”F$%#! F&%! F*&%!” – were the only sounds mustered by Steve Wagman, as he was running toward his perching spot in the corner of the trading floor. Having just left for a couple of minutes for a rare bathroom break, he could hardly comprehend his misfortune. The horror paralyzed his rather extensive university vocabulary, as his weakening hands were struggling to finish a zipping job on his pants. At this moment no amount of air could have saved him from the apoplectic feeling of utter hopelessness and despair – a phone call from his golden and almost only client was answered, oh horror, by a first year flunky fresh from an MBA school!
No matter what amount of telephone manner training he put into this foreign born clod, he was never satisfied with results. No amount of “hellos” and “how can I help yous” could adequately reflect Steve’s desire to please his most important money maker – Laidlaw Inc., whose every little whim, intonation and sigh meant worlds to his bonus and bragging rights. He could not waste a single syllable on things that could upset Sandy, the assistant treasurer at the fateful outfit. She could have been just a regular everyday working person for anybody who knew her. To Wagman though, her voice invoked the most reverent of feelings that can only be bought with hard cold cash.
Now he could hardly keep himself from hurling a full-sized office chair at the cowering serf. On the brink of having to be restrained, Steve slowly calmed down by repeating the three-word twelve letter mantra of a professional investment banker. After all, the damage had been done, as this fart of an MBA had informed Sandy that Steve was away. This was a “No, No” on the trading floor – one could not simply insinuate from Steve’s absence his unavailability. Being on the toilet simply did not qualify as a sufficient excuse – an apparent fact hidden from the only person on the floor who happened to answer the phone, me!
If I Had a Job
The dreary wet Vancouver autumn constantly reminded everyone taking the MBA program at UBC that our previously solid and fraternal world was showing many a foundational crack with some as wide as the continent itself. Just over a short year ago all of us seemed equal, like apples on the shelves of Safeway, all shiny, new and hopeful. Nobody seemed to have an advantage and everybody poised to gain on the basis of pure and unadulterated merit.
In the past few weeks, though, we started finding out that the apparent solidity of the façade was crumbling – origins, experience and connections were ultimately coming home to roost. The ever -growing minority of those with jobs could no longer relate to those still looking. They have already entered the Neverland of salaries, bonuses and career growth. The majority, biting their lips in utmost and, at times, ill-conceived envy, were looking for their own revenge. The majority status hardly provided any solace and less of them remained here, the colder it got. Going down in bunches does not hurt as badly when nobody has a chance. Alas, this was not the case.
I did not particularly relish the idea of staying in this group too long. Forget about an all-illuminating curriculum, I needed to act and do so fast in order to move to the ranks of the gleeful. Unfortunately, those of us who failed to secure a job on the basis of personal connections and other things smelling of luck and patronage had only one avenue – