Terror on Wall Street, a Financial Metafiction Novel by Kenneth Eade, Gordon L. Eade Page A

calling and waiting, they all boarded the jet. 
         “We’re just going to have to pray they make it.”
         The pilots went through their routine checks and they were ready to take off. 
         “We’ve been cleared for takeoff.”
         Then they received another call from Air Traffic Control. 
         “Sorry, folks.  There’s going to be a slight delay.”
         “What’s the holdup?”
         The pilot looked back in frustration.
         “They say they can clear us for takeoff, but we’ll be the last ones and they can’t guarantee we’ll be able to land at Ronald Reagan.”
         “Why not?”
         “Air traffic controller’s strike.  A lot of airports are closed.  O’Hare’s been having rolling blackouts affecting air traffic control, so they’ve closed it and cancelled all flights.”
         Carlos thought of his friends, who had declined his offer to fly them in his father’s jet.
         “We’ve got clearance.  We’re number ten for takeoff.”
         The plane taxied into a line of small aircraft.  Everyone wanted to get to someplace better, wherever that was.

 
     
     
     
    CHAPTER TWELVE
     
    HOME AWAY FROM HOME
     
     
     
    Harry’s study was furnished and equipped with several computer workstations, with a high definition TV screen hooked up to those stations. In this manner, the workstations could access the mainframe on campus and then, via dedicated fiber optic cables, the large-scale high-speed computers located at the University of California and MIT. Only the Pentagon could rival the computing power at his disposal. At all times throughout each day, several of his graduate students could be found there, working on their individual projects. With Harry nearby, they could ask a question or two without interrupting his work and without waiting for the next class.
         In one corner of the room, an African gray parrot named “Jackpot” was watching CNBC on the monitor, commenting on the market as he watched the red and green arrows (indicating an up market when green and a down market when red) flash across the screen.
         “Market is up today!  Cramer says sell!”   
          Harry’s wife Jennifer, a financial expert in her own right and about 20 years his junior, had her own desk in the study, which she used as her office as well.  She was a lovely woman, with porcelain skin and strawberry blonde hair.  More impressive than her beauty was her graceful movements.  There was a knock at the door, which Jackpot mimicked perfectly.  As Jennifer walked to the door to answer it, she drifted across the floor with the finesse of a figure skater.    “Harry, it’s June Lockheed from the Financial Digest – your 11:00 appointment.”
         “Pork bellies are up!  Cramer says sell!  Sell!”
         Who is this June? Do I know her? Since his mini-stroke last summer, Harry was having trouble remembering appointments, faces, and people’s names.  Jennifer showed June into the study. 
         “June, this is my husband Harry.  I’ll leave you two alone for now.”
         “Have a seat, June.”  Harry motioned to one of the soft chairs in front of his desk and June took a seat.  Harry sat in a chair next to her.  She was a pretty young woman, dressed demurely in a grey business suit, and Harry could see that she was hiding a pair of beautiful turquoise eyes behind her conservative-looking glasses, perhaps in an attempt to disguise her beauty and to appear more professional.
         “Market is up!  Market is up!  Cramer says sell!”  
         Jackpot danced on his perch, moving his head back and forth in a circular motion.
         “You watch Cramer?”
         “More for entertainment than anything else, but Jackpot here thinks he’s cool.”
         June smiled.  “Hello, Jackpot.”
         “Hello, Jackpot.  Cramer says sell. Hello, Jackpot, hello.”