Damn, It Feels Good To Be a Banker

by Leveraged Sellout

  Finance has produced some of the best poker players ever. Erik Seidel, Alan Goehring, Bill Chen, and others have all worked in or around Wall Street. We’re used to taking positions worth millions of dollars on a daily basis, so sitting down at a $1,000/$2,000 No-Limit cash game is really kind of a joke—even in the Big Game, the stakes are always negligible. In a contest largely dictated by one’s ability to play smart and not get off balance due to swings, Bankers are untiltable.

  I leave Jon’s room and head into the shower, where Kiehl’s takes on a residual nightclub smell, heads up. On the way, the sounds of the movie get my attention, and as I walk by the TV, I see some Bankers pushing a huge elephant off the side of a cliff. Poor earnings this quarter? I figure. I remember that my roommate’s firm and others (such as Susquehanna and Lehman Brothers) actually require their employees to play poker; they give them a set amount of money and monitor their performance. There’s even a Wall Street World Series of Poker, which I imagine makes the original look like a bunch of construction workers playing low-stakes Go Fish in an unfinished basement in Schenectady.

  Enjoying the comfort of my own bathroom, I remember a prop bet I made with a colleague when I first got into Banking. He had already been in the office for twenty-four hours, and I bet him $500 that he couldn’t last a week without leaving. It wasn’t about the money; it was about perseverance. He showered in the gym, slept under a conference table, and had new clothes delivered to him daily by an obedient Brooks Brothers shop girl. Turns out a week was no big deal; he had gone nine days just the month before without even realizing it.

  After I’ve showered and selected a casual weekend outfit of jeans and a polo, I’m eager to get back to being productive. The upcoming summer will be relaxing and these few free hours were fun, but I just don’t feel right unless I’m out there working, breathing life into the economy.

  Jon’s leaving for his golf outing just as I’m taking off, and we make our exit together. I must have neglected to shut off the TV, because 300 is still playing in the background when we depart. As the door closes, I hear: “Bankers! Prepare for glory!”

  * * *

  INSIDER INFO WITH CHRIS, A MARKET MAKER

  I did exactly two things in college—trade via a personal satellite dish I didn’t really need just so I could be like Ken Griffin, founder of Citadel Group, and play No-Limit Texas Hold ’Em. I’m not the luckiest person, but based on pure skill and Trading sense, I am able to win with all sorts of hands.

  Last month, I was at the Bellagio in Vegas, and I sat down at a table with a bunch of pros, including Phil Hellmuth. I didn’t give a shit who they were. From the get-go I was playing super-loose and aggressive, like we Traders are known to. I threw my cash in everyone’s face. Some of the players called me a “donkey,” and an old lady watching made weird fishy noises as she writhed about the casino floor. Whatever, I was in their heads.

  On one hand, I was dealt 10-2 offsuit in position, and Phil Hellmuth had raised big pre-flop. My hand was quite horrible for the average player, but I paused for a moment and stared at The Brat, using the intuition I learned Trading to pierce his soul. I raised him all in.

  As it turns out, I rivered a royal flush on the last card, and Phil’s suited ace-king didn’t hold up. I could tell from Phil’s reaction that in all his games of poker, he had never faced such a formidable opponent.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he said, out of breath and barely whispering.

  I cocked my head to the side slightly and pulled down my sunglasses so he could soak me in.

  “I’m the Michael Milken of poker,” I responded matter-of-factly.

  He contorted his face, now even more confused.

  I sighed at his ignorance of the 1980s high-yield bond market and explained: “I win with junk.”

  * * *

  FACT #14

  This is how we do it on Broad & Wall, bitch!

  Partying

  MOST PEOPLE LACK a fundamental understanding of partying. What generally happens is that an individual and his friends will find a party niche in which they become comfortable and then try to exploit that niche for as much fun as possible. This thinking is severely flawed.

  Bankers, on the other hand, focus on optimizing across a set of discrete party factors, leading to the greatest overall output in both the long term and a given session. It’s basic linear programming, a mathematical technique frequently applied to economics. The practice involves optimizing an “objective function” based on a set of “constraints.” As Bankers, we’re trying to maximize drinks, quality music, dancing, and, of course, girls. Our only real constraint is time.

  We solve for this function by distributing our time appropriately across a set of very defined venues.

  In e-mail, Bankers are masters of the fragment: “Will get back to you ASAP.” “Feedback strong.” “Now.” To achieve even greater efficiency, these phrases are often just inserted as the subject of e-mails with no bodies.

  On Fridays, I receive around thirty e-mails from friends discussing the night’s activities. We still use fragments, but the subject lines are slightly different: “Roof coming off tonight.” “Game faces on.” And, my personal favorite, “Better bring the umbrella.”

  These e-mails get me amped to roll hard, and with my game face on, I’ll be sitting on the edge of my Aeron chair, fueled and eager to explode out onto the night. My foot taps restlessly on my ergonomic foot pillow as I procrastinate efficiently, and when it’s around 10:30 and the work has abated, I’ll know it’s go-time.

  We have a new Analyst in our group, Chris, who’s been slaving away dutifully, and I figure he’s due for a proper Banker night out. I walk over to his chair and find him passed out with a hand on his mouse and an almost-clever Microsoft Excel screensaver bouncing around his monitor. Good thought, poor implementation, I think. He’s peaceful, in a pathetic, hobo-asleep-on-the-street kind of way. I touch his shoulder, and he leaps to life. “I’ll have those numbers in a few hours!” he shouts, shuffling around nonexistent papers.

  I calm him down and let him know that I am not actually our VP, but his instincts are developing well. After five to ten minutes of explanation, he’s finally convinced. “Time to roll!” I notify, loosening my tie slightly. But he resists, blaming a mountain of work.

  I won’t stand for it.

  “Chris,” I advise him gently. “It’s not all about work.” I am a sage imparting knowledge to a naive pupil.

  He stares at me confused, as if I’ve just uttered the unimaginable.

  “It’s about us,” I explain, using my index finger to point between him and me—two young financiers in the greatest city in the universe. I pause, reflecting on how manly I made that otherwise questionable statement sound. I continue, with gravity: “It’s about this.” And I point a finger in the air and circle, motioning to our entire building.

  I want him to comprehend the true meaning of working on Wall Street. He needs to grasp the work hard–roll hard duality that makes our lives so distinct and amazing. I bring my arms together, ball up my fists, and clench them close to my chest. “It’s about Banking,” I finish. And I catch a glimmer of understanding in his eyes.

  Bars

  We start the night at a bar near the office. Their happy hours start late, and as we walk into the packed space, it’s obvious that a drink special held at five o’clock, or six, or whenever regular people get out of work would have fallen flat on its face. Know your customer, I think, pondering whether they also have a happy hour at 3:30 a.m. on Tuesday nights—another popular time Bankers leave work in need of a drink.

  One might think that Bankers wouldn’t deign to go to bars, where the world’s poor, depressed, and ugly gather to discuss relationship issues, bitch about gasoline prices, and toast “to friendship.” But for us, bars aren’t welcoming meeting grounds or places where people know our names; they’re places of utility. Bars facilitate maximum drinking and, if selected properly, will offer a good mix of Banker music
and dancing.

  Established Banker bars are great, but every Banker also frequents a few truly gritty dives where we can get a brief lens into the dismal life of an average man. It’s an experience, like being taken on a field trip to an inner-city school. I’m more open-minded now than when I was eight, but I still can’t help pointing and whispering about how deprived and sad everyone looks.

  I organize our night via numerous texts and e-mails on my BlackBerry as Chris rambles on about how he’s enjoying the firm’s culture. “Face time’s over, kid.” I tell him. We have a few options: a friend who lives nearby is having a rooftop party we could swing through; there’s also a benefit for some noble cause going on, where we could don tuxedos and help better society.

  Benefits

  Banks as institutions and Bankers individually are huge sponsors of benefits, and as a result, the affairs are often schmooze sessions for Wall Street’s finest. They include but are not limited to: dinners, live music, open bars, dancing, and auctions (both silent and open-outcry). When Bankers get into a bidding war over a certain piece, the fervor takes on the intensity of a Trading pit, each participant bumping up the price with unrelenting conviction—that’s how much we care about making a difference.

  I’m not really feeling either option, but the word rooftop piques Chris’s interest. I ignore him and decide that since it’s Chris’s first real night out, I’ll call up a few friends and tell them to meet us at one of the Meatpacking District’s hottest nightclubs, in true Banker fashion.

  Clubs

  As the lights of the heaters hovering above the red carpet become visible, I hear Chris let out a worried sigh. He’s spotted the line—a mass of people winding around the block composed of those lacking enough merit to get into the club without first standing outside for forty-five minutes.

  I pay it no mind. I spot my friends and walk over to them. Chris isn’t behind me anymore, and I see that he’s started to make his way to the back of the queue. We fall all over one another in laughter, slapping and socking arms.

  “Chris. Get over here!” I scream across the street.

  “First day on the job?” someone asks.

  He jogs back and stands with us, doe-eyed, as we briefly chat up the bouncer. I instruct him to focus, as if this were his first day of training and I were a partner giving a speech that would prep him for the rest of his life. “Pay attention, Chris,” I coach, motioning for him to watch closely. We buy bottles.

  Bottle Service

  Bottle service, table service, or the act of “getting bottles” consists of purchasing one or more bottles of top-shelf liquor at a rather inflated price and getting seated at one’s own table. This product was designed to play to the Banker’s soft spots. It essentially removes the need to wait in line, saving time; prime, elevated status within the club is instantly achieved; and it’s an easy way to drop several thousand dollars and broadcast the fact that you are doing so.

  The convenience of bottles is so great that I’ve adapted it to the rest of my life, whenever I’m hoping to skirt a queue and get prompter service. Long line at the post office? I’ll take a bottle, Mr. Postman. Starbucks too crowded in the morning? Two bottles—Americanos. This practice might not initially be universally understood, but shoving a few hundred dollars in someone’s face tends to get the desired effect. And it just feels good.

  We roll into the club, five dudes deep, and I wink and silently hand-gun some Long Island meathead and his overly made-up girlfriend. “That B-in Econ 101 at junior college really stings now, doesn’t it?” my glare conveys, and the girlfriend looks at us longingly. Meathead’s huge muscles sag, rendered irrelevant.

  The glasses at our table are set up in an elaborate configuration around an ice bucket and two carafes of juice, orange and cranberry. This situation has overwhelmed his senses, and Chris physically can’t speak, he’s in such a state of shock. As the waitress pours our first round, I hear the subtle clink of our private section being closed off with velvet rope, and the not-so-subtle clink of us toasting (not to “friendship”).

  I don’t know how many times I’ve gotten bottle service; it’s not worth counting. Once I even went with my Korean colleague Chang to this nightclub in K-town called Camel. The bottles were Johnny Black then, not Grey Goose, and they came out with an ornate plate of fruit: watermelon, honeydew, and cantaloupe. At Camel, Chang was no longer timid and docile; he was confident, talked up girls easily, and had several clawing all over him, hanging on his every word. I felt like I was watching a movie of my life, and Chang was the anime character playing me.

  Back in the real world, I’m the one flanked by gorgeous females. Even after all these times of bottle service, the sensation of our lofty status in the club is exhilarating. I spot a VP of mine, The Game, at a table with suboptimal position, and he raises his glass to me, enviously. Then I look next to me and see Chris, who is now gawking at a lanky, blond girl in a tube top she’s pawning off as a dress. She’s a reasonable target, albeit standard. “Get to it,” I tell him, but he brushes it off, assuring me that he’s “all good.” His edification in my hands, I lift him up by the arm, take him over to the blonde, and say, shouting slightly over the music: “Hi. This is Chris.” I point at Chris. Then I deliver the silver bullet, slowly and articulately: “He works in finnance.”

  I let the magic phrase sink in, and within seconds, her face is covered in a bright red blush. The true power of Banker Game shows itself yet again.

  Banker Game

  Banker Game is unstoppable. Genuine self-confidence is a quality that pickup artists across the world try to capture and teach; it is also a quality all Bankers innately possess. We exude a certain magnetism that women just can’t resist, and they flock to us like idiotic investors to Jim Cramer’s stock recommendations.

  Most normal guys have to focus on “openers” or “lines” to get women to talk to and be interested in them. But Chris didn’t even have to form a complete sentence after meeting his girl. I looked over a few minutes later and could read her lips saying, as if she were in some Wall Street version of Jerry Maguire: “You had me at finnance.”

  The night goes well for all of us, and we’re soon swatting away girls like they’re headhunters.

  I briefly think about the bottle service e-mail that’s going to be sent tomorrow. It will be another fragment—“Came to $2,500”—from whoever ends up taking down the bill tonight, and we’ll know where to send our share of the tab. When we used to go out with my Consultant roommate, Rob, we would make bets on how long it would take him to respond to the bottle service e-mail, haggling about the price. He was worse than Banker Chicks, who at least don’t even offer to pay when we go out after a work event. Rob, on the other hand, would send out a response like: “Actually, guys, I only really drank 2.35 drinks last night while you all had 4 each, so I really should not have to cough up as much as everyone else…” And then I would win the bet, because I knew it would never take a Consultant more than five seconds to start bitching about money.

  I’m speaking to the girl on my left, and it’s instinctive, as “modeling” always is for me. I’m not in Excel, but I multitask, now considering whether I should let Chris go home with the blonde or whether we should leave to experience yet another crucial aspect of the Banker Partying Paradigm.

  He still hasn’t been to a strip club, and I want to gauge his reaction to a $50 ATM fee and the marriage proposal of an Eastern European illegal alien. But I reason that he may enjoy the experience more when it’s a group-wide thing, and he can expense himself a private room. Chris also hasn’t yet been a part of Banker Karaoke, and I know he needs to be trained to give a strong presentation, even if he has no idea what the words are.

  I look over and see that he’s finally at ease and chatting away with his girl, and I realize we will have more nights to party together; he’s not a bad kid. Plus, I’d feel like a cock block going in there at this point. I rework that phrase: I’d feel like a white knight, going in t
o buy a strategic shareholding of a company to “save” it from takeover. I don’t want to be either at this point because, as The Game loves to say, “After a hard day of M&A, there’s nothing like bringing home some T&A.”

  Chris motions to get my attention. One arm around the blonde, he points between us, around us, and finally pulls his fist close to his chest. “Us.” “This.” “Banking,” he says, in turn. And I see more than a glimmer of understanding in his eyes.

  * * *

  INSIDER INFO WITH SHANE, A BOUNCER

  Bankers are the best customers, hands down.

  One time, a Banker tipped me $1,000 just for remembering his name.

  I’ll see a group of like eight of them come in and sometimes only six will leave (each with his own harem of girls, of course). Do the other two helicopter off the roof or use some special Banker magic?

  I’ve even got the lingo down now. They’ll show up, and I’ll say: “How’s the deal flow, boys?” Then it’s: Wink. Nod. $200 in my pocket.

  And get this, last week this guy came through and started dancing on the bar like he was in Coyote Ugly. Kinda gay, right? Afterward, he came outside and started doing a “back of the envelope valuation” and started saying some shit about putting in a “generous bid” on the bar. I don’t know what the hell any of that means, and I didn’t see any envelope, but I guess you can do whatever you want when you roll that deep.

  What planet are these dudes from, anyway? More important, do they need bouncers on that planet? I bet they tip pretty well there.

  * * *

  CASE STUDY: THE BENEFIT

  This is a tribute to philanthropy.

  After learning all the compelling aspects of the industry, you might wonder, “What’s really the best part about being in finance?”