There’s a specific loneliness that comes with being useful across a border.
I spent years as the “Emory man” in rooms full of southern movers and shakers, people who did not need a degree to know what they knew, and the “Atlanta man” in firms full of people who thought the South was a market to be managed from a safe distance. I was the fix in both directions — the one who could sit across from a self-made Georgia titan and explain a billion-dollar mortgage package without dressing it up, and then turn around and explain what had just happened to colleagues who’d watched it like tourists at a rodeo.
I was good at it. I was good at it because I was genuinely both things, not performing either one. The distinction that mattered had nothing to do with how anyone talked. It was about what you believed numbers were for.
The institutional presentation treats numbers as argument. Theoretical. You build a structure, you lead the room through it, you use the data to tell a story that ends where you need it to end. There’s craft in it. There’s also, if you’re not careful, a slow drift away from what’s actually true toward what’s defensible. You start shading the assumptions.
You present the optimistic case because the pessimistic case kills the deal and the deal is what you’re there for. The model gets groomed. It still balances, it still runs, but somewhere in the grooming it stopped being about the machine and started being about the presentation of the machine. Most people in the room can’t tell the difference. The ones who built something real always can.
And then there was the other thing — men who talked simply to hear themselves talk. Egoistic noise dressed as analysis, volume mistaken for substance. A certain kind of institutional performer could fill a room for forty minutes and say nothing that couldn’t have been said in four. They weren’t lying exactly. They were just more interested in the sound of their own authority than in whether any actual information was moving.
The men who’d built something real could smell it the way a bloodhound smells a rabbit in a hollowed-out log. They’d been dealing with it their whole careers — slick operators who confused fluency with competence. It made them impatient and it made them sharp, and it’s why a direct answer delivered without theater could stop a room cold and turn a meeting around in sixty seconds.
They’d been lied to by numbers before — by projections that didn’t project, by valuations that evaporated, by deals that looked clean on paper and weren’t. They wanted to know what the machine actually did. Not what you hoped it did, not what it did under favorable assumptions. What it did. J.B. Fuqua put it as plainly as anyone I ever sat across from: if I drop a dollar into the top of this sumbitch, what falls out the bottom?
My partner froze. He was fluent in the institutional presentation. He wasn’t fluent in that.
I stepped in and answered the question directly. No architecture, no narrative, no dressing. Here is what goes in, here is what comes out, here is why you can trust the number. The room steadied.
Afterward I felt the familiar thing. Not pride exactly. More like the awareness of having spent something that doesn’t fully replenish. The tank reads a little lower than it did before, even when you win. You make the translation, the deal moves forward, everyone benefits. And then you’re back in the middle, belonging to both sides and claimed by neither.
The institutional colleagues respected the results. They didn’t entirely trust the method — there was always a slight unease when I abandoned the structure of the presentation, a moment where I could feel them wondering if I’d lost the thread. I hadn’t. I’d found it. But the thread I’d found wasn’t the one they’d prepared.
The self-made men trusted me in the room. They knew I wasn’t one of them, not entirely. I had the credentials, the client list, the institutional backing. The trust was real but it had a ceiling, and we both understood where the ceiling was without discussing it. A little too Emory…
So you live in the middle. You develop a fine instrument for reading rooms, for knowing when the register needs to shift, for sensing which frequency carries the information that actually matters. It’s not charm and it’s not performance. It’s closer to what a musician does — you listen without agenda until you hear what’s actually being played, and then you come in on the right beat.
What I didn’t understand until much later is that the middle position isn’t temporary. You don’t eventually get absorbed into one camp or the other. The man who can translate doesn’t stop being a translator when he leaves the room. It becomes the way you move through the world — always reading the gap between what’s being said and what’s actually meant, always slightly outside the thing you’re most inside of.
But translation requires two things worth translating between. Toward the end I sat across from a sales boss at an upscale burger place in Atlanta. I ordered exactly what I wanted. When the food came he looked at my plate, chuckled, and said: I think I out-ordered you. He had mushrooms and onions on his burger. He was serious. He believed that was a thing — out-ordering someone, winning the lunch. I thought about Fuqua. I thought about the men who wanted to know what fell out the bottom, who’d built machines out of dirt and instinct and raw nerve. This man had never built anything. He thought he “out-ordered” me at a burger place and called it an edge.
I went on with the meeting. I drove home alone with it. But Elvis was already on the way to the door.
The world I’d been translating for had filled up with men like him. Not builders. Not even serious players. Just people fluent in the performance of confidence, mistaking the menu for the meal. There was no longer a gap worth closing, no frequency worth tracking. The instrument I’d spent years developing had nothing left to read.
I write fiction now. The same instinct is running.
Nobody’s man. Still.
It’s not the worst thing to be.