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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Roos85 on 2024-09-28 15:50:50+00:00.
I make very good money at my job, but I have to work very hard for it. It's a high-pressure job with high risks and tight deadlines. I’m at the top of the food chain in investment banking so I deal with a lot of money. It's not just the money aspect of it. As a financial advisor, my advice could make or break a company, and if I give bad advice, it all comes down to me. Being the best in the business I’m constantly on edge trying to impress my clients.
People see me smiling all the time or carrying this air of confidence that says listen to me. I know what I’m doing. You can’t go wrong with me, but inside I’m dying. My insides are all tied up like a Gordian knot. People have no idea how competitive this job is and the high expectations that the clients expect from me. I’m constantly on the verge of burnout. I’m like an overworked machine ready to splutter out.
By the time I leave the office, my well-oiled brain is a fog of fatigue, which crushes any compassion I have for people. The building I work in is in the banking district, and for some reason, this draws a large homeless crowd that hangs around outside the many buildings looking for handouts.
I get it, these people are the most vulnerable in our society and I don’t see them as less than human, but by the time I leave the office my patients have already been spread thin and any compassion I had when I woke that morning has been hammered down the throat of a Venture Capitalist whom’s investment didn’t materialise into a gold fucking toilet for the many bathrooms in his multi-million-dollar mansion.
Every day, the same four homeless people hang around my building. Even though there are loitering signs and laws that state you can’t beg, the police don’t seem to care.
Most days I don’t care if they are outside my building, but one guy in particular seemed to hate my guts. I don’t carry change, and when he asks, there are only so many ways I can say, “Sorry, no money,” so now, every time I walk past him, he throws me hurtful remarks. I sometimes wonder what went wrong in his life because if he wasn’t homeless he would have been a great comedian. Our encounters were awkward for me, but last week things took a turn for the strange.
"You have all the charm of a spreadsheet and the empathy of a market crash.” he cried out to me as I made my way past him into work.
I’m not a mean person. Yes, I am ruthless in business but I have empathy for people. His remark had really gotten under my skin and I spent most of the day thinking about it to the point it was affecting my decisions at work.
When I left that evening, I was praying he wasn’t outside. I didn’t even look for him, I just kept my head down and made my way to a waiting taxi.
“I’d say you are morally bankrupt, but I’m sure you would find a way to profit from it.”
I was thick-skinned, but it took every fiber of my being to ignore his comment as I jumped into the taxi.
The next morning, sure enough, there he was, sitting by the curb, smiling at me when I jumped from the taxi. It was almost like he was waiting there to taunt me.
"You’re the perfect example of how a suit can make someone look successful while still being completely devoid of substance,” he said with a sly smirk on his face.
His words hit me like a truck. It felt like an attack on my character and it wasn’t how I carried myself.
“What is it you want,” I screamed. “Why are you picking on me?
The cheeky look on his face quickly switched to a downtrodden look of pity.
“I’m hungry. All I want is something to eat.”
To be fair, I wasn’t expecting his response. It was strange, after everything he had called me I didn’t want him to be right. I was compelled to show him I had empathy and I had substance.
“Ok, I can get you something to eat, and if I do, will you leave me alone?”
I walked over to the cafe across the road. I bought a sandwich and a coffee and I made sure I had some cash to give him.
As I watched him wolf down the sandwich, I was struck by how different our lives were. I only ever felt a hunger for recognition or the perfect deal. This poor guy was just hungry for a sandwich.
I was married to my Job and never settled down, so I lived alone in a large one-bedroom penthouse suite. I didn’t have fuck you money, but I could afford a nice lifestyle.
To maintain the lifestyle I was used to taking my work home with me, so my nights usually consisted of me looking over financial reports or chasing down potential clients.
I had just gotten off a call and was pouring myself a glass of expensive Whiskey when suddenly, someone began beating down on my door.
