3 | ON A PATH
November 15, 2005
I GET IN A CAB AND REST ONE SIDE OF MY FOREHEAD against the glass window. It’s about twenty minutes from J. G. Melon to home. I watch a few pedestrians that we pass on the sidewalk, then close my eyes and my mind drifts. I remember my first time at Bear Stearns when I interviewed and got the job. It’s the kind of memory people can have that feels like yesterday and also another lifetime. The winter of 1992 is my senior year. I drive to Manhattan in my Explorer that has 190,000 miles on it and is worth less than what I pay the garage to park it for three days in the city.
I have two days of interviews set and I’m planning to sleep on the couch of a Cornell friend who’s a first year at Bear.
The interviews themselves are a joke. I’ve never had a job or done much of anything worth interviewing about. I sit with four different traders each day for two days and I don’t think they care anything about what I’ve done before. I was told ahead of time that the main test I need to pass is whether I’m a guy they could sit next to on a long plane ride without wanting to put a bullet in their head at the end of the flight. I’m at Cornell, so they assume I’m smart enough. I play lacrosse, so they assume I’m a good guy. As long as I don’t walk in there like a cocky punk but show I’m humble and willing to pay my dues, it should be fine.
The interviews are breezing by and all about the same. They ask about what classes I’m taking, how the lacrosse team is doing, and some useless stock interview questions like what’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, what’s my greatest strength, greatest weakness.
For the last interview of the second day, they take me to an office on a floor I haven’t been to before. The office is small and a mess with papers and magazines. The desk and chairs look like cheap discount office furniture and they point me to an uncomfortable-looking chair in front of a desk with nobody behind it, then close the door.
I sit in the chair and the room is so quiet I can hear the second hand of the clock on the wall. I’m happy I’m almost through this process and looking forward to getting back in my Explorer to listen to music on the drive back to school. Ten minutes pass and I’m getting restless but want to look cool, so I pick up a magazine and flip pages. It’s Fortune or Forbes and I’m not reading anything more than the captions under photographs. Twenty more minutes pass and I’ve flipped through the magazine twice. I could get another but I’m not reading anyway.
Another half hour passes. I’ve recrossed my legs in every possible way to distribute the soreness. I decide to stand for a bit and look at pictures on the wall. As soon as I’m up, the office door opens and a voice says, “Sit down.”
I turn to see a massive guy in a suit filling the door frame. Someone had pointed him out to me the day before on the trading floor. The guy had been a tight end for Penn State and joined Bear after one year as a scrub in the NFL for the Redskins about ten years ago. He’s six foot seven, two hundred and eighty pounds. I take a seat. He walks past me and he reeks of whiskey.
He drops into the chair, which looks outmatched, and I imagine it to be anxious about how long it can support him. He eyes me in a suspicious way but he looks too stupid to be thinking anything other than whether he’s doing a good job of looking suspicious.
“You want to come work for Bear?”
“I do.” This seems like the obvious answer but it also occurs to me I haven’t asked myself the question before, nor has anyone else. Maybe he’s brighter than I have given him credit for being.
He finds something amusing in my answer and he smiles and leans back in the chair, which responds with an audible panic. “That a fact.”
This doesn’t have the tone of a question but I nod anyway.
“I’ve seen your type before. Plenty of times.” He shifts again, swinging a leg around the side and banging a foot on top of the desk. I’ve never seen a shoe like this before. It looks like a kayak wrapped in black leather and flopped across the desktop. Stores probably don’t bother to carry shoes this size. I think of the giant bottles of wine the size of a child that aren’t really available but are in nice restaurants just for show. He seems aware of the effect his circus-like shoe can have on people, imagining their necks underneath it.
“I don’t know what you mean.” I hope my voice sounds even. I think it does. I’m still more amused than nervous.
His smile gets a little bigger. He keeps his foot where it is, reaches into a desk drawer, and comes out with a full liter bottle of Jack Daniels and a short rocks glass. He doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to me anymore. He pours a little bit and drinks it down, then repeats this. He pours a third and puts it down on the desk, holding it in place with his sausage fingers.
I think about getting up and leaving, but his eyes come back to me and it seems like he wants to talk again. I wait for him.
“And what if I don’t want you to work for Bear?” He seems to be getting crazier by the second.
“Then you’ll tell someone I was a bad interview.”
His shoe comes down faster than I thought possible. The leverage brings his body forward and his hand launches the whiskey at me. It hits me flush in the chest and the vapors of alcohol are in my nostrils. I haven’t moved an inch out of stunned disbelief, and we’re just staring at each other.
“You want to take a shot at me?” I think he wants to hear a yes.
“Maybe I’ll wait until you finish the rest of that bottle.”
He pours more whiskey in the glass. I stand to leave before I’m drenched.
“Nick, hang on a second.” He stands with the glass and comes around to me. He looks happy and less crazy than a moment before. He seems even taller standing right next to me. He rests a paw on my shoulder but it doesn’t seem threatening anymore.
“We’re just having some fun. I like to see how guys do in situations under pressure. You did good. Most guys really crap themselves.”
It occurs to me that half this guy’s job description is to be the hired goon hazing new guys and telling inside-the-NFL stories.
He’s laughing, so I kind of smile but I’m not really happy and I smell like booze.
“Let’s get going. We’re going to meet some guys for drinks.” The goon’s name is Mark Sauter and he takes me back to the trading floor, where a few guys are standing or sitting on desks in a huddle. Rather than walk to the group, Mark chooses to start a conversation from the maximum distance. “Dave, we’re all set! You guys ready?”
Dave and the group get up and close the distance between us. “Good. Let’s go to Lucky Strike.”
We take the elevator down and Dave, one other trader, and I get into a hired Town Car. The other guy is Sam Curry. I had an unremarkable interview with him the day before. He is average-looking in almost every respect except that he is older than the rest. Even adjusting for the years of booze, I’d guess he’s about fifty. With age usually comes seniority and respect, but I’ve learned with traders there’s a crossover point where age starts to signal weakness. Sam seems too old still to be doing this. It makes him seem desperate and I think he knows it, which makes him seem weaker and a little sad.
The others are off to some party, and Sam, Dave, and I take the car service to Lucky Strike, a restaurant and bar in SoHo. It’s not yet 5 p.m. when we get there. The opening room is small, with a bar on the right side and lounge tables on the left. The restaurant part is in a second room through a passage in the back wall and it’s a tiny room too. It feels like the kind of place that is somehow in style and a movie star with a baseball hat pulled low might come in at any time for a drink at the end of the bar.
We keep the bartender company while she fixes our drinks and cuts fruit to prep for the night. There’s no question she’s an aspiring model. Despite her long hair, perfect cheekbones, six-foot and size-two body, and the fact that I imagine her skipping through ankle-deep water on a beach in a bikini, she looks efficient and at home behind the bar. She gets our drinks almost gruffly, then knives through a batch of limes and lemons like a samurai, all of which makes her even hotter.
Dave and Sam are trying to be funny and flirty, and in the face of her aloofness they look like homeless children scrapping for a meal. I’m too bashful to say anything stupid in front of any of the three of them.
After enough punishment, Dave tells her to pick her favorite four appetizers and entrées to bring us. It seems like his way of declaring something about that relationship, and then he turns his attention to me.
“You’ll love living in New York. It’s a pain in the ass if you don’t have any money, but if you have some dough, it’s the biggest and best playground in the world. You interviewing at other banks?”
“No. Not yet,” I add, to sound a little more sophisticated about the process. I wouldn’t be interviewing at any banks at all if a buddy hadn’t called me to get down here.
“It comes down to people and culture. You want to be at a place with a good reputation but doesn’t take itself too seriously and treats people well. Goldman and Morgan are too uptight. You don’t want to surround yourself with a bunch of Harvard MBA jackasses. They were stealing each other’s library books back in school and they’re still the same douche bags. If they’re not trying to outsnob each other, they’re stabbing each other in the back. Bear might be a level down in reputation but we’re one of the best names on the Street and we have a good time. Plus, at Bear, traders are kings. Most of the money at this firm comes from sales and trading, not banking. And believe me, we make a hell of a lot of money.”
