19 Paintball With the Indians
“Don’t roll your eyes at me! If you have a problem with what I’m saying, say it.”
The Chief Legal is livid.
I’d been daydreaming and leap back into the present. Unfortunately, I am oblivious to the context. Real-time was a project I understood: take advantage of the speed of light to eliminate batch processing. The Risk No More project has left me cold. The idea is obvious: identify risk, turn it into a financial product and offload it to a chump.
Although our tools are space-age there’s nothing new about this idea.
The problem is that risk isn’t something that can be chopped up into infinite, and therefore immeasurable, bits. That’s Zeno’s paradox expressed as an insurance policy. Logic can’t abolish risk. Risk is like air in a balloon. You can squeeze it around so that it is redistributed but it doesn’t go away. And most importantly, risk is always correlated with other risk. Its not one molecule of air in a balloon. Its a bazillion molecules moving around as you squeeze.
If the Legal Risk Management and Quality teams had an idea that would make money, it would have to have some form of financial parameters, at very least the Trade Blotter 50. If RBG didn’t do that then what was it? And if it did, why hadn’t the financial product been created in the Financial Entity Master app (FEM). Lance can launch those kinds of projects in a day.
The Quality angle was the creepiest part. I was here as a representative of Shiva’s Quality initiative not because of Legal Risk Management The plan – in so far as I could determine – was to create a financial chop-shop for mortgage backed securities. Reduce risk by bundling it up into slivers of “uncorrelated” markets. Why was the Quality Team even involved at this level? For the same reason it was involved in the Corporate Advisory Intranet. Control.
I hated the transformation. It was Stalinist. Quality were political commissars. They didn’t help with anything and they were absolutely incapable of providing a counterweight to the madness of RBG.
“Yes. Tell us all why you rolled your eyes, Patrick.” Shiva lashes out.
“I don’t know. I didn’t know I did.”
All true. Worse than true. What probably happened is that I lost control of my right eye. I’m mostly blind in that eye and in situations where I’m focusing my vision my left eye will completely take over and my right eye will wander. That’s probably what happened.
But there is no point in self-defense. These situations don’t work that way. You don’t protract scenes with senior management. Being right just means you lose a little less.
The meeting returns to Borealis, the sub-prime firm we just bought in in Colorado. The Quality team’s job is to determine if we can turn the subprime mortgages Borealis books into a product we cab seek in less than one business day, reducing our risk on the transaction to nearly zero.
The whole process sickens me. My only prior experience to this business was a gig I had with a major Canadian bank. It was every bit as avaricious as Cousins, but it viewed mortgages as a cash cow, a long term business worth investing in. Cousins was an investment bank and didn’t know shit about retail banking. This chop shop approach is a disaster.
I guess I’m kvetching because I do know. The goal of SE isn’t about products, its about risk.
Ashulm catches up with me afterward.
“You really dropped the ball with [Chief Legal Officer].”
“I’ve right eye is very weak. When I concentrate it wanders.”
“Oh. Whatever. I’m taking you off of RBG. You’re better at operations any way. Its obvious your heart isn’t in the project.”
“The Borealis plan is crazy. We know nothing about retail banking.”
“Withers doesn’t think so.”
“Chopping up risk into little bits doesn’t make it go away. You know that.”
Its the most insubordinate I’ve ever been.
“Listen Coffey, you have a point but it doesn’t matter. My job is to implement whatever marching orders Withers gives me.”
“Whose replacing me?”
“Opia.”
“What about her work in Transaction Management.”
“You’re taking it over.”
“I’m already working 60 hours a week.”
“Satya and Sudhakar will help you from Mumbai.”
“They’re based in Mumbai.”
“You’ll meet them next month.”
“At the Paintball game.”
“How do you know about that?”
o
Ashulm introduces me to Satya and Sudhakar, along with Vikram. The Indians are subcontractors.
To my surprise there is an additional Cousins employee in the room, Sally, a bluff, athletic woman with an MBA from Boston College. She is responsible for offshoring telephone support; my job is to offshore transactions. We have the honor of leading the Mumbai initiative.
The meeting is brief – for purposes of introduction alone. Once these are done I take Satkya and Sudhakar to the Fishbowl to meet the team. Sally remains behind to chat with the bosses.