When I peered through the peephole, I was stunned to see the same homeless man from the street. His expression had a mix of urgency and defiance as he continued to beat down my door.
“I need to talk to you,” he shouted. The absurdity of the moment struck me, here was a man I had barely acknowledged, now standing outside my door all because I gave him a sandwich.
“Look, I just need a place to crash for the night,” he pleaded, with a hint of desperation in his eyes. “It’s freezing out here.”
“You can’t just barge in here.” I pleaded. “There are shelters nearby.”
He stepped closer, his presence strangely compelling.
“You think I haven’t tried? They’re full, and I can’t take another night out there.” My heart raced at the thought of letting him in, but a strange mix of empathy and curiosity nudged me to unlock the door.
“Maybe you can come in for a bit and get warm but you have to leave when I tell you to,” I warned.
The homeless man planked himself down on my expensive Italian leather couch. He had piercing blue eyes that peered through the strands of dirty matted hair that covered his face.
He picked up my bottle of Whiskey with his rough, callous hands that bore the marks of long nights on the street.
“Springback, rare, 50-years-old. This is an expensive Whiskey,” he said as he took a deep sniff from the bottle.
“Wow, you really know your Whiskeys,”
Without even asking me he began pouring himself a glass.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked as he took a sip from the glass.
I was confused by his question. If he was someone from my past, it was hard to recognise the person they might have been under the dirt and tattered clothes.
“Should I remember you?” I asked.
“I used to work in your building. We walked past each other many times. I was an accountant for the bank you work for.”
I couldn’t for the life of me remember who he was. But he knew all the people I worked with. He knew the clients I worked with. He even knew the same stories and rumours that made the rounds in the office over the years.
We sat talking and drinking long into the night. For a moment, I had forgotten he was the strange homeless guy who begged outside the building where I worked as we laughed and reminisced about the good old days.
I woke up the following morning with a splitting headache. I didn’t have it in me to kick him out so I let him stay the night.
I was surprised to find he had made himself at home. He had showered and shaved and strutted around my kitchen in my robe as he made himself breakfast. It was strange, it was like he knew his way around as if he lived here before.
“I’m late for work. No offence, but you need to be gone by the time I get back.”
He smiled at me as he buttered a slice of toast.
“We had a good talk last night, but you still haven’t asked me my name?”
“Yes, sorry, what was it again?” My mind was hazy from the Whiskey the night before and I was struggling to concentrate.
“My name is Adam Bleacher.”
“It was good talking to Adam. I really hope you get back on your feet. But I seriously have to go.”
I spent the day in a fog wandering around the office as if I didn’t belong. It was like I had forgotten how to do my job.
As I sat at my desk a picture on my wall caught my eye. It was a picture of me and a few of my colleagues. We had landed a very important client at the time and took a picture together to mark the moment. As I looked closer, I was stunned to see Adam, the homeless guy I had left back at my apartment, standing next to me, and I had my arm around him.
When I came home that evening, exhausted from another relentless day, the air in my apartment felt off. The strange tension from the night before lingered. As I stepped inside, the faint sounds of conversation filled the apartment. To my disbelief, there were three more people homeless, ragged, and worn lounging casually on my couch as though they belonged there.
Adam looked up at me with a grin, sipping from my whiskey again. “Meet my friends,” he said, gesturing to the others. “They worked in your building too, once.”
I wanted to scream, But something about the way he looked at me, there was something dark in his eyes that sent a cold chill up my spine and it rooted me to the spot.
“Come sit with us. This is where you belong.”!
I couldn’t explain it, but I felt like they belonged here and for some strange reason, I didn’t throw them out. I should have. I wanted to, but my limbs felt heavy, and my mind was too hazy to even try. I tried to reason with myself; I had work to do, clients to impress, and deadlines to meet. But a strange lethargy had set in. That night, they stayed again, filling my apartment with their ragged presence, telling stories I couldn’t remember but which felt oddly familiar, as if I were part of them.
Over the ...
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