I don’t know enough about any of this even to ask a smart question. “I liked everyone I met. I even warmed up a little to that last guy, who dumped bourbon on me.” This is a white lie.
“Ha. You might have to put up with a little of that in the beginning, but it’s all fun. It’s all worth it too.”
“That’s right.” To this point I hadn’t thought about a salary number or getting rich quick. I was just feeling the stress that comes with not having any plan in my last year of college. Stress is always about not having a plan. All I want is something respectable, but I don’t know enough to want anything in particular or even to rule out anything in particular. Bear seems to answer all this plus makes me rich.
More people have come in and are filling the bar area. Dave and Sam are so obviously trying to pick girls up that it’s freaking girls out. A lot of invitations to their Hamptons house are made, which buys more conversation but ultimately doesn’t seem to be working. Dave turns to the bartender and tells her to do an hour of open bar for everyone on his credit card. Everyone in the bar shouts thank you and downs their drinks.
Someone turns the music way up and it gets hard to hear anyone more than an arm’s length away. We have to lean toward people to launch our words.
Sam flags over the bartender and plants his elbow on the bar top to pole-vault his head over the drink well. “I’ll give you two hundred dollars to turn down that music.”
“What?”
“I said I’ll give you two hundred dollars to turn down that music.”
She straightens up and smiles, then drops her well-used bar rag by his elbow. “You jerk-offs come in here with your comma comma bonuses and think you run the place. The music stays. You can stay or go.” She turns to the next person waving for her.
Sam turns to us and sees Dave laughing. I’m trying to be expressionless. Sam says, “Comma comma bonus. Never heard that before. I like it.” He laughs. At first I think he’s trying to seem unfazed. Then I think he is unfazed. He flags her back over and orders more shots and she pours them. I think she’s unfazed too.
The night with Dave and Sam is easy. They seem like they want to like me and I don’t try too hard. I just sit and drink with them. It doesn’t occur to me, at twenty-one, that it’s odd to be pounding shots at 5 p.m. on a weekday with a forty-five- and fifty-year-old. It seems great. It also doesn’t occur to me even to ask if they have a family, and they don’t bring it up.
“Hotchkiss have a good lacrosse team?” All we had to cover in the interviews was high school and college.
“Not really.”
“How’d you get recruited out of there?”
“I didn’t. I walked on at Cornell and made the team.”
“Good for you. You ever been with a hooker?”
When I’m sure I’ve heard the question right, I try to imagine what connection there is that I haven’t made. I miss only one beat. “No.”
“We’re going to arrange a little surprise for you tonight.”
I notice Sam is on a pay phone by the end of the bar. “Hookers?”
“Don’t worry. They’re gorgeous.”
I order a shot and drink it. Jesus. Hookers. In a short while I’m going to meet a hooker for the first time. It’s like waking up on graduation day or Christmas morning, things that always seem far off but then there are no more nights’ sleep of separation. In this stretch of awakeness it will be on me.
The driver has been waiting, double-parked outside Lucky Strike. Dave closes the tab and we’re back in the car. On the ride I learn that Dave has been divorced for more than ten years and has a place on the Upper East Side. The driver gets us to Dave’s building and is dismissed for the night. A few guys are already upstairs in Dave’s place drinking.
The three of us walk in the lobby and a doorman says hello, sir to Dave, then quick-steps ahead to press the up button for the elevator. Dave tells us his place used to be a two-bedroom, then he bought the two-bedroom next door and knocked down the wall to join them and switched it all around to make a huge three-bedroom.
Dave opens the door and ushers us into a mini foyer and long hallway. “Those are all Warhols on your right.”
The hall is lined with big framed faces of Indian chiefs and cowboys. Even then, my budding cynical side knows he isn’t into Warhol. He’s into saying he’s into Warhol. Even if only to say it to himself. He needs something of interest. “Nice.”