Although both lithe and earnest, the two Ss are otherwise quite different. Satya is dressed in surfing executive’s notion of business casual – a bright red polo shirt, khaki colored shorts and leather sandals. He is clean shaven, and has a cherubic face, which makes him look like a teenager. Sudhakar is a decade older and much uglier. His skin is pock-marked and there is a small scar on his forehead about his left eye. He is wearing a suit that is properly tailored at the shoulders and hips but nevertheless hangs limply on his gangly frame. His limbs are gangly and his feet point inward.
Business-wise Sudhakar is the more formidable of the two. He went to IISc and has a reputation for being able to multiply six digit numbers together in his head.
I’ve read their resumes but proceed as if I just met them and am ignorant.
I begin with Satya, “So you went to school in New Delhi. What did you study?”
“Computer engineering.”
“Any finance”
“No.”
“When did you graduate?”
“I finished the coursework in August, but the graduation was last week.”
“And you’re from Karnataka?”
“I went to school there. I’m from Mumbai. Where are you from?”
“Toronto.”
“I have cousins who live in Willowdale. Near the Peanut Plaza.”
“That’s where I used to play hockey.”
“My nephew plays left wing for the Chargers.”
As did I. Its a strange coincidence and I can’t figure out what to do with it. Sadly, this encounter is more-or-less a cage match. It is unlikely that Sudhakar and myself will both emerge from this project with a job.
“I just Maximum City and really want to visit Mumbai.”
Satya looks on blankly. Sudhakar’s laugh is a snort. I’m not clear whether it is a dismissive laugh. It could be. Perhaps I should have leaned into House League hockey instead of pop culture. Sudhakar says, “You will get a chance to visit. That’s what Ashulm told me. When you do, I’ll show you the best places. At least some of them. Maximum City.” He gives me a fist bump, so the book reference did work
Despite my little cross-cultural victory, Sudhakar’s words remind me that I have a complete lack of agency in the off shoring project. Instead of treating Sudhakar as an adversary perhaps I should treat him as an ally. He is doubtless in a similar situation.
[to do – add Sudhakar’s escape to the Paintball story at the beginning]
[Add the trip to India to the end of the story.
(Protected) Your Bonus is a Stock Tip / Lateral Demotion
At work I discover on the printer a Reorganization memo and an org chart detailing how I my position has changed. It’s a lateral demotion. I’ve lost my entire American team, though I have scheduled to pick up a team in India, once they’ve been hired.
[I’m really pissed. I can’t believe that I’ve been demoted by memo.]
I’m not certain it’s a demotion. But I am certain that I will get axed the second they find an Indian manager to replace me.
My mood cannot decide whether to darken or revel when I discover that half of Transaction Management just got fired by a personalized robo-call.
…
“Patrick, nice to see you. Did you enjoy your trip?” Ashulm asks. I haven’t talked to Ashulm in a while.
“You weren’t on the Global Heads call today?”
“I wasn’t invited.”
“Let’s talk, in my office.”
The door closes and my stomach falls.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you about your promotion in person. We just let go 15% of Operations. You can understand that we had to be discrete.” His mouth stretches slightly into a grimace. [The Ashulm trope should be about economy of motion]
[“Are you having problems with your business users?”
Boom.
“Aside from the fact that Shiva doesn’t invite me to her meetings? No.”
“She is the global head.”
“And I’m nobody. I’m too junior to be invited to her Vice President’s Only Party. I really need a promotion.”]
…
[
Or digest rocks. That bitch. I’m just screwed. She has successfully frozen me out of the process.
“Do you want out?”
I can’t lie to him. He’s always been up front with me. He’s a good man.
“Yes.” Ashulm frowns. Admitting this may have been a HUGE mistake. He frowns more deeply. I’ve just screwed up big-time. Fuck. I try to care but am too exhausted.
]
“There aren’t too many lateral moves that you can make right now.”
“Should I quit?”
“I’d rather you didn’t, yet.”
“I don’t see any incentives here.”
“Do you like to travel? I know you do. Cousins is moving our over-night help desk to Mumbai. You can check on the Operations side of things. ”
[Tell Lehman stories about the Elephant and projectile vomiting]
Time to meet Rajesh.
…
Rajesh.
The collarless shirt is certainly a violation of the dress code. I can point you to the coda and line; I know it well because I love Nehru jackets and collarless shirts and have been chastised about wearing them. His bare feet violate something a little bit bigger than a Cousins Inc. Human Resources Memo. Peace Sign Lance – who is wearing a Woodstock commemoration t-shirt emblazoned with a dove’s footprint – suggests that this situation is what you’d expect if Edward Said and Tom Stoppard co-wrote a play. Achilles retorts that Lance is one to talk given that his life is a conflation of a Joni Mitchell song, an Edward Albee play and a Rube Goldberg sculpture.
I file these jokes for later and focus, once again, on whether to laugh or despair at shoeless Raj. The former impulse wins and I’ll show you why.
“Hi R. Its nice to meet you. I understand that you are the lead of the team that’s replacing my team.”
“Yeah.”
I’m not certain how to respond. Is he trying to sound American? If so does he know that he sounds like he just blew me off? I recognize this as one of life’s minefields; when you enter one you should do as I do and stop moving. Each step requires a plan.
[
We finish the fake Tatar Information Corp’s jingle together, “if Timur Lenk did your IT, but better.” I’m not certain I know why Rajesh finds this funny, but I do and it makes me glad he does. Best of all it breaks the ice. Not the ice between him and me. I’ve decided I don’t give a shit about him, as a person. He’s just a corporate decision, so I will be as neutral as I can be – or positive – in all of my interactions with him.
]
o
The e-vite comes from evillama@cousins.com. The evil lama in question is Edwardo Villamarga, a manager in Desktop Engineering. Although Opia has been organizing the event (and has been uncharacteristically insufferable about it) the mechanics of organizing are handled by the evil lama himself (Lama to his friends).
To: Desktop Engineering, Software Engineering, Commodities Technology, Derivatives Technology and Futures Technology
Subject: Paintball this Saturday
Be there and be square!
The event is held in a deep, dark corner of Jersey City
[, which – once the noose of highways surrounding Manhattan is traversed – proves to be a beautiful. And rich. We pass towns like Maplewood and Summit that are larger than Canada’s richest neighborhood, Rosedale, and have nicer houses. We take a pit stop at the Short Hills Mall, in the lot of which are parked 500 of the nicest cars I’ve ever seen. This is a great revelation to me that explains so much of America – surrounding every city in the country, including the most decrepit, like Detroit, are these swaths of rich, white suburbs.]
We have already been divided into 4 teams. 2 teams are American: the engineers form one team, the business support groups the other. The two Indian teams are a mirror, one is the Transaction Management Team, the other is the Fixed Income telephone support team.
The players are of an incredible variety ranging from rabbinical to jock to street smart, to trust fund fashionista, though culture and branding aside we are all nerds. Our team is anchored by an orthodox Jew Raz who is scholarly and tremendous at evaluating logical expressions; a reform Jew Saul who is more or less the Tribe’s answer to Lance, who though heavy set has great aim. A serious Mohammad from Malaysia and dashing Aziz from Morocco via Paris and Rome, and no doubt some mojo finishing school in between. That team was rounded out by Peace Sign Lance, who has taken take out fr\om fixing a bug with Real Time (doubtless using ad hoc tools like bubble-gum, hair-pins and a Game Boy).
Lynna, Opia and a athletic Puerto Rican woman named Deanna, protects our right flank; our left flank is protected by three Cobol programmers, Alla, Marta and Ayesha.
[Deanne, Opia and Lynn: they were the best of the next generation, who, with their ability and beauty and glowing health were proof positive of evolution or at least progress. Somewhat disquieting if you represent the model that has been improved upon. ]
[My team featured two smart, confident Russian American women Alla and Anna (in my mind I completed the sequence and wondered where Appa was). New Jersey was well represented by Scott, a beefy, neckless man with linebacker, and the evil lama himself, Edwardo ‘Evil Lama’ Villamurga, who is small, lank, and economical with his movements.]
We are all somewhat surprised by how much our Indian opponents meet us on our own terms. Some attempts work better than others. For example Rajababu’s Yankee’s uniform is generally regarded as over the top, though Team Mumbai finds it hilarious (as do I). Nagaraj’s fatigues, in contrast, have the same street cred as Lances’ (and look better on his slim physique). Sachin’s custom gun – modelled on the utilitarian simplicity of a Kalishnikov – elicits high praise from the gun enthusiasts who are present.
