On occasion, I’ll put aside the club scene and take a night where I can really get crunk. These nights, my roommates and I will go to a nearby bar to put on what we refer to as “a clinic.”
We begin by pre-gaming at our place. The night has no intention of being elegant or extravagant. It’s the kind of night where we play quarters and other binge-drinking games at our apartment, get smashed, and head out. I throw on my Princeton ring, because it shines in the light when I’m holding a drink in my hand and dancing, and as soon as Jon has done a CCC Walk—a Crip walk tribute to poorly rated bonds—across the kitchen floor, we roll.
In the cab, we review the rules:
1. Every bittie loves a Banker. It doesn’t matter whether a girl is with her mom, brother, or boyfriend, she will leave anyone to be with us.
2. No broke girls, no Banker Chicks—mutually inclusive and self-exploratory.
3. Bankers do not do ethnic dances. The salsa, merengue, bhangra, tango, and so on are never, ever implemented by Bankers. This is not out of ignorance or racism, but rather because these dances are trivial and ordinary when compared to our own.
There are several bars in Manhattan that are perfect places to roll hard, and we arrive at one of them, buzzed and ready to tear the roof off.
I enter casually, surveying the scene and soaking in the ambiance. The bar is situated immediately to the right, and a thin walkway leads to the open back area. There’s a good girl-guy ratio, and the crowd is mostly young professional with some B&T sprinkled in. I spot a guy in an AGP-ass Armani Exchange shirt. So B-list, I think, but the bar is acceptable for tonight’s purposes.
From behind me, Jon’s deep voice booms over the music, announcing our arrival. “Wall Street in da house!” he booms. And I lean back slightly and do a mini roof-raise.
The music is Banker. We make our way toward the bar to the sounds of “Eye of the Tiger,” and although a thick crowd of people is trying to get drinks, I throw up one finger in the air victoriously.
This is my favorite dance move, as it informs everyone that not only am I Top Tier and top 1 percent of society, but also that I was valedictorian of my high school. For added effect, I’ll often put my extended index finger in some guy’s face or throw up both hands in emphasis. An envious viewer might see this prestigious move and raise a meek finger to mimic it, but his action will go unnoticed, like a Back Office guy trying to hail a black car.
My message has been sent loud and clear, and I’ve established my presence. Guys and girls alike look at me enviously. An easy crowd, I think. Gopal, overeager as ever, says: “Hostile takeover?” I slap him swiftly across the face.
Three Stellas in hand, we head to the back area where a group of girls is dancing. Normal guys do “laps” around the bar and contemplate their approaches, but we aren’t normal guys.
On cue, the DJ tosses on the International Banking Anthem: “Josie’s on a vacation far away!” belts out of the speakers.
Everyone goes wild, throwing up their arms and oohing and aahing as if they had written the song themselves.
Within moments, I have a bidder who meets my asking price—a cute brunette in a red sundress, a reasonable partner. We dance, and she seems mystified by my moves. She tries her best to keep up, but I sense inexperience and forcefully pull her in for a brief version of a move I usually do with work, Eighteen-Hour Grind.
I spin her around multiple times so she feels like a ballerina and reel her in for the inverted version, crossing her arms across her stomach. We rock back and forth for half an hour or so.
The virtuoso DJ continues to please, inciting similarly profound reactions with every new track. He skillfully mixes David Bowie into Puff Daddy into Elton John back into Bon Jovi, topping things off with some Enrique. I look over to inspect who this wildly talented artist is, and I find he’s wearing a tight black T-shirt and a leather vest. He has several piercings and tattoos to match his thick gold necklace, but he’s so in touch with our culture that I can’t help but tilt my head and think: Banker?
As the chorus to “Hungry Like the Wolf” comes on, I can feel my partner’s thin stomach grumble slightly through her dress. I turn to face her. “Resist the temptation!” my eyes encourage. She nods sheepishly in resolution.
Tim McGraw’s “Something Like That” gets played, and I instinctively look across the dance floor at Jon—Trading is so country. He’s doing the only move his less-than-lithe body can manage, but, like a good Trader, he’s not afraid to Buy the Dips, and takes his twist down real low. His blue button-down has a stain on it, but it doesn’t affect his game. He’s pilfered someone else’s girl, and we virtual high-five each other across the dance floor in celebration of rule #1.
The brunette has been entertaining, but when the Jackson 5 comes on, it’s time to go solo.
“ABC. Easy as 1 2 3,” they sing playfully, as a circle forms around me.
I have the entire bar’s attention. My body is stiff, and my rigid movements make it appear as if I’m doing the Robot. But the keen in the crowd realize that I’m not “popping” and “locking,” I’m rigidly moving only my fingers, “copying” and “pasting” (special—transpose—values).
The Excel Modeler
Next, I imagine myself a wealthy old man and circle a halo over my head with one hand. I’m the Angel Investor, and I pretend to flick money out of my pocket, as if I’m willing to offer start-up capital to businesses on generous terms. I’m feeling particularly generous, and I flick out real currency to a few excited onlookers.
A few minutes into the session, a different girl tugs at me in an effort to pull me out of the circle, and I stop to catch my breath and chat with her for a second. We go through the familiar pleasantries, and as she fidgets with an earring, she tells me that she’s a Retail Banker at Wachovia.
Ouch, I think, the corners of my mouth pulling back in embarrassment for her. I know what I have to do; it’s mean, but it has to happen. Rule #2. Taking a step away, I wave one finger in front of her face. The No Interest Loan lets her know that, like the name of the dance move, she doesn’t exist.
Hurt splatters across her face, and I feel a moment of remorse. Perhaps that was too harsh. It’s obvious that she just wants to be included, so out of pity, I lead her to dance on a table and encourage her to begin the Asset Stripper. “Pour Some Sugar on Me!” she sings along, gyrating like a sorority girl after too many games of flip cup, and we value her like a company, deciding which parts we’d keep or sell off.
“Kinda nice cheekbones!” Jon screams. “Her ankles aren’t bad either,” I add. We put our fingers to our lips and humor her for a second, but ultimately, we decide she’s a bad opportunity and move on.
In search of lubrication, I head over to the bar to order three shots of Jägermeister. The bartender doesn’t even have to ask me what I’m ordering; she just knows and doles out the viscous black Banker grease.
As I’m returning, I hear the horrific thumping of that Knight Rider Panjabi MC song. “Noo!” I scream at the DJ. “Fuck you!” The entire club turns and focuses on Gopal, as if he’s meant to instruct them on how to properly move to the music. “It’s your song!” someone screams and points. He blushes, loving his one moment in the limelight.
I lazily down my Jäger and watch Gopal’s two seconds of fame. He’s on a roadshow, raising capital left and right—I’m pleased with how his IBD-envy is manifesting itself. But just then, Gopal begins to modify the dance, enacting an odd, screwing-in-lightbulbs variation.
What the hell is that? I think, watching his shoulders move up and down rapidly, as if possessed. After a moment, I deduce that it’s something sort of ethnic.
Infuriated, I get his attention and hold three fingers in front of my face. “Rule number three,” I mouth, turning my hand around in emphasis. Realizing he’s violated the code, he returns to our better, more Banker, and more American routine.
Raise the Capital
I shake off that experience and start heading back toward
the dance area, but I’m quickly distracted. I spot a beautiful, blond debutante swaggering through the club. This girl, however, is in a black sundress, and she’s overloaded with self-confidence. As she approaches, I act totally blasé and press my phone to my ear, putting one finger to my lips. I mouth “On a Call” to her as she passes and shake my head, uninterested. She’s confused at first, but stops and considers the situation. The move never fails, and like the people near my desk at work, she shuts up and lets me get down to business.
Her name is Emily, and it becomes immediately apparent that this is the kind of girl who methodically hunts prestige in men, following the league tables just so she will know who to sleep with. Unabashed, she asks, “So, what do you do in The City?”
Innovative question, I admit to myself. I start to respond, but halt as I hear that the DJ has recalibrated. He puts on “Raise Up” by Petey Pablo, and I decide. I’ll show rather than tell her with the Private Chopper. The Wachovia girl screeches in glee from across the bar, pleased by the reference to her company’s headquarters in North Carolina. But there’s still no interest in her.
On a Call
In a swift movement, I remove my building badge and whip it around my head like a helicopter.*
With the eyes of an intrigued child, Emily looks up at the plastic card. Eager to know what it says, she nearly jumps off her toes to grasp it. At last, she catches the name of my Bank in the strobe light, and awe spreads over her face. I hear her gasp, and her lip nearly bleeds, she bites it so hard.
My badge is like a Banker version of the bat signal, and Emily’s friend comes running over to join. “I’m Ashley,” she offers eagerly, bouncing and waving.
“Oh I know,” I respond, instinctively. Then I add: “I work on the Buy Side.”
The three of us dance together in a little Double Gearing. Sandwiched between them, mashing up and down to “Ignition,” I’m a Bank working with multiple insurance companies, except I’m not that kind of Bank, and insurance companies are, in general, disgusting.
The clinic continues to the tunes of Destiny’s Child, Big Pun, Black-street, and Prince. “Sweet Childo’ Mine” gets bookended by “Come on Eileen” and Paula Abdul’s “Straight Up.” When “Song of the South” comes on, I almost go hoarse screaming: “This is my JAM!”
The Private Chopper
I sit down with my girls for a while, half-listening as they gossip, each referring to the other by what sounds like a letter, not a first name. Looking out at the dance floor I realize it must be late, as Jon is still out there, now stumbling around drunk doing the Random Walk to “Dancing with Myself.” I briefly try to predict the movements of his feet, but it’s impossible. I want to find an underlying pattern to Jon’s lurching, but Efficient Market Theory also apparently applies to drunk dancing.
The crowd has thinned, and Gopal is in a corner pretending to text someone I know doesn’t exist. I send him a quick SMS, and I see that he reads it immediately. He turns back to me, wounded, and, to emphasize his failure, I mouth the text to him, slowly: “GOOD LUCK IN THE SPRRRING, FITZWATER.”
With Gopal now in tears, it’s time for me to exit gracefully, so I grab my two conquests by the hand and start to leave the club with them in tow.
On my way out, I pass the DJ. I look at him curiously, still trying to figure out how he managed to pack so many hit Banker tracks onto his laptop. He throws up a strong fist as I walk by, and on his finger, I think I spot a Princeton ring that matches my own.
The sight of the Shield takes me back, and I realize that since school, these past couple years have gone exactly as planned. I’m a young, successful financier in New York with more money than I can spend. I work in The Greatest Profession on Earth. I’m wearing four-hundred-dollar loafers and a custom-tailored shirt I might just throw away because it’s got a spot of Jäger on it. I actually took a night away from getting bottles, only to end up going home with two drop-dead gorgeous girls who insist on calling each other “Em” and “A.”
Damn, it feels good to be a Banker.
I continue walking, and the bouncer opens the door in grand fashion for me and my girls. Exiting, I free one hand and bang an imaginary bell over my head. The market is closed.
PERFORMANCE REVIEW #4
1. There is a thirty-second line outside of a club, and there is an open bar all night. Bottle service costs $400 for two bottles. What is the most appropriate way to roll?
The Correct Answer
2. Rate the following artists on a scale of 1 (hipster) to 10 (Banker): a. Death Cab for Cutie
b. John Mellencamp
c. Michelle Branch
d. Green Day
e. Creed
The Correct Answer
3. Is X a Banker song? X is from the eighties.
X is by Madonna. a. Statement (1) by itself is sufficient to answer the question, but statement (2) by itself is not;
b. Statement (2) by itself is sufficient to answer the question, but statement (1) by itself is not;
c. Statements (1) and (2) taken together are sufficient to answer the question, even though neither statement by itself is sufficient;
d. Either statement by itself is sufficient to answer the question;
e. Statements (1) and (2) taken together are not sufficient to answer the question, requiring more data pertaining to the problem.
The Correct Answer
4. You work at Bank of America. Which of the following dances are you not permitted to do? a. The Private Chopper
b. The Top Tier
c. The Random Walk
d. All of the above
The Correct Answer
5. Benefits are ways for Bankers to a. Rationalize an open bar
b. Dance to live music
c. Save lives
d. Blow money on auctions
e. All of the above
The Correct Answer
6. If you are a Banker, you are living the _____.
Conclusion
I CAN ONLY IMAGINE that the majority of the material in this book went over your head. Nonetheless, I hope that reading these facts and stories from my prestigious life and my burgeoning career in finance has left you with an inexplicable sense of something in the base of your stomach. That feeling is envy.
You should now, at the very least, have a better understanding of society’s most elite subset. I’m only beginning my personal journey on Wall Street and will be tearing it up for a long time to come. So if you do find yourself among Bankers for some reason, it’s not necessary to flex your newfound knowledge or try to relate to us. No—just show some deference and get the hell out of our way.
I’m not going to thank you for reading this text, as it was I who did you a service. Nonetheless, I’ll leave you with a ritual compliment Bankers pay to one another after times of great accomplishment and significant global impact.
“Good work this week.”
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank the following institutions for their commitment to serving Bankers:
Tenjune
John Allen
Hampton Jitney
Hermès Shop Girls
Lord Willy’s
Research In Motion
Wilhelmina Models
Bonobos Pants
The Patriot Saloon
Q
Teterboro Airport
Bergdorf Goodman
917-988-0069 (beeper)
The Microsoft Office Suite
Also: my agent, Byrd—you would have made an excellent Trader. My editor, Brendan—strong attention to detail. And Amit Chatwani, the Indian drone to whom I outsourced the actual typing of this text. Any errors are due to his lack of fluency.
About the Author
Leveraged Sell-Out, of the blog that lampoons the world of finance, is Amit Chatwani. A Princeton graduate who spent his first year out of college living with nine other investment bankers, he is now a management consultant. Chatwani lives in New York City.
; * Consultant here means Strategy/Management Consultant. IT consultants, financial consultants, and actuarial consultants would not even be allowed the honor of standing under the awning of our building. They would be around the corner in an eighth-floor apartment of a walk-up building with rats, a crazy Polish superintendent, and no A/C, sweatily clinging to one of those mini-fans you had in elementary school. And the fan’s batteries would be dying.
* Me.
† Ibid.
*The Blackstone Group’s Investment Banking arm receives special consideration among the Bulge Brackets because of spillover private equity prestige.
* Summa in da house!
* Sadly, there are people who work with this scale of capital, but they are not Bankers, they are called day traders. Day traders sit at home all day long in sweatpants eating Doritos, watching CNBC, and talking to other high school dropouts on Internet chat rooms with the goal of getting that one “hot stock pick” that will finally make them enough money to buy braces for their hideous thirteen-year-old daughter.
* Bain Capital has been removed from this group because of its affiliation with Bain Consulting.
* Of course, electrons do “jump” orbitals, but in finance, this is quite dangerous and actively avoided.
* Many people refer to Duke as “The Princeton of the South.” This doesn’t refer to Princeton University, but to Princeton County Community College (P3C), which opened up its first satellite branch in Durham, NC, and named it after its most notable alumnus—some dude named Duke.
Damn, It Feels Good To Be a Banker Page 13
