Bank Read online

  Because of my perpetually weak bladder, disasters avoided by hurling myself into foliage or finding that stray bottle in the nick of time, I’ve learned a trick or two that act as a momentary salve in such dire situations. Right now I’m at the oh-god-I’m-really-not-going-to-make-it stage, timed about a half hour before the holy-fuck-it’s-really-going-to-come-out-any-second-now, which usually gives me fifteen minutes until the real goods, the final outburst. It’s too late for the most basic of maneuvers: thighs pressed together like a little girl; trying not to think about it (like that ever works unless you’re a well-trained Zen master); crossing one leg so hard over the other you might as well be giving yourself a vasectomy.

  Time for the Erecto-block. The Erecto-block is a relatively simple strategy that involves staring at the Ice Queen’s beige sweater, pretending she’s not such a total bitch and that she wants nothing more than to lunge over the boardroom table and tear my pants off, until I’ve blocked up my urethra. Shameful, yes, but you better believe it works.

  Sort of. The Erecto-block is all about maintenance. When the Ice Queen crosses her arms and blocks my view, when my gaze travels up to her scowling face, the fantasy is gone and I come this close to losing it. Then the Client has directed a question at her and she’s forced to flip through the pitch book frantically, providing an unobstructed view of the beige sweater—the Erecto-block back in full force.

  And just as suddenly, the Erecto-block fades, a two-second leap from proud and throbbing to limp and pathetic. It’s not just my nether regions that are sensitive to this subtle change. The Ice Queen wrinkles her nose, and the Sycophant sports this deer-in-headlights expression. It feels like somebody has cranked up the air-conditioning full blast. No, it’s not so artificial; let’s try this metaphor again: It’s as if a cold wind has picked up off desolate mountain peaks, a remote place charred and lifeless and housing the odd peasant chipping at the frozen topsoil for a potato the size of a kidney bean, blowing over all manner of carnage before arriving, filled with this knowledge of the evil of man, into this tiny space, our investor presentation dry run, Boardroom 121.

  The door creaks open, the hinges rattling from this terrible gust, and in walks the Coldest Fish In The Pond. We didn’t come up with the nickname; none of us would have dared. The origins can be traced to a far-removed reporter from the Wall Street Journal, the paper’s annual “Who’s Who” of the banking world.

  How does one provide an adequate description of this financial deity capable of invoking the heebie-jeebies in the bravest among us? All right, facts first. He’s the head of the Bank. No, not just the head—he is the Bank. Founded it before he was thirty, a young Machiavelli who was the rising star in a hedge fund boutique before stealing the majority of their clients and opening up his own shop. Physically he is not so intimidating—on the short side, maybe five foot six or seven, and deeply tanned from a week vacationing in Palm Beach. He still runs marathons, even though he’s pushing sixty, and has the type of sturdiness that gives the impression that if there was suddenly a nuclear fallout or a terrorist disaster, the only things left standing would be cockroaches and the Fish.

  He settles into a chair at the head of the table and surveys the room, eyes masking the billions of computations per second shooting through his prodigious gray matter. The Sycophant whimpers softly, no doubt oscillating between the urge to flee and an instinctive desire to grovel by the Fish’s Gucci loafers. When the Fish nods once in the direction of the Ice Queen, she visibly trembles and leaps from her seat to ferret around in the cabinets for a chilled bottle of Perrier water. Even the Client, on a level playing field, immensely powerful in his own right, chuckles nervously when the Fish precisely positions his black attaché case on the table. Only the Prodigal Son remains unfazed by his presence, stifling a yawn as he flips through a pitch book.

  The Boring Engineering Guy, who hasn’t completed his feasibility analysis, clearly doesn’t know what to do. He is standing at the front of the room looking like he’s about to crap his pants.

  “Sit down,” the Coldest Fish In The Pond demands.