[But the clothes competition, or perhaps I should say cultural affinity, runs deeper, for from their pedantic manner to their unstylish clothes, weird physiques and odd shoes the Indian consultants are every bit as present and into the game as we are. They look like us, and like us they are here to play and to win.]
Sudhakar has disappeared.
Vikram sidles over to me. Initially I ignore him, because he views me as below his pay grade. He is famous for only talking to Ashulm in team meetings, for example, making for awkward third person discussions.
“Hey bro.”
“You talking to me?” The Robert de Niro reference is a dig, although to be fair Vikram comes by his street talk honestly: he grew up in Garden City and speaks an unlikely blend of Long Island and Mumbai accents.
“Yes. Yes.” He is now standing a little too close to me. He asks, “Have you seen Sudhakar?”
“I dunno.” Of course I know. Everyone knows. Sudhakar has landed a job in San Francisco doing Machine Learning for a tech giant. Vikram doesn’t have a hope in heck of bringing him back for Operation Chop Shop.
My lie is a pivotal moment. Until offshoring began, I’ve always been on team Capitalism. I’d never feared unemployment. Indeed, eliminating my job has been part of my job description for almost every assignment I’ve ever had and its never exactly worked. Every time my job has been transformed, not eliminated. This time is different. My job is leaving the country.
“Hey Vikram, why don’t you hire me? You know I can do Sudhakar’s job. After all, it is my job.”
“Hah!” Vikram laughs despite himself, realizes the response is inappropriate, and says, “If you learn anything let me know.”
This time I laugh despite myself.
[Schadenfreude is like Ska’s Moment of Peace, but for cynics.]
The defections from the Mumbai side leaves the teams unbalanced. Ayesha volunteers to switch sides. From the cage-match angle it makes sense. She’s from Mumbai and went to school with half of the Mumbai team. Nevertheless, how she defects surprises me: her departure is greeted with fist bumps and winks from the girls on both teams while the boys are uniformly indifferent, not viewing the rebalancing as of any importance.
On a positive note, I’m pleased to note that even though she’s a Muslim woman, her religion doesn’t seem to be an issue to the otherwise Hindu team. She is particularly friendly with Pooja, who is leader of the crew now that Sudhakar has skedaddled to California. Pooja also went to IISc in Bengalaru; she too has a reputation for outrageous feats of mathematics and logic.
Looking at the Mumbai team I wonder if it is more or less diverse than ours. I’ve identified players from eight different states and the four major castes. The overall look, however, is quite uniform. The boys all more or less look like Omar Sharif, with jet black hair and mustaches while the girls all have long jet black hair, are slender, fine featured and fashionably dressed. From a sociological perspective, the biggest division is boys versus girls. The Mumbai boys, like their NY equivalents, are concentrating their strength in the center. The four Mumbai girls cluster together on their right flank; they face Alla, Marta and Sally.
The third team is NJ based production support. The Evil Lama, Eduardo Villamarga, has assigned himself the role of quarterback, which is uncontentious, because he is both the day-time boss of the entire team and the most experienced paintball player on the field. The NJ boys – the team is all male – take on the name Eagles, which is a reflection of how the teams’ core grew up in the Princeton area and (in)famously support Philadelphia sports teams. The team is equally divided between East Asian, Jewish, Spanish and Eastern European. Despite the diversity, this team is the most homogenous. The team is mostly second generation and very acculturated – they’re all gamers and have hobbies like running electronic bulletin board services.
My team – NY Transaction Management – is the Tigers. The name was assigned to us when we were late replying to Opia’s inquiry email. Mumbai are the Chargers.
The Tigers boys chose Lance as QB, the girls Sally. The choice of Lance may appear contentious. He is after all the least fit member of our team. However, he is also universally acknowledged as the most technical person present and is the only one on our team who knows the rules. Sally, who famously got into Harvard because she was a particularly vicious striker, is the natural leader of the girl squad not because she’s the most senior but because she is by far the most athletic.
On the level of rules, the game is simple. Three teams try to capture each others flags. We’ve chosen slack rules, so it takes three hits by a paintball for players to be eliminated. The assumption is that we’re all nerds who for the most part are klutz’s. We want to keep the rules slack so the game doesn’t end too soon.
