There's no Love on Wall Street

by Ira Trivedi

  Martha very quickly forgot about me as she got busy with Mark. The other people at the table hardly seemed to notice my presence. I took a sip of my drink and looked around … So this was the infamous Marquee, the investment banker’s paradise. Many of the interns had already made up their mind to spend most of their first pay cheque here. The club was buzzing with people of various colours, shapes and forms, bankers in crumpled suits, girls in tiny shimmery dresses, non-bankers in slick hairdos and big jewelled belts. There were a lot more girls than guys. Maybe that’s why bankers liked this place so much—after spending much of their time in the sexually skewed milieu of the bank they craved the other extreme. I quickly realized I would probably enjoy myself a lot more if I was a little tipsy. That meant downing a few vodka–cranberries in quick succession. Most of the people here were already drunk, and many of the guys were dancing in not the most becoming fashion. Some of the men were looking at me, giving me lecherous smiles. One even came up to try to talk to me; he looked like a banker in his dark blue pinstriped suit, but he was thin, pale, and much too drunk to put together coherent sentences.

  A few vodka–cranberries later I began to enjoy myself, swaying to the music like the other girls, and even smiling back flirtatiously at a few men. Feeling adventurous, I decided to take a walk around the club. As I approached the bar, I saw a group of Goldstein interns. Even though I didn’t remember their names, and I doubt they remembered mine, in our drunken stupor we were all one happy family and we embraced each other. I vaguely remember one of them handing me a funny-looking blue shot which I knocked back, after which I almost gagged. I felt the warmth run down my body and slowly the PowerPoint slides and the Excel spreadsheets that had been plaguing my mind faded away and I began moving effortlessly, swinging my hips in tune to the music. Someone grabbed me from behind suddenly, and I turned around and found myself looking into Ross’s chocolate-brown eyes. I was surprised to see him, even though I guess I shouldn’t have been. He was a banker, it was Thursday night, and this was Marquee. He smiled at me devilishly, kissed my cheek, and then took my hand and pulled me towards the bar. Even though I didn’t particularly want to hang out with him, I didn’t protest because a small part of me was enjoying the attention. Plus, I didn’t really know what else to do with myself here.

  ‘Are you having a good time?’ he bellowed over the loud music.

  ‘Yeah totally, this place is awesome!’

  ‘What?’ he shouted, coming closer to me.

  ‘YES, I AM,’ I said loudly.

  ‘What brings you here tonight?’ he screamed to me.

  ‘Same thing that brings you here, Ross,’ I screamed back trying to sound mildly flirtatious yet disinterested, which was difficult for me to do given my intoxication levels.

  ‘Just hanging out.’

  Ross took my hand and led me towards the exit and I followed him because I didn’t know what else to do. Outside, we stood on the curb with a band of people smoking cigarettes. He pulled a pack from his pocket and offered me one which I declined.

  ‘So Princess, we meet again,’ he said me with a smile.

  I smiled back at him and didn’t protest when he put his arm around my waist and pulled me closer to him. He definitely looked hot tonight in a fitted white T-shirt, black linen blazer, faded blue jeans and silver Louis vuitton sneakers. Not the Ross that I remembered in his scruffy, preppy look from Harvard, but I liked this Euro-trash look on him.

  ‘How’s it going at work?’

  ‘Um, it’s really good actually. I like it a lot so far.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Well, you’d look good as a banker,’ he said with a smile. ‘What’s your group again?’

  ‘I’m in CDOs.’

  ‘Ah, collaterized debt obligations,’ he said slowly. ‘That’s pretty cool, Princess. I think I know the MD of that group.’

  We went back inside once he finished his cigarette, and headed straight towards the bar. Ross ordered a tequila shot for each of us, and even though I knew it was a big mistake, I gulped it down quickly. After the past few days from hell, I wanted to have a good time, and this would definitely help. Ross pulled me closer and as we swayed together to the music, I hoped I didn’t look the way I felt—extremely awkward. It’s not that I disliked Ross, I didn’t trust him. There was always something sleazy about him which had made me uncomfortable. Perhaps, if I had got to know him a little better, I might have discovered another side to him, but it had just never come to that. Besides, he was a reminder of my early transformative days at Wellesley. I was a different person now, more confident and much cooler, and I didn’t like being reminded of the nerdy pre-med student I used to be.

