The Dismalist (Rewrite)
Nathanial Mondecorde wiped his mouth with the linen napkin, taking great care to avoid soiling the University of Pennsylvania crest. It would be steam washed and cleaned, of course, made to look as good as new and pressed into service for countless other faculty club diners until it faded and wore thin enough to warrant replacement. Mondecorde doubted even the kitchen manager was counting, probably rolled a cartful of linen naps under a spotlight and determined that the off-white color was too far off, and that was that. It was nothing like the reserve, where all sums, great and small, had equal importance as the building blocks of economy.
He jotted “all sums = building blocks of economy” on the notepad in front of him, then tucked it away when he saw Jamieson approaching. Jamieson was the assistant to the President, and he didn’t need to know that Mondecorde was still tinkering with the address, even though Mondecorde and the President, and all of their peers among Wharton Business School alumni would know this was normal. Mondecorde always knew what to say, could deliver a graduation address with little or no preparation, because his professional life had always come down to explaining a fiscal philosophy he’d grasped in a flash at the London Stock Exchange a year after his own graduation, a philosophy which, once he articulated it, had won over his former professors and classmates.
Now, after almost twenty years of refinement, that philosophy was poised to influence one of the largest circles of them all. His own assistant had passed him a note a few minutes earlier confirming what everyone had believed would happen, that he had been shortlisted for the top job at the Federal Reserve Bank of New York. But first he felt obligated, and even eager to express that philosophy to the next generation of Wharton graduates. He remembered little of his own keynote speaker, a dour personality who repeatedly invoked the term “dismal science” for economics, and warned them that their chosen profession was akin to a monastic order. ‘Dismiss irrational hope that you can better the system,’ he had said. ‘People are a part of the system, and people will impose fantasies upon their projections, and never wake up no matter how many rude awakenings you give them.’
“There’s been a change.” Jamieson told him, and Mondecorde spotted perspiration on the assistant’s forehead. “The graduation committee is nearly all students this year, and the Dean never anticipated…” Jamieson sighed. “I’m sorry, sir, but please don’t be too angry. The keynote hasn’t changed, but they wanted Fraymond Luxe to speak, too. I never thought Luxe would agree.”
Mondecorde was vaguely aware of Luxe, but not nearly as aware of Luxe as Luxe was of him. If he had known more, he might have refused to share the packed 299 seat auditorium in Jon M. Huntsman Hall with a man whose main claim to fame was crocodile boots, wraparound shades, and titillating stories of affairs with marketers and advertisers. At the time, MBA candidates were drawn to his stories of seat-of-the-pants – and front-of-the-pants, and under-the-pants – business negotiation, written to prurient detail on his weblog Evoluxury. It was the antithesis of the Mondecorde-authored textbook Physics of Finance that was required reading for all incoming students, because it viewed business as a full contact sport with locker room talk and after parties.
His first genuine twinge of worry struck on the platform two hours later, when he looked up from his notes and spotted the man in lounge lizard attire toying with the triangle of rolled diplomas. Mondcorde suppressed his disgust and rose, introducing himself and extending his hand. Luxe peered at him for a moment and said nothing, narrowing his eyes as if he had left his prescription sunglasses at home. Then the younger man reached out and took the offered hand, and pulled its owner close, beyond the range of the microphones.
“Just you wait.”