In our huddle Lance informs us that the human level of the game is the most important.
“Sure we want to capture our opponents flags, but this game is about bragging rights. They way you really win is by doing something we can talk about later over beers: an ambush, an acrobatic dodge or a great shot.”
Its a great point that really hits home. Most of us don’t give a damn about winning. Lance’s perceptive speech has truly motivated me. The realization is a trigger. I pride myself on being the good communicator. That’s my one unique skill that will stop me from getting laid off when Sudhakar gets replaced. But Lance is just as good a communicator as me and knows more about every single technical issue than I do. Cousins doesn’t need me. I am completely expendable. This trigger throws me into a competitive head space. The echoes of House League hockey in Peanut Plaza amplify my emotions. The only person on the Tigers whose is fitter than me is Sally. I’m going to contribute to this team.
The team flags, which are placed at corners of an octagonal field surrounded by sculpted hillocks and valleys, into which shrubs have been used to create a maze of paths; it is not that large, but is full of hiding places. A shallow man-made water channel trisects the space into the three teams’ home territories
o
The Eagle’s huddle is more sinister. Eduardo begins, “Did you hear the story of Rajababu, that guy in the Yankees uniform?”
“Nice uniform”
“It must have cost a lot of money.”
The Evil Lama continues, “He took Davidson’s job. And you know what? Davidson’s wife was expecting.”
“She just gave birth. A girl. I’ll forward the pictures.”
“He’s still looking for work.”
“See the scrawny little shit on the end? The one with the shiny blue shorts.”
“Satya.”
“He’s taking Coffey’s job.”
“I didn’t hear that.”
“You will once they find a replacement for Sudhakar.”
“The dude who went AWOL? Too funny, eh?”
“What about the Tigers?”
“We’ll take care of them after the Indians. But we plan before we do. Lance is fucking smart and Sally is …”
“A hellion.”
“Watch the language. Let’s just say you want her on your side in beer pong.”
o
[Lance smiles and tells us he has a surprise. Looking like an arms dealer from ‘Toon Town he opens two attaché cases made of brightly colored plastic and withdraws an assortment of weird guns, from Buck Rogers lazers to Six Shooters, which he solemnly hands to his team mates with brief instructions about each toy’s features.]
The countdown whistle blows twice. 2 minutes until the game starts.
The squads take their positions.
Sally’s plan is to cover the flanks and ambush, a kind of offensive defense. The girls take cover in bushes on the left and right wings. Alla, Marta and Sally face the Chargers; Opia and Lynn the Eagles.
The boys’ strategy is based on last Sunday’s game between the Bears and the Packers: make slow and steady progress with a ground game, but score points through the air. No one is overwhelmed by the plan but we all know it, and agree that it could work. Lance takes a forward position, which surprises our opponents. The plan is for him to stay there and give orders. While our second and third ranks take turns advancing. I’m in the second rank. The plan is to rush forward to take a hill that commands the Indian center. If the Indians have the same plan it’ll be a disaster for us. Our gamble is that they will be expecting to be attacked from two sides, so will be playing defense.
The game begins with all of us gathered in the middle. A real gun, shooting a blank is used to start the game. My instinct to take cover, but it is shrugged off by my peers.
The girls huddle and decide on a separate plan. Signals between Lance and Lynn suggest a degree of coordination I didn’t participate in. I’m not surprised, I’ve been frozen out of communication. between their teams ever since 9/11.
As I crouch, ready to rush forward, I recall my moment of greatest hockey glory: a hat trick I scored when I was 9 years old, which led the Tigers to a victory over our arch rivals the Chargers. The event loomed large in my life for a day and I haven’t thought about it since. But now, in the trenches before battle, it returns. Normally I’d laugh at the recollection but right now, with the psychological pressure of playing a cage match against a team that is almost certainly going to take my job, and I clutch on to the memory of the hat trick as a signal memory.
I race forward to the mound we’ve named Hamburger hill. I reach it unopposed. Troy puffs up beside me a few minutes later. From our position we have a commanding view of the Indian territory.
As expected, the Eagles are concentrating their attack on the Chargers, but to my surprise the Chargers are playing offense – aggressive, just like their namesakes in the Peanut Plaza House League. Both Manuel and Mamadou – the Desktop Engineering team – are already out. That must have been one heck of an ambush.
