him to a game of bocce ball.

TJ Anderson, drunk off plastic bottles of Bud Light, taps Benjamin’s shoulder. “I’ll be your partner, 7,” he says. “I’m an absolute god at this game.”

Benjamin nods and he and Joey line up across from Todd and TJ Anderson. Todd takes first throw and scores two points off the team lead. TJ Anderson takes a long drink from his beer and threatens to fire Todd on Monday.

Benjamin’s first three throws set his team to win three points. Across the field, TJ Anderson howls and says that Benjamin is his boy—that they are long-lost brothers from the same wolf blood—but then Joey lands his red ball right next to the marker, leaving Benjamin only one chance to save point. Dropping his plastic bottle of Bud Light, TJ Anderson yells, “Hey, 7, don’t fuck this up like you did the CPA exam. Velvet kicked your ass at that, just like he’s going to do now if you don’t step up your game.”

Benjamin grips the heavy smoothness of the bocce ball, cocks his arm, but pulls back, refiguring the shot.

“Jesus, 7, where’s your competitive edge?” yells TJ Anderson. “If we were brothers, I’d kill you so I could be an only child.”

Benjamin pivots to throw toward the mark. But his body has other plans. Monster Ben is in control, and, instead of an aimed try at the marker, he turns on his heel, a turn that is fluid and violent at the same time, and the air around him becomes loud like it’s on fire. Loud like an aircraft dropping concussion bombs all around them. He will not remember screaming at the top of his lungs, only that the green bocce ball in his hand doesn’t feel smooth at all. It feels bumpy and hot like a dimpled grenade with the pin pulled, and he has no other choice but to get rid of it as fast as he can. No other choice but to stuff it down TJ Anderson’s throat and watch his chest explode in smoky red dust.

But what would happen if Joey Velvet stepped in the way? Would Benjamin know the difference? Would he stop his hand? Would he release and make Joey Velvet, the bocce ball, and the wire glasses hit the ground at the same time? And if TJ Anderson laughed and sprinted over, would Benjamin let his team leader fold him down? Would he listen to TJ Anderson’s voice, almost proud, saying, “You did it, Blake. You got him right in the head. Man, I hope he lives.”

Would Benjamin know who the monster was then?