  As I entered the happy alcohol-induced oblivion when all inhibitions are released, I felt his lips on my ears; he was holding me close, too tightly for me to even move. I was tipsy and I felt indebted to hang out with him since he had had bought me a drink, which I really shouldn’t have had. I have vague recollections of dancing with Ross, though I don’t remember what either of us said or did. I do remember him storming away angrily when I wouldn’t go home with him. I tried looking for Martha but couldn’t find her anywhere, and I knew it was time to go home when I tripped over my own feet and hit my head on the bathroom door. With bacchanalian grace I made it back to my dorm building, but unfortunately for me, the night wasn’t over yet. I clumsily walked towards the bedroom and froze in my footsteps when I heard a playful shriek and then a giggle coming from inside. Then a growl. I slowly turned the doorknob and pulled the door open.

  The very pale, very big, bald man who lay atop Martha in her bed stared up at me in shock. Underneath him was Martha, diminutive in comparison. Instead of being surprised she giggled. ‘Roomie … how are you …?’ she sang out. Then she looked up at the man, and whined, ‘Baby, don’t stop.’ The big man gave me a goofy smile and then turned towards Martha, who gave a joyful yelp.

  I quickly shut the door and stood out in the hallway. I was tired beyond belief, and I couldn’t believe that I had been sex-iled and of all people by super-banker, super-athlete, super-everything Martha. I didn’t know what to do. Going back inside the room was out of the question, the sounds emanating were disturbing enough. I thought of calling Ivana, and asking to crash at her place, but I was too hammered to make it all the way there. Unlike the dorms at Wellesley, there wasn’t even a common room where I could sleep. Zombie-like, I walked over to the bathroom and pulled a dirty bedsheet and my damp towel out of the laundry basket and spread them out on the kitchen floor. I used toilet paper as earplugs to block out the noise, lay down on the floor, rolled into a tight ball and quickly slipped into a deep sleep.

  I woke up very hungover and very uncomfortable in my denim skirt that had bunched up around my waist and the prickly sequined top from the night before. A wave of nausea got me out of my makeshift bed and to the bathroom where I hung my head in misery over the pot. How many drinks had I had? And the shots … all those strange coloured shots! Just thinking about them made my tummy rumble, and a vile taste filled my mouth. I had even taken a sip or two, or maybe more, out of Martha’s Coke bottle at some point during the night at Marquee. Today was going to be a very unpleasant day at work.

  There was no sign of Martha. As usual her bed was perfectly made, decorative pillows in place. How the hell had she managed that! I wondered if she had gone for her five-mile run this morning. More likely than not. I looked at the clock. Shit! It was 10 a.m., and I was totally screwed. There was no time to take a shower; I brushed my teeth, washed my face and got dressed in whatever clothes came to hand and rushed out.

  I was sweating and panting by the time I got to the analyst pen where all the other drones were busy working. I attempted to slip into my chair as inconspicuously as possible but …

  ‘Late aren’t we?’ said Sean, in between bites of a glazed doughnut.

  ‘Um, we had an intern breakfast thing this morning actually,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Don’t stress girl, all of us just crawled
here ourselves.’

  ‘Hey Riya!’ Amit turned towards me from his desk, and I saw he boasted all the tell-tale signs of a disastrous night out—blood-shot eyes, dark circles, and greasy hair.

  ‘Hi Amit, you don’t look so good. Everything all right?’

  ‘Yeah, everything’s great! The group had a bit of a disastrous night last night. By the way, help yourself to some Friday brunch,’ he said pointing to a carton of Gatorade and Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

  I was slightly offended that the group had had a night out and had not even bothered to invite me, especially since the other summer analysts went out drinking with their groups all the time. I was pretty sure it was Sally’s doing; she was particularly righteous and knew I was not yet twenty-one, so she had discouraged the group from taking me out for ‘social events’. It’s not like I really wanted to go out with them, they were a really boring bunch, but strategically thinking, it would have been a good opportunity to network within my group.

  I turned to Sean, ‘So you had a crazy night too, I’m guessing.’

  ‘Yeah, it was retarded … we were out till like … I don’t even know when,’ he said shaking his head. He leaned back in his chair, ‘Amit, where did we go after that dive bar on the Upper West Side?’

