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False Negative

Adam Brinckerhoff

    I was the best trader at the firm. Top ten market-wide. Yet, I had just spent the last four hours in my office completely unable to work. Instead, I anxiously stared at the plate-glass window in front of me, 31 floors high. Had it been manufactured properly? Installed correctly? What were the chances that it would shatter at any moment? And if it sucked me out, would I be scared or relieved?
    I had to get this fixed. Now.
    The next day, I went to see a psychiatrist that my coworker had recommended. Mostly because she was willing to bend the rules with the right amount of persuasion.
    “The standard treatment regimen for anxiety is a combination of medication and therapy,” she said blandly. “I’ll write you a prescription for a low dosage and a referral for a psychologist.”
    “With all due respect, I don’t have that kind of time.” I said, trying to be polite. “Isn’t there a drug that can just make this go away?”
    “Well, there is a new pill that’s still in the trial phase, but the manufacturer doesn’t need any more participants.”
    That was my opening. I typed a large number into my watch and instantly transferred it to her “research fund.”
    She saw the deposit on her screen and raised an eyebrow. “I’ll see what I can do.”
    The prescription was delivered the next day. It kicked in immediately, and I was able to work at full capacity again. Problem solved.
    A week later, I was tracking a volatile stock when I recognized its pattern. It was the standard buy low and sell high proposition, but it moved fast. You had to know exactly when to jump in and out, or it would cost you dearly.
    I bought a chunk of shares when it dipped and rode the wave up. When it hit a local peak, I clicked sell. Except I didn’t, because my hand didn’t move. Why couldn’t I press the damn button? I watched the stock free-fall and my stomach went with it...
    [BLACK]
    I woke up on my office floor with a coworker in my face and a bloody nose. My boss heard the commotion and told me to take the rest of the day off. Before I left, I checked my computer out of morbid curiosity. My little episode had cost the firm 1.2 million dollars. I was pissed, but also determined to earn it back ten-fold.
    On my way home, I called Naomi to tell her what happened. She was predictably worried and insisted that she meet me at my place. I told her that I was fine, and promised that I would call her back if I needed anything later. I actually preferred to be alone. I was just trying to be a good boyfriend.
    After an afternoon of forced boredom, my boss called to inform me that he was putting me on indefinite medical leave. Apparently one of the VPs caught wind of the incident, and was afraid of the optics. But it had only happened once. I thought they had my back, but clearly one single misstep and...
    [BLACK]
    I woke up in a daze at Naomi’s apartment. I didn’t remember driving there, which was odd. Before I could give it much thought, she told me that the night before I had come over unannounced and acted quite strange. She didn’t seem mad, just concerned. I apologized anyway, thanked her for letting me spend the night, and went home.
    As I walked into my penthouse, I was shocked to see that it had been ransacked. Weirdly, I was more annoyed than upset. After all, I had plenty of money to replace whatever had been stolen. I calmly reported the robbery to the cops, and then remembered that the theft would have been recorded by my security system. I checked the tape and saw...myself. I sheepishly rescinded the report.
    As I compared the video time stamp to my phone records, I realized that I went postal right after my boss called. I didn’t feel like dealing with the mess, so I decided to check into a nearby hotel instead. I couldn’t go back to work but I also couldn’t just turn off my brain. So I started writing a business plan for my own firm.
    I was off in my own world when Naomi called to check in. I excitedly told her about the new firm idea, but she sounded hesitant. As an afterthought, I mentioned what happened to my condo. She seemed spooked, but quickly bounced back and offered to meet me there to clean up.
    As we gathered the pieces of my old life, Naomi started to lecture me about my work-life balance. She annoyingly pointed out that my two blackouts occurred directly as a result of job stress. I didn’t think it was a big deal, especially since I had been so happy otherwise. I just had to minimize bad deals and office politics, which I would at the new firm. Instead, she insisted that I get out of trading altogether...
    [BLACK]
    I woke up to Naomi’s face, badly bruised and swollen.
    She stared directly into my eyes and said, “I’m glad you’re alive, but you hit me and we’re done.” And then she left.

***

    “What the hell did you give me?” I asked the psychiatrist angrily.
    “I told you it was experimental,” she said, devoid of empathy. “Besides, the paperwork clearly stated that it was a single-blinded study. You’ve actually been taking a placebo. It seems like your brain used it as an excuse to dissociate your negative feelings from your memory. Then it did as it pleased without...inhibition.”
    “So what do I do now? My life is ruined.”
    “I respectfully disagree. Sure, your relationship is over and your job probably is too. But there’s a lot more to life than just those things.”
    “But my job is my life,” I muttered.
    “Then I think you need to find a new job.”.

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