I hear the Rolling Stones at high volume, and at the end of the hall there’s a huge living room and the goon, Mark, at the far end dancing in an awkward way that seems more about flexing his biceps.
“Hey, rookie, get in here!”
I give Mark a wave but don’t try to shout over the music. It’s definitely a single guy’s apartment. I don’t know enough to criticize but it feels uncoordinated and underfurnished compared to noncollege dorm rooms I’ve seen. I imagine Dave just called some store and told them to bring over their two most comfortable sofas and three most comfortable chairs in whatever color was in stock and could arrive next day.
Another trader that I interviewed with is on a sofa with his feet up playing a video game. He hasn’t flinched and seems oblivious to the music. He’s under a spell cast by the TV.
On the coffee table next to his feet is a mound of coke and a twenty-dollar bill that looks recently rolled tight and is fighting to get back to its original flat shape.
Mark walks over and hands me a glass of bourbon with a few ice cubes. “You don’t have to wear this one.”
“I appreciate that.” I wonder if I’ll ever come to like this guy. I take a sip. I’ve never enjoyed bourbon before but it’s starting to taste good.
“You did good today, rookie. Not bad at all.” He smacks my shoulder way harder than he needs to. He likes to assert his bigness more than other big guys I know.
“Thanks, it was fun. I had a good time meeting everyone.”
“Well, the fun’s just getting started.” He turns to Dave. “Hey, buddy. We’re all set in the back room.”
“Excellent, excellent. Nick, come this way.” Even the guy playing video games looks over and laughs. Like a used-car salesman, Dave puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me deeper into the apartment. “Okay, pal. This is a little reward from us for doing so well the last couple days. Enjoy, and I don’t expect to see you come out of this room for at least an hour.”
We arrive at a door down a hall from the main living room and Dave knocks. “Ready or not, ladies.” He opens the door, nudges me in, and closes it behind me.
I plant a foot to stop my forward momentum, turn to see the door click shut, then turn back around to see two beauties in silk robes, one blonde and one brunette. “Hi, Nick,” they say together and drop the robes, leaving only strappy high heels and naked bodies. I’m stunned by the abruptness.
I had always imagined hookers as being older, missing a few teeth, and belonging in a frontier saloon. These girls are young and athletic and even wholesome by appearance. They could be any girl I’d see on campus except they’re twice as hot and naked.
They make their way over in a practiced, slow, sexy way and start rubbing their hands over me. My ears are simultaneously nibbled and it’s clear this is a routine they have performed many times. I’m still grasping for my bearings, and I look around the room. It seems both a place for a friend to crash and a place to store random man memorabilia. It has the required furniture of king bed, matching nightstands, desk, a couple chairs, and bookshelves. This is layered over with autographed footballs and baseballs, picture frames attempting to make meaningful some torn ticket stubs to Super Bowls and World Series games, jerseys and posters on the wall—pathetic for a forty-five-year-old. On the top on one bookshelf are a Jets and a Giants football helmet.
I reach my hands around and grab each of their asses. I need to know if this is real and I can really do this. I can’t believe how firm and warm they are. I can fit a round butt cheek in each hand. I get a good handle and raise them up and down a bit.
“That’s it, baby,” in one ear, and the other ear gets nipped by the brunette’s teeth.
I have no idea how this is supposed to go. Do we start having sex or are we supposed to discuss it and choreograph some of this up front? I think with three of us there’s a lot more to figure out. I keep palming butt cheeks until I can think a few steps ahead. I’m not even sure I want to have sex with them. Maybe we can just do other stuff. I’d always said I’d never pay for sex, but maybe that wasn’t a moral issue, it was just something cool to say. Besides, I’m not paying for this.
“You want to lie down, Nick?” It feels weird to have a stranger say my name. A naked stranger. She’s a professional service provider who seems to know I’ll find it erotic to hear her say my name.
“Not yet.” I squeeze a few times like I’m pumping the ball of a gas line. My hands are sweating a little and I can’t get over how good their asses feel.
