The Sparrow's Path

Sunday

Bo's Diner serves omelets, waffles, pancakes, breakfast plates, fresh juices, bagels with accoutrements, and coffee from an in-house espresso bar. The establishment opened in 1974, seats 14 tables and 60 customers at max capacity, and asks customers to order at the front register before seating themselves and waiting to be served. The restaurant's namesake, Bo, was a semi-retired commercial real estate developer who enjoyed taking pictures with loyal patrons, photographs of which decorated the tables underneath the fiberglass tops. Julian was picking at a beef brisket and egg hash, accompanied by his friend and Chimera colleague, Zane.

"401(k)s and traditional IRAs are a total crock of shit," Zane opined, chomping on cut-up sausage patties in between sentences. "Roth's are the way to go. You see, with Roth IRAs you pay taxes on the contributions upfront but you get to withdraw from the account tax-free. Those other options have it backwards. Then when it's time to retire you get hit with a huge tax that eats up half your money. No thanks, man, no thanks."

Zane was a few years younger than Julian, but always asserted himself as the older and wiser half of the friendship. Zane had lots of guidance and directives to offer the world, and Julian had no problem absorbing them, if only to make sure the world didn't ignore them altogether. With a crew cut, trimmed beard, white, splotchy skin, and a steadily-expanding waistline to pair with his tall, barrel-chested frame, Zane was made to fold seamlessly into corporate America, and seemed to know it despite anyone telling him so. Two years ago, Zane was an intern at Chimera, inserting terms like 'synergy' and 'operational excellence' into everyday conversation as much as he could. It was likely that within six months, he would be promoted to assistant project manager, and technically, Julian's superior. And thus, it was vital for him to fully understand all the financial investment options which could ingest the large inflows of cash that would be imminently arriving in his paychecks.

"That's the thing about retirement accounts, any account really. Bunch of Wall Street bigwigs pushing them out to clueless busy-body workers, don't know better than to pour whatever money they got into investments they don't understand. Not gonna be me, man, not gonna be me. Hey Julian, whatcha looking at?"

Julian was staring at a red sparrow that had flown into Bo's and came to rest on a chair at an empty table across the room. The din of the customers' chatter, the clanging of plates and cutlery against one another, the jostling of waiters and waitresses gliding from in and out of the kitchen, none of these external distractions seemed to faze the sparrow as it perched on the seat of the chair, propped up with a sense of pomp and formality, as if it were no different than any other patron who entered the restaurant. Julian was drawn in by the sparrow's earnestness which was only slightly tempered by a tinge of perplexity as to why the tabletop was vaulted above its head and not better positioned to serve a diner of its stature. He was not, as Zane was beginning to surmise, paying attention to Zane's theses on the relative benefits of the Roth IRA.

"Julian, whatcha looking at?" Zane asked.

"Nothing. Thought I saw a guy I know."

"Where?" Zane, turned over his left shoulder and perused the general space where Julian had fixated.

"Doesn't matter. He just left." Julian replied.

"Do I know him?"

"Probably not."

"Who do you know that I don't?" Zane asked eagerly.

"Lots of people. Mostly college friends, other folks from my last job."

"How come you haven't introduced me?"

"Just different circles, man." said Julian. "They mostly like to hang out and smoke weed at house parties. Not the lady-killing socialite you are." Julian replied, lifting his eyebrows and flashing a smile, allaying any concerns Zane might have had about threats, real or perceived, to his social standing.