Jim wakes up to find that he possesses a banker’s mind. “WTF?” he thinks. His brain, once a porous as pumice, as nonsensical as doggerel, is now etched with the kind of pretentious linearity as you might find in exclusive social clubs peopled by dudes named Cadwallader. Cadwallader. Are there really guys named this? How’d ya like to crawl through life with a “shibboleth” like this? Life is rough enough without being a branded a Little Lord Fauntelroy poster child. But now being a banker-brain is Jim’s trip. his bag, his raison d’etre. Do the French have a word for this? Jim was in Paris, about ten years ago, and he thinks the French should be a WEE bit more grateful to Americans for pulling their chestnuts outa the fire in World War. but back to Jim’s plight. Now, for example, he’s blind to te disenfranchised and shoeless minions, who came to this shore seeking a better life, but all they found was food stamps, welfare. unemployment and rats. They came here seeking betterment, only to have their teeth dashed out by the cruel reality of inequality.