Numbers aren’t hard; people are. It’s no chore to see which way a market’s going, how much it’s faltering, if it’s taking a quick nap or crashing hard. When you realize what’s wrong and how much it’s going to cost, it’s not difficult to assess the damage and come up with a plan.

Back at U Penn, a buddy of mine called me Mr. Freeze. I thought it was for my admittedly fantastic Schwarzenegger impression, but it was on account of my cool head. Sang froid, as the French call it. No bullshit, as the late great William Munroe II used to call it. My dad. So now, William Munroe III is sitting in his Santa Monica office on the twelfth floor, looking out over the Pacific Ocean and the pier in the distance. You don’t get this far at thirty-two without some serious no bullshit sang froid. If all I had to do were study the numbers day in and day out, I’d never break a sweat.

But like I said, numbers aren’t hard. People are. And right now, I’m trying to talk down a terrified man who’s convinced himself, somehow, that Coca Cola is not a safe goddamn bet. In the market, I say people should bet absolutely on only three things: Coke, Apple, and me.

Right now, my client’s balking on two of the three, which annoys the shit out of me. But I keep a professional tone. It’s important.

“So, let me see if I understand,” Mr. Jackson says, making this the third time so far he’s repeated my own words back to me. “It’s a safe investment?”

“I would put my own daughter’s entire inheritance in the hands of Coca Cola,” I tell him, which is true. I glance at her picture on my desk, taken one year ago at a trip to the beach. She’s grinning up at me, one of her front teeth gone, a tiny mussel shell to her ear. She was convinced she could hear the ocean in that, even though I told her it was impossible. Just the picture brings a smile to my face and sets me back in the zone.

That’s one picture of approximately seventy sprawled all over my desk. I’m a proud papa.

Mr. Jackson breathes a nervous sigh of relief. I get the feeling this is a man who still takes “don’t step on a crack or you’ll break your mother’s back” like it’s gospel. Poor bastard.

“All right. If you say so, Will, we can stay with Coke.”

“Excellent decision,” I say. “In fact, I think we should buy more shares. The market’s down right now, which makes it a great time to dig in deeper.”

And wouldn’t you know it? I convince him. Mr. Jackson hangs up feeling great about the world, and I kick back in my ergonomic chair, feeling like a badass. That lasts approximately ten seconds until I get a call from Nicki at the front desk.

“Hey, Will. Sorry to bother, but your daughter’s school’s on the line?”

If you ever want to feel every muscle in your body tense, including your sphincter, first have a child, then send that child off to school, and finally have said school call you at work. I grab the phone and hit line two, my heart rate the best it’s been in ages.

“Hi. What’s wrong?” I admit it’s not the most tactful and restrained I’ve ever been, but can you fucking blame me?

The musical voice of Willow, assistant vice principal over at my daughter’s school, floats in over the line. “Oh Mr. Munroe, we don’t use the word wrong at Bay of Dreams.” Willow clucks her tongue; I’m pretty sure I can hear Sherpa bells in the background. Probably leading the kids in Tibetan chants again. “Wrong implies that children are somehow out of sync with the universe. We prefer the language of unconventional.”

“Okay, is my daughter unconventionally at the hospital? Sick?”

Willow sighs dreamily. I don’t think she does anything un-dreamily. “Not at all. Amelia has such a rare and raw individual energy. We would simply like to invite you to attend a cleansing process.”

I swear to god, if I could go back in time to the night when Suzonne and I made Amelia, I would do two things. First, I would finish making sweet love to my ex-wife, and then, after whispering in her ear that I loved her, I would tell her we are never sending any child of ours to school in Laurel Canyon. It would’ve made everything so much easier.

“Is this a parent council thing? Do you need help sweeping up or something? Because Suzonne usually handles the intimate school schedule thing.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You probably didn’t read the new vocabulary sheet we sent home with the children.” Willow laughs. “It makes these situations so much easier when you know the language. A cleansing process is like a parent teacher conference, only much more spiritually humbling.”

Shit. Amelia’s in trouble at school again. Rubbing my eyes, I lean back in my chair. Ergonomic. It feels so good.

“This’ll make it, what, the fourth time this quarter I’m in the office?” I ask. I try not to snap, because this woman’s just doing her job.

“Amelia is simply having a difficult time with energy transference to the group,” Willow soothes. “Once her chi becomes more in sync with the other children, these issues will smooth themselves over.”

You know, I don’t think I want a ten-year-old who blends in harmoniously with all the other children. I kind of like my precocious, energetic little angel the way she is. But Suzonne’s out of town this week—stupid silent yoga retreat workshop—and I promised I’d balance the parenting and the work seamlessly. I feel a twist in my gut at the thought. Amelia’s handled the separation better than could’ve been expected, but she’s still feeling unmoored. Hell, it’s probably why she’s acting up in school so much. And that’s my own damn fault.

So I’m going to be the parent Amelia needs, as well as deserves. I’m like Batman that way.

“Okay. Let’s talk,” I say, leaning forward. I’m going to be dad of the damn millennium.

“Wonderful,” Willow coos. I can practically see her, hanging upside down from a circus silk while making this call. “Would an hour work for you?”

For Amelia, I’m willing to get up and cancel the rest of my workday. I’m even rising to my feet to do it when Bert, my boss, leans into my doorway, a look on his face that says “remember that VIP meeting, Will? I know you didn’t forget. You are so fired if you forgot.”

Shit. I can’t. Wincing, I say, “Unfortunately, office hours aren’t going to permit that. But if there’s time later?”

“Of course. We can set up a time at your convenience.”

“Listen, I’ve got to run to a meeting. Give Amelia my love.” I sneak another quick look at the myriad pictures of my smiling little girl. The stockbroker’s heart grew three sizes that day. “We’ll talk soon. Er, namaste.”

“Mr. Munroe.” Willow’s voice gets a bit reprimand-y. “That’s cultural appropriation.”

Okay, but Sherpa bells aren’t? I exchange a quick pleasantry before finally hanging up on the call. Bert runs a hand across his bald, sweaty pate. Poor bastard’s lost just about all of his hair. He’ll tell you it’s too much testosterone, then he’ll also tell you his balls are too big for his underwear. I try to make sure we’re away from the ladies in the office before he lets that truth bomb slip.

“Japan,” he says as I slip into my jacket and head out the door. He walks with me toward the main conference room.

“Country. Asia. Good sushi, though you can get that anywhere in LA,” I say conversationally.

Bert groans. “Don’t play cute with me, asshole. I need to send my very best over there,” he says, huffing and puffing as we round a corner.

Right, the big international trip. The golden tour. Two solid weeks in Tokyo, with maybe a stopover in Kyoto. It’s the kind of trip every man and woman in this office salivates to get sent on, and Bert tossed it into my lap like a particularly juicy bone with a hunk of meat still hanging off of it.

But I’m trying to dance around it, because that’s two weeks away from Amelia. Two weeks away during a slightly contentious divorce process. I make enough money to support my daughter; it’s not about that. Suzonne’s been concerned that I’m away too much on business, either traveling or locked in my home office. She’s worried that I’m not going to be a steady figure in Amelia’s life.

The worst part is she’s got a point. I don’t want to be an absentee father like a lot of the divorced guys in my circle. You know the type. They get the kids every other weekend, take them out for ice cream and mini golf and video games, show them a good time for twenty-four to thirty-six hours, then pack them straight back to mom and stepdad to raise. Eventually, these men become a little pathetic in their own children’s eyes, like balding Willy Wonkas who live in a Glendale duplex.

I’m not going to be that kind of dad. Amelia’s going to have two parents raising her equally. I’d sell my left nut to make sure that happens.

Unfortunately, the two week trip to Japan isn’t the kind you can just tell your boss “No thanks, rather not.” So I do what any good, red-blooded stockbroker does and tap dance around the situation.

“Bert, you flatter me. I know I’m smarter, faster, and better looking than every other man or woman up for this job, but they have qualities that I lack.” I give him the easy-going, I’m-in-Sigma-Chi bullshit grin that I perfected in college. “Humility, for example. The Japanese love humility, and table manners.”

“Then learn to eat like a person and shut up about yourself once in a while. I need you over there.”

Shit, Bert’s not letting this go. He’s like Bruno on the trail today, humping that little dog. Or the little dog’s owner, that admittedly pretty hot redhead with the fast mouth.

Jesus, if that woman were my boss I wouldn’t mind staying late at the office… Except I would, because Amelia has to come first.

“Let me get back to you soon. I mean it. First, let’s blow these New York assholes out of the water,” I say, pulling back my shoulders as we hove into view of the conference room.

“These assholes are from Belgium,” Bert says conversationally.

Perfect. My admittedly flawless Schwarzenegger accent is about to come out of retirement.