  ‘That really cool motorcycle bar on the East,’ Amit replied, a silly smile on his pale face as he recalled the night’s revelries.

  Karaoke bars, dive bars and biker joints? These places sounded terrible. Maybe it was a good thing I wasn’t invited. I wanted to go to the cool banker-spots in the Meat-Packing (or Meat-Banking, as the bankers liked to call it) District and Soho, not to the redneck dive bars on the Upper West and Upper East. Amit looked like he was about to collapse. Poor guy. He was nice and helpful enough, but he was so geeky. He reminded me of Liz—geeks who couldn’t really change no matter how much they tried. One late night as Amit and I had sat up working on pitch books he had told me that he didn’t particularly like going out drinking, but it was part of the banker lifestyle. He had slowly taught himself to drink, starting with beer, then rum, and eventually stronger drinks like vodka and whisky. He was a light-weight no more, he could keep his drinks down as well as anyone now, he had told me proudly. As a child growing up in Queens, Amit had often dreamt of the day when he would live the good life in the heart of New York City. That is, till his mother had come in and reprimanded him for daydreaming, ‘Amit beta, don’t you want to come first in your class? You have to study hard to beat all these goras otherwise you’ll be left behind.’ Little Amit had looked at his mother through his thick glasses and obediently nodded, though he was confused because no one was ranked in his fifth grade class. His teacher had looked at him strangely when she had asked her students what they wanted most in life, and Amit had enthusiastically replied that his dream was to come first in his class. Amit had attended college at NYU and worked two part-time jobs to support himself as his parents were disappointed that he was unable to get a scholarship. It was difficult for geeks like him to break into the world of banking, but he had persisted. He took an unpaid internship in operations at an obscure bank in Manhattan the summer after his freshman year, and then a job in investment banking at the same firm the following summer. To pay his bills he worked as a computer programmer during the little free time he had, sleeping an average of three hours a night that summer. All this experience stood him in good stead for recruiting during his junior year, and he landed an internship in operations at Bank of America. He stayed with BofA after he graduated, and during his first year there he heard of an opening at Goldstein Smith and quickly moved. It had taken a while, but finally, Amit was living his dream. He was making more money than his parents ever imagined he would. Goldstein Smith had become his life. He had his first beer at a Goldstein intern event, his first kiss at an analyst event, and lost his virginity after a debauched, drunken Goldstein Smith Christmas party.

  ‘So kid, did you make it out last night?’ Sean interrupted my thoughts.

  ‘Yeah, just for dinner and a movie with some college-friends. It was fun.’

  ‘Smart! I wish I had done the same thing. I wouldn’t have been a fucking lump then. Time to caffeinate,’ he said, popping open a can of Red Bull and taking a noisy gulp.

  Disgusting! I didn’t feel the need to disclose my social life to the group or share the details of my night out at the coolest club in the city. I figured it was better if they thought I was hard-working and geeky like Amit. They wanted someone who would devote their entire life to the bank, and it was easier to do that if your life was devoid of any social activity.

  Watching Sean scarf up his doughnut made my mouth water. I could not resist the temptation of a jelly-filled doughnut. Unsteady in my high heels, I teetered over and grabbed a doughnut and a bottle of Gatorade. An elixir to my sugar-deprived body. I saw Sally approaching the analyst pen, and quickly opened a file on my desk and an Excel spreadsheet on the monitor in front of me and pretended to work. I desperately hoped and prayed that she wasn’t coming for me; I was in no position to do anything even the least bit productive.

  ‘Riya.’

  ‘Yes?’ I swivelled around and saw Sally standing behind me, looking pale and tired. I wondered if she ever went out with the group, though I couldn’t imagine her at a bar, or anywhere other than in office. She looked clinical in a pair of grey trousers and a loose-fitting white blouse. Her hair was appropriately tied back in a tight bun and there wasn’t even a little bit of make-up on her drawn face. I desperately wished I could take her for a shopping trip to Sephora. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t take a little bit of care about the way she looked. She wasn’t fat, or that ugly. In fact if she took off those horrendous glasses, she might even pass off as cute in a nerdy sort of a way. All the bankers that I had ever seen were so well turned out. Just my luck to get a badly dressed, bitchy boss. As usual she gave me the once over; I detected less disapproval than the other days, perhaps because I was poorly dressed.