By concentrating against the Eagles, the Chargers have exposed their flank.
There is a flurry of motion. Rajababu is caught in enfilade fire. Six hits.
The Eagles are keeping the pressure on. Like hyenas hunting water buffalo, Eddie’s team has separated Satya from the pack and are going in for the kill. He’s running directly toward Hamburger Hill. Troy and I lay low. Satya doesn’t know we’re here.
When I can see the whites of Satya’s eyes, I stand straight up and fire. He hits me once. I hit him twice. Troy finishes him off.
[Our collective intelligence – I’m speaking for the NY boys here – has decided that the Indians are better at math than us. I personally think we’re short-selling ourselves. I can’t multiply six figures together in my head but have a lot to say about conclusions based on an analysis of non-random samples. Regardless of whether the mathematical playing field is level, the consensus among the NY boys is that we should play to our brawny strength.
[The Chargers are a shambles – at least the boy part of it. Two players are out and most of the rest are down to their last life. I look for Ayesha and Pooja. They’re no where to be found. They leap out from behind some bushes and with three quick shots Eddie and Hing are out.
]
Opia and Lynn leap out from behind some bushes and score 2 direct hits on Manuel and Mamadou in Database Support, As they wheel and return fire Pooja and Ayesha leap out of another shrub and shoot them in the back. Opia takes a hit. Lynn, Pooja and Ayesha still have all three lives.
I’m struck by what I have just seen. Lynn and Opia must have coordinated with the Indians.
Eddie and his wingman Hing come in for support, but approach incautiously. Opia and Lynn finish off Eddie. Alla and Marta, who have been waiting in ambush take out Hing.
The Eagles are down to Telecomm Support. The Chargers are doing little better.
Lance is out!
What the fuck! Lance is defending our flag. Without a second thought I race back to our rear. Pooja and Ayesha have surprised our defense, taking out Lance and critically wounding Riku and Renzetti from Rehypothecation. The girls have disappeared behind a plastic shrub. The boys are crawling flat on their stomachs because they’re exposed on the green that surrounds our flag. There’s an Iwo Jima in reverse vibe to the scene.
I’ve joined Opia and Lynn, who like me have fallen back to defend our flag.
There is a loud whistle.
Opia turns to me and shoots me twice in the chest. Lynn matches Opia’s betrayal by taking out Riku. Ayesha takes out Renzetti and Pooja captures our flag.
Sally appears at the top of Hamburger Hill holding the Eagles flag. Alla joins her with the Cougar’s Flag.
Lynn, Opia, Ayesha, Pooja, Alla and Marta shout out in unison, “Girls Three, Boys No Score”.
o
Although the Paintball game exposed a lot of raw nerves, it does prove cathartic. So when Sally and I travel to India with Transaction Management Mumbai for “Go Live”, the vibe is far less rancorous than you’d might expect. I haven’t been told that my job is over, but it is apparent to everyone that it is. Sudhakar has been replaced by a serious but efficient Jain named Pratik and I am actively teaching him everything that I know. The moment I’m done I’m certain they’ll axe me.
Instead of staying in one of Mumbai’s Grant Hotels (Sally is staying at the Taj Mahal) I opt to stay at the Mumbai pied-à-terre of Satya’s uncle, who it turns out is Chief of Police of a northern Indian State, which gives him enough spare change that he can afford an apartment across the street from Victoria Station.
Given how valuable the apartment must be, its a little rough around the edges. The decor is elegant, but plumbing is provided by two large buckets of water that are delivered to the apartment daily. The building is a close approximation of a NY walkup, six stories high. I’m amazed the complex hasn’t been gutted and turned into skyscrapers.
The purpose of the trip is symbolic. My job is done. Ashulm has sent me here not to do something but as a reward for not going AWOL and messing up the offshoring project. Sally’s role is much more real. She’s going to own this project when it goes live. If it goes wrong she’ll never get a good night’s sleep again – she’ll be up nights managing Mumbai.
The big day is tomorrow. That’s when support
She’s just returned from Lutyens’ Delhi, where the contract is being negotiated where she’s been attacked by rhesus macaques.
