Magic IRL

Groundhog Minute

My eyes shoot open. 2:19 A.M. stares back at me in glowing green text.

I shift positions, intentionally obscuring my wristwatch. Three hours until the Barcelona presentation. I shouldn't be awake. It was already a late night of preparation. Any less sleep and I won't be on my game tomorrow. The entire account is at stake.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I try to will myself out of consciousness. No luck. I feel the familiar tinge of dread spreading through my limbs. "The drive for perfection," as my fellow investment bankers would say. The beginnings of a panic attack, more likely. What I wouldn't give for a few days—even a few minutes—of calm.

I open my eyes again. It wasn't always this way. I remember the orange leaves and the crisp fall air. Tucked away in a coffee shop a few blocks away from campus. Dreaming of writing academic papers and teaching monetary policy to fresh young minds. "That kid, Randall, he could change econometrics if he really put his mind to it," I overheard a professor say to a colleague one day. His name is lost to me now. But I still remember the smell of his office, like parchment and wet ink—odd for a modern office, but somehow fitting for his. And it wasn't all work. I had friends, I drank beer, I dated. It's a foreign concept now, the idea of a life outside of finance.

I try and fail to readjust into a comfortable position. I never saw myself here, even if deep down I knew it was inevitable. On an overnight flight above the Atlantic. Hurtling toward Spain to pitch one of the biggest companies in the world on behalf of the most prestigious bank in Manhattan. The pinnacle of my career. But also exhausted in a way only a financier could understand. Barely able to keep my eyes open but still wide awake at 2:19 A.M.

Resigned, I unbuckle by seatbelt and stand up. I inch my way to the bathroom through the crowded aircraft, turning sideways to squeeze by a flight attendant. I envy row after row of sleeping passenger, lulled into oblivion by the dim lighting and the dull hum of the engines. Lonely souls dot the cabin, backlit screens broadcasting their presence.

I squirm through the awkward entrance to the bathroom. The light flickers on automatically. I look worse than I feel. My eyes are bloodshot, framed by purplish bags. My face is sunken. I splash water on my face. It's ice cold, from the altitude I presume.

I glance down at my watch.

#

My eyes shoot open. 2:19 A.M. stares back at me in glowing green text.

I try to get up but can't. I panic—feeling trapped—until I realize it's just my seatbelt, still fastened.

I take a deep breath. I am OK, I remind myself.

The Barcelona presentation. I remember the instigating force behind my restlessness. I already long for worrying about feeling disoriented, that brief respite from my mind's singular stressor. I glance back down at my watch. 2:19 A.M.

I let my head drift back into my chair's headrest. I need to sleep. I try a trick that a colleague taught me my first year at Monaghan & Williams. I focus on relaxing my neck, then my chest, my arms, my fingers. I continue until I've consciously released every extremity in my body from the near-constant state of tension to which they have become accustomed. I feel my thoughts begin to slowly run together as fatigue begins to overtake me. Thank God I'll be prepared for—

The Barcelona presentation. The fatigue is gone. The tension floods back into my body. If only I could sleep.

I glance down at my watch.

#

My eyes shoot open. 2:19 A.M. stares back at me in glowing green text.

I swivel my head rapidly left then right. Everything is quiet. My fellow passengers are still asleep. The cabin is dim. The engines hum softly. I see a flight attendant making her way down the aisle, offering cups of water to the insomniacs.