  The Boring Engineering Guy shuffles back to his seat with immense relief. The Fish opens the attaché case, removes a pad of legal paper and a gold fountain pen, and arranges them carefully beside the bottle of Perrier.

  “Now,” the Fish directs at the Client, “we are going to do this properly. In the next sixty minutes you will convince me why this deal is a suitable mandate for the Bank. By the end of your presentation, if I think it smells funny, then I will advise you to peddle your wares somewhere else.”

  It’s the sort of command that is unheard of in this industry. Banking is all about sycophancy in some form or another (though rarely resembling the absolute epitome of this, the Sycophant himself), business won through courtside basketball tickets, Smith & Wollensky’s bloody porterhouses, and bottles of Moët bubbling among the eastern European strippers. If everything goes off without a hitch, the Bank will pocket a twelve-million-dollar advisory fee on this single deal. The Client has every right, financially speaking, to be outraged. To go berserk. To demand we suck his toes, shine his shoes, and pelt him with truffles simultaneously.

  Nonetheless, he spreads his hands on the table and stares guiltily at his well-manicured nails, nodding in humble agreement. The power of the Coldest Fish In The Pond is staggering.

  “Well . . . um . . . let’s begin,” the Client says, shuffling his papers.

  Then he is rehashing the same boring speech that started this meeting forty-five minutes ago. With the Erecto-block gone, forever flaccid with the added tension of the Fish’s presence, I’ve officially entered the holy-fuck-it’s-really-going-to-come-out-any-second-now stage. Fifteen minutes left in the gas tank. It’s inevitable at this point, etched in stone, a predetermined event marked on the golden threads of those hoary Fates. Before, there was a remote possibility I’d muster up the courage to slink out of the room before disaster struck. Now, with the Fish writing meticulously on his legal pad, it’s impossible to make my escape without crossing his field of vision.

  My BlackBerry. A potential salvation.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  You have to help me, man. Sitting in Boardroom 121 with the Fish and Client et al. and am this close to pissing myself. 100% serious. Do NOT treat this as shit and giggles. Knock on the door and come up with an emergency.

  Two minutes later, my BlackBerry vibrates.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

  ha—another one for added emphasis

  ya big loser

  Jackass.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Half my bonus. Twenty sets of comps. Whatever it takes.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  What if your bonus really blows? There’s a rumor going around that the Toad is considering cutting back on junior analysts’ comp this year . . . FYI, even the Star is laughing his head off right now.

  A minute later there is a cautious rapping at the door. Thank the lord. The Sycophant, who’s closest, opens it a crack and pokes his head out. A muffled interchange and then the door creaks shut, the Sycophant returning to his seat, a stern glance in my direction before he’s back to jotting down his notes.

  Oh god.

  Oh mother of god.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  What the hell just happened?

  Any camaraderie I once shared with the Defeated One is terminated from this point on. The response comes a few seconds later:

  From: [email protected]

  To: Me@theBan
k.com

  Told El Sycophant your grandma went into cardiac arrest this morning. Your family calling here like crazy requesting you get your ass down to the hospital pronto. Sycophant said, and I quote: If she’s already dead, there’s no reason why she can’t wait.

  It’s like somebody’s knocked the wind right out of me, and I’m not at all easily offended. Granted my grandma is not really dying on a hospital bed right now—she’s probably slouched on her paisley couch fantasizing about Bob Barker, or drinking her daily gin & tonic under the mulberry tree in the yard—but just the notion that if, hypothetically, my grandma’s heart had catapulted itself out of her chest cavity, if she really was on the verge of leaving this world and all she wanted was one final glimpse of her dearest grandson, for the Sycophant to deny her that basic human privilege . . .

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Evil little SOB. Thanks for the effort. It’s going to happen any minute now; I’m well past the point of no return. You’ll know when you hear the shattering of glass as I hurl myself through the window.

  I experience a moment of serenity as I accept my fate: I’m really going to piss in my pants. The next few minutes will be turbulent, horrendous, but life will go on, nobody is going to die from this; at most, in fifty years it will be an amusing story whispered about at some wedding or reunion.

  Fifteen seconds left. It can’t just be the one Venti Bold doing such disproportionate damage. It feels like a couple gallons sloshing around in my bladder, the Venti Bond asexually reproducing, splitting off into millions of little cappuccinos and lattes, and now there’s enough Starbucks flowing through my intestines to caffeinate the entire Bank.

  Five seconds. One final clench before the bittersweet release.

  An abrupt knocking. The Sycophant leaps up from his chair to let in Unadulterated Sex, the Fish’s gorgeous assistant, who sashays over to her boss and whispers something in his ear. The Fish frowns and slips his notepad back into the attaché case.

  “We’re adjourning this meeting for five minutes,” the Fish decrees.

  Then he’s out the door, Unadulterated Sex slinking after him with the half-finished bottle of Perrier. I channel all my energy into reversing the flow of urine through my body. A spot is forming on the crotch of my pants but it’s not too large; I manage to hold out for a few seconds longer.

  I dash out of Boardroom 121, ignoring the flinty glare of the Sycophant, a full-on sprint to the bathroom, and blessed be the lord, there is nobody at the urinals. Leaning forward and resting my palms flat against the wall, my entire body shuddering. The zipper miraculously doesn’t get caught or else there could have been a premature disaster.

  Exquisite release.

  Lunch with the Defeated One. We have a new policy of going outside for two, at most three, minutes, to enjoy the final dregs of late-summer weather before bringing the usual congealed teriyaki chicken up to our desks. Clyde and Postal Boy both have pitches this afternoon, so they’re doing the requisite twelfth-hour scrambling around to put through the inevitable last-minute upheavals. A young couple clean and preppy enough to be in a Gap commercial, the annoying one where everybody’s snapping their fingers, strolls by, grinning away like the Cheshire cat.

  “It’s fucking Tuesday.” The Defeated One scowls in their direction.

  He snaps open a Coke and gulps it down in six seconds flat, following it with a raucous burp.

  “How many of those do you drink a day?”

  “Five, six. Who are you, my goddamn dentist? Anyway, back to more important subjects. Tell me, what was the goddess wearing?”

  The Defeated One, despite having a girlfriend of many eons, is unapologetically obsessed with Unadulterated Sex. Not that any red-blooded male could blame him. She’s tall for a woman, five foot nine or so, with black hair and olive skin, even though she grew up in the cornfields of Kansas. Her body has a voluptuousness that’s girlish and natural; there are definitely no silicon components. She’s unattainable, of course (it’s rumored she’s engaged to the son of a Russian oil czar who is waiting around for his inheritance), but that’s all part of the mystique. Nobody is entirely sure what she’s doing at the Bank. You’d expect her to be jetting off to private islands, tanning topless on massive yachts raced by Speedo-clad European tycoons, not spending her days shuffling the Fish’s Perrier bottles around.

  “White sweater. Tight black skirt. Looked really expensive.”

  “Did her nipples show through?”

  “Sorry, man, didn’t have time to check. I was kind of distracted with the whole raging bladder thing. It was insane. I’m telling you, I was this close.”

  The Defeated One chuckles. “It would have been priceless. Pissing in front of the Fish.”

  “It would have been awful.” I shudder. “And on top of that, there’s the Prodigal Son trying to pin yet another of his errors on me. God almighty, I really hate that fucker.”

  “Yeah,” the Defeated One says, crumpling up his can of Coke, “he did the same thing to Postal last week. Anyway, did you catch a glimpse of his new watch? Apparently it’s a Patek Philippe. Swiss, of course, a present from Daddy Warbucks. That’s a cool quarter million strapped right there on his wrist.”

  Another thing about the Defeated One: He’s absolutely nuts about money. The guy probably gets off at night rubbing crisp bills against his genitalia.