We keep standing, rubbing and squeezing. I’m at the edge of the high-dive platform without the resolve to take the next step. I’m surprised at my own indecision.
“I have an idea.” I’m taking back control. I release their butts, walk to the bookshelf, and pick up the Giants and Jets helmets. They’re regulation and heavy. “You play for the Giants.” I hand this one to the brunette, and the blonde becomes a Jet. Even when I tighten the chin straps for them, there is still room to wobble the helmets around their heads when I shake the face guard.
I take a step back and smile at the enhanced sexiness. Bright feminine eyes peering out from the face masks, with long hair flowing out the back, and slender shoulders barely wider than the helmet leading down athletic little bodies to four-inch heels, their only other equipment. “Okay, let’s run some tackling drills. Line up.” I line them up across from each other in the three-point stance of an NFL lineman. I insist on their keeping the heels on, which they manage to do though it forces their butts higher and tips their weight over their hands on the floor.
I’ve never heard of anything as ridiculous as what I’m doing right now. “All right, ladies. On three. Hut . . . hut . . . hike!”
The girls fall forward with almost no force at all but bump helmets before twisting around each other. They’re led around by the heavy helmets and look like two naked babies learning to walk and getting tangled up. There’s lots of giggling, also by me.
“Nicely done.” I give them a hand up and a pat on the bottom. They give me a pat on the bottom back, then repeatedly pat each other’s bottoms, chasing around in a circle.
“What’s next, Coach Nick?” The whole thing is getting sort of playful and fun. They’re actually pretty nice girls, I think.
“We’re ready for something more advanced.” As I pick up one of the autographed footballs, there’s a short knock at the door and Dave walks in. He had to have been prepared for a scene, but even he is astounded.
“Wow.” He looks pleased and close to laughter but has too much respect for this fantasy. I notice he’s holding a tray with a bottle of champagne, three flute glasses, and a pile of coke. He puts the tray down on the desk. “I’ll let you get back to it.”
He walks out and the music that had been vibrating through the walls stops. I hear hard laughter. In a moment there’s another short knock and the door opens. This time it’s Dave and Mark.
“Goddamn,” says Mark. “I like the way you think, rookie.”
“Nick, this isn’t the way we normally do things, but this is so excellent we wanted to tell you now that you’re hired. You’ll get an official letter and phone call, but we’ve made our decision. We want you at Bear.” Dave does a military salute and closes the door.
“Congratulations, Nick!” The girls are genuinely happy for me and give me hugs. They seem so nice that I’m feeling uncomfortable about the helmet charade. I help them off with the chin straps and pour three glasses of champagne.
They separate two lines of coke from the pile and inhale it. I see that they’re nice but have also been around the block more times than I have.
The blonde splits off a third line. “Here you go, Nicky!”
I haven’t done coke before. I don’t want to say no to this as well. Since I haven’t had sex, and in fact still have all my clothes on, I feel like saying no is too prudish and I should participate. I take the rolled bill and snort the line. It stings a bit like a blast of freezing air, then the sting goes away and my face feels numb and full of blood. By the end of the glass of champagne, I feel amazing.
Without the helmets in the way, the girls manage to rub, nibble, and pull my clothes off. I lock the door this time and we massage each other and I cross every line except actually having sex. The girls are nice enough not to say anything about this one way or another.
? ? ?
The next week back at Cornell I accept the official job offer and a few months after that I show up for my first day at Bear. Mark had already left to work for a broker in Tokyo, but Dave and Sam are there and don’t retire for a few more years.
In a four-month period I go from knowing nothing about Bear to making it my career. I don’t remember consciously wanting it or choosing it. It chose me, as though the system picked me up and put me on a track and all I had to do was roll downhill. I didn’t think about whether I was going any place I wanted to be, because I didn’t have to work to get there. It was all passive on my part. I just thought about all the guys going to med school or law school and working hard for less money. It was years before I thought anything more about it than that.
I look out the window of the taxi and notice I’m almost home.