The Banker Boy

In September 1997 I got a job as a receptionist in Boston at an advertising firm.

I had leather pants that I wore to work. I felt like I was the shit and that the world was FINALLY slowly unfurling for me. That I was on the road to prosperity.

There was a young man of my age that was our banker.

We took to having long free flowing conversations and bullshit sessions on the phone.

We would talk for hours it seemed.

For weeks and months this went on.

He was a total Boston bro. I could picture him in a tracksuit riding the Redline on the weekend.

He was also from Dot, not far from my grandmother’s home — that my youngest uncle had inherited.

The Boston Banker Bro was closer to the good section so my dirtyDot credentials and my last name gave me a bit of shine that he was intrigued with.

He was funny as hell and had a great voice. We talked almost every day for six months.

Talked about everything: Boston, Ireland, politics, books, college loans, music, business, travel.

He was book smart and street smart and mostly very gentlemanly.

The conversations got more flirtatious. sentimental, sweet.

Finally we sent each other faxes of our palms via photocopy machine printouts.

I liked the lines on his hand. They were manly hands — but small. My hands are tiny, but I…