Go Live takes place at a corporate campus in Bandra. The trip is fascinating because all classes rub elbows in Mumbai – my auto-rickshaw passes through retail areas, high end condos and skirt the edges of the Dharavi slum. Bandra surprises me. My preconception is that everything in India – even new buildings – are damp and Victorian. Bandra is as modern any American industrial park and largely indistinguishable from one, though its built on a scale only matched by a handful of American cities.
Go Live happens in a call center that takes up a approximately one quadrant of one floor. I’m actually surprised
There is a Milgrim’s 47 vibe to the scene – in the sense that it strikes me more as a socio-psychology experiment than an administrative tweak.
The team is about twice as large as its NY equivalent would be, which makes me wonder about the economics of this project.
The call center woman is
Projectile vomit
Outtakes
The Eagles offense, though successful has come at a cost.
Eddie, who has been reckless to the point of aggression, has taken two hits. Everyone is wounded.
Pooja and Ayesha suddenly popup from behind a bush.
are in far worse shape than us because they share a border with all of the Indian teams, two of which, the Eagles and the Patriots, appear to be ganging up on them. The Jets have arranged themselves like Musketeers with cartoon blunderbusses, into two semi circles of equal size, each facing one hostile border. Their captain, Oleg, is in the center of one circle calibrating some form of paintball cannon.]
A cluster slams into the chest of Dilibabu, He’s a Jet. One! Two! Three! “You’re dead!” We’re playing by “Suck” rules, which means, three counts you’re out and no body contact, except from the torso and below.
My instinct is to interpret Dilababu’s loss in terms of the business and not in terms of the game. D is the anchor – more or less the only – player on the Middle Eastern message queue team, a brief that includes bourses in Jo-Burg, Kinshasa and Lagos.
A big loss to Transaction Management. Dilibabu is the message-queue Queen. I mean that in the best kind of way. He’s the glue that implements Lance’s architecture and among the smokers he’s known for his charming drag act, which the smokers respect as more self-affirmation than side-gig..
Of course this situation is about paintballs, so I shrug the loss off and push forward. The Big D will be at his desk five minutes before me on Monday, the way he always is.
We are playing with easy rules: you only die after three hits.
As Dilibabu dies a slender Indian woman who I recognize from Transaction Management rushes to his side, removes his firearm and rushes away. She is wearing football tights and a Jets t-shirt and looks great.
The Chargers have no time to savor their first kill, because the Tigers haven’t been sitting on their hands. Events are moving very quickly. Lance grabs a plastic blunderbuss and moves into the front line. Of course, leading from in front ready for … The subsequent image is too easy for imagination so listen carefully to my first hand view.
Lama, Lance, the rest of the boys, they have it right. A feint attack and enfilade fire takes out Transaction Management Mumbai. The whereabouts of Customer Service is unknwon.
We’ve beaten our main objectives. Hey Eagles, bring it on!
A scan reveals larger unknowns. Not only can I not locate Ayesha’s team and Pooja’s team. I don’t know where’s Opia’s tea or Alla’s team?
We’re being attacked with all of the force of a Sailor Moon backstory.
Swing pow pow.”
Swing swing pow pow pow pow pow.
“Girls 23 boys 4. Girls win!”
o
Like a group of Dutch defending Mastricht against Louis Quattorze, they count, raise their guns and fire. Beautiful smoke rings emit from each gun and through these rings their volleys are fired. The first volley takes their opponents by surprise.
3 more players are taken down.
Although I am well warned about Minerva and Athena , … t;hought interrupted by …
I think there is more going on her than eruptions from alpha males brains.
the observation is given credibility by enfilade fire.
I am attacked form half of the points of the compass Alla is attacking from my left; Marta closes in from just beside her; followed by Ayesha, Pooja
The Indians fall down but are far from out.
Quickly adapting, they start crawling into good tactical places like the lees of hills and behind tree stumps. Gradually their strategy becomes clear – they have taken the high ground around the Jet’s flag. Taking pot shots from heights, they begin to pick off the Jets.
[Final rush – In the ensuing we all blend together, difficult to see who is who.]…
Our undoing, in the end is Rajababu, who with his pristine Yankee uniform and job history proves to be too tempting a target for Scott.
As fate would have it Rajababu is the lynchpin in the undermanned Eagles defense that faces us. His pinstripes are like a bulls-eye. With no discipline at all we rush him like moths to a flame. Much to our surprise we are out gunned. Rajababu has a gatling paint ball gun and he quickly takes out Scott and gets two hits on Edwardo and Carol.
We pull back in disarray. Eddie decides to gamble.
“We’ve got to take out Rajababu.”
“He’s got a fucking machine gun.”
Edwardo has no time for defeatism. “Patrick. I want you to give me covering fire on the right, and then when I break circle around their flank, towards the center of the field to distract them and pull fire. Alla, Anna give me covering fire on the left.”
“But he’ll shoot you.” Alla smiles sweetly, consciously sounding melodramatic, a little reminder that she is beautiful and talented enough to become a movie star in the event that she gets bored of Derivatives technology.
“Someone always dies taking out a machine gun. I’ve got two hits already. I’ll take as many hits as I can going down. Lance can make the final kill. ”
…
The Tigers are hiding in the shrubs behind Rajababu.
…
The women sigh then Anna makes a joke in Russian and Alla smiles.
I walk out to our flank which is very far removed from action and take in the view. The Dalit team has left Mariya behind to guard me. She is another lithe, smart, beautiful young woman of the type God seems to be creating so many of these days. She actually isn’t a Dalit at all. Like a couple of other players on her team she’s a Catholic, named after the Virgin Mary herself. Without knowing her history I could easily place her in a number of places, Kerala, London, New York. She’s wearing embroidered bell bottom jeans, her nose has a diamond stud and when she reaches up I can see the glint of a navel ring. She catches my eye and shoots me using her fingers as pretend pistols.
Suddenly Mariya runs right at me, dodges to her right and then literally runs around me in a circle. This is a distraction: the Tigers have broken the game wide open by bolting towards the Eagle flag. They have a few athletic players who lead their pack but mostly they are of the same mawkish physical type as the Americans so they amble forward slowly and unsteadily and we all blend together.
Edwardo takes advantage of this surprise attack and bolts towards Rajababu. He nearly makes it, too: Rajababu is completely distracted by the Dalit rush and fumbles his initial shots. As a result, the Evil Lama doesn’t die in a hail of paintballs. Just one volley hits him, but that’s all it takes. As Eddie is promoted to glory, he plugs Rajababu and therefore his plan works brilliantly: Alla rushes Rajababu from his left, Anna from his right and then he is one dead, pinstriped Jackson Pollack painting.
Meanwhile, the startled Patriots over-react to the Tiger assault and pulls back entirely from Lance’s flank. Lance has Deanna and Opia harry the retreating Patriots and sends everyone else against the Eagles. Alla, Anna and Carol seize the opportunity and close in on the two remaining Eagles players, the women in the Yankees uniform and Mary in the Giants uniform. We loose Carol. Across the field Lance himself is taken down by an ambush expertly coordinated by Sachin, who is turn is ambushed by Alla and Anna.
We’re in the end game.
I survey the field. To my left Alla and Anna are the near side of the Eagle’s flag, the Indian woman dressed in a Yankees uniform, and her friend in the Giants uniform are on the far side. Just beyond them Sachin is fighting for his life with Mohammed, the last remaining Patriot. In my immediate vicinity, in fact far closer to me than I realized, are Deanna, Opia and Mariya, the only surviving members of the Jets, have surrounded Jamal but have not yet managed to kill him.
The moment Sachin kills Mohammed, I try to catch Deanna’s eye to suggest we make a move against Mariya. Both Mariya and Deanna, however are looking at Opia who bursts out laughing and shouts “Girls against Guys!” Just like that I’m dead as each of the women plugs me once. Mariya then backs off while Opia falls to the ground laughing and Deanna mocks me in Harlem Spanish. The indian girls take out Sachin, and the Chinese girls take out Jamal.
I bury my humiliated head in my hands so I don’t know whether it is Opia or Deanna who plugs me one last time in the butt. Not that it matters given how hard both are laughing and how I am already dead.
Alla and Anna finish their victory dance and then start swaggering towards the middle of the field while joking with each other in Russian. Deanna and Opia chat in Spanish and dance with their arms over their heads. Mariya is quiet and hangs back, circling slightly to her right inching towards Opia’s flag. She too is smiling modestly as her team loudly cheers her on. The two Indian girls, x and y, have joined the party and are laughing uproariously.
Then they join their hands and dance around in a circle. “Girls five. Guys zero!”