  ‘These pitch books need updating. Make sure Amit checks all your work. I would appreciate no mistakes this time. I need these ready for a meeting tomorrow.’

  ‘Sure, Sally. I’ll get on them right away,’ I said trying to sound enthusiastic even though it was as if a dark cloud had suddenly descended upon me. Since it was Friday, and I was so hungover, I had been hoping to somehow pass my time till 6 p.m. and leave. I felt like such shit I wasn’t sure how I would even survive the next few hours, let alone update a pile of pitch books. Just my luck. It was going to be another long, gruelling day and possibly night. I grabbed another glazed doughnut; I needed the sugar to get me through the day. Three long hours of PowerPoint later, just when my eyes ceased to focus and I thought my head would crack into two, I got a call from Sally.

  ‘Riya, I need some books delivered immediately, please come pick them up.’

  ‘I’ll be there right away.’ I got up from the seat that I had been glued to for the past hour and ran over to Sally’s desk. By her feet lay a teetering stack of pitch books.

  ‘These have to be delivered ASAP,’ she said without taking her eyes off the screen.

  ‘Um, sure, I’ll just get the delivery guys to pick these up.’

  ‘Riya, I can call the delivery boys myself. I want you to deliver these,’ she said curtly.

  ‘Um, all right, sure,’ I said confused.

  ‘We’re running on a bit of a tight budget with this deal, so you won’t be able to take a car. But I’m sure you can manage by subway.’

  I stared at her in disbelief. The subway! She couldn’t be serious.

  ‘We’re in a rush here, I’ve just emailed you the addresses.’

  I struggled to lift the heavy stack and wobbled back to my desk in my heels. Sean was horrified when I told him that I had to deliver the books by subway. He lent me his backpack so I could carry the pitch books and helped me plan my itinerary around Manhattan using hopstop.com. I was petrified of the confusing subway systems of New York, and had so far
stuck to the only train I knew—the friendly number 6. I didn’t fool around with the alphabet trains because I just knew I would get lost. According to Sean’s map, I had six stops to make from Brooklyn to Morningside Heights, taking all sorts of strange trains. I pulled on my sneakers and walked to the nearest subway.

  It was a hot, muggy summer evening, beads of perspiration dotted my forehead as I hunched over from the weight of the pitch books, feeling very much like a mule. The train was crowded and I didn’t get a seat, nor did anybody offer me one. Even worse, I got bumped around as people rudely pushed against my backpack. Didn’t they realize that there was a person on the other side? My first stop was 116th Street, somewhere near Columbia University, where I had to drop off the books at a lawyer’s office. I finally found a free seat and gratefully sat down, relieving myself of my burden. I closed my eyes for just a second … I wasn’t going to sleep, just relax for a few seconds … I had a long way to go.

  ‘Hey lady, those your books?’

  ‘Huh?’ The voice jolted me out of my slumber. Shit, the zip on Sean’s backpack had broken and the books were spilling out of the backpack and on to the aisle. I got on my knees, scuffling on the floor, hastily gathering the precious books. ‘Where are we?’ I asked the gentleman sitting next to me.

  ‘96th Street, dear.’

  ‘What? But weren’t we on Wall Street a few minutes ago?’

  ‘This is the express train, dear.’

  Great. According to my directions, I was supposed to switch over to the west side at Times Square. I was en route to Harlem right now and I wouldn’t be able to get off the train till it reached 125th Street. My errand was doomed from the very beginning. Though I tried my best to follow Sean’s directions, I made all the subway mistakes possible. I ended up in Queens instead of Brooklyn, took trains in the wrong direction, missed my stop and had to go back all the way. I was yelled at by homeless people, crabby subway conductors and receptionists, stepped in puke on the subway and piss-puddles all over Manhattan and Brooklyn and, to add to my misery, got gum stuck on my ass from the seat on the subway. Seven dreadful hours, and a panoramic tour of underground Manhattan, later, all the books were finally delivered to the addresses. My back ached and I very seriously considered the possibility that I had fractured something. I was soaked in my own sweat as well as that of all the people I had rubbed shoulders, and who knew what else, with. My head felt ready to explode and my stomach was churning with acid. All I wanted to do was pass out in bed, but there was work to be done. My BlackBerry had been beeping madly, I had forty-five unchecked emails, and a set of pitch books to update in the next few hours.