  “Jesus. That’s like—”

  “A Bentley Arnage T with a dozen high-class call girls and a magnum of Cristal thrown in for good measure. I’ve already done the math.”

  He checks his own watch, a Timex.

  “Come on, let’s go back up and eat. I don’t know if I can take any more of this sunshine crushing my spirit.”

  We both take one last appreciative glance at the sky. It’s achingly blue and crystal clear, perfect weather for wasting away an afternoon munching pretzels on a park bench somewhere. The Defeated One and I sigh simultaneously.

  Three o’clock I get a call from my college roommate. Mark is on a save-the-world career track, currently teaching some inner-city kids how to play hopscotch before he jaunts off to Bulgaria next week with the Peace Corps. Apparently a bunch of our mutual friends are meeting up for drinks later tonight to send him off. My initial reflex is to decline—it’s a Tuesday night, for god’s sake—but aside from a set of comps to scrub for the Sycophant, a few kinks to iron out in a leveraged buyout model, it could be a definite possibility. I tell Mark this.

  “Yeah, I think I can manage it.”

  Mark sounds genuinely pleased. “You’re never around anymore, man. I know everybody’s going to be so excited to see you.”

  “Likewise. Anyway, what time were you thinking?”

  “Ten or so, I guess.”

  “Cool. I should be finished up here by then.”

  “Great. Really looking forward to it.”

  The next few hours pass with a heightened level of anxiety. Every time Outlook pops open with a new message, every time my phone rings, it’s the potential for a Work Bomb capable of derailing my drinking plans. It would almost have been better for my psychological well-being to decline in the first place, saving myself the potential aggravation of having to cancel at the last minute.

  Despite this paranoia, I’m excited at the prospect of meeting up with Mark and the rest of our crew. It’s been far too long, at least a couple weeks now, since I’ve seen anybody outside the Bank, save for the homeless turning the sidewalks into their dormitories after midnight. By eight o’clock the Sycophant has already left to watch his son’s soccer game, and the Philandering Managing Director is knocking back twenty-dollar cocktails in some overpriced Suits bar. As soon as I’ve fixed this LBO model—two hours I give it—I’m good to go.

  Nine o’clock I get another call from Mark.

  “Just wanted to give you the heads-up that the Ex-Girlfriend is also going to be there.”

  “And she knows I’m coming as well?”

&n
bsp; “Yeah, she knows, and she’s cool with it. Actually, she told me she’s kind of excited to see you.”

  Very interesting; I wonder what that means. Bullshit, I know exactly what that means. She misses me. It makes plausible sense because I miss her too.

  “Oh, really.”

  “Yeah, I’m not shitting you. Are you seriously going to make it? Man, you’ve got to get out of that place.”

  “Tell me about it. Give me another hour to wrap things up and I’ll be heading over.”

  Nine forty-five and I’m packing up my stuff: arranging the papers on my desk into neat piles, sweeping any incriminating e-mail forwards into the recycling bin. The Defeated One returns from the washroom, sniffling. He sits down at his desk, legs spread wide, and mops the sweat from his forehead with a tissue.

  “Das Wunderkind. Whatcha doin’ at this ungodly hour?” he asks.

  “Meeting up with some college friends. I don’t have anything due tomorrow, and a buddy’s heading off with the Peace Corps.”

  “So you’re trying to tell me that you’re takin’ off at ten?”

  I hate it when he pulls this self-righteous crap on me.

  “Piss off. I haven’t had a night to myself in the past month.”

  The Defeated One snorts. “Capacity.”

  I ignore him. All I have left is to e-mail the updated version of the LBO model to the Philanderer and I can jump in a cab—I’ll make it to the bar in less than fifteen minutes—when there is a sudden ping: 1 New Message in Outlook.

  It’s so inevitable I can only laugh:

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  We’re going to need some precedent transactions for U.S. beverage buyouts $50M–$300M. Need asap, first thing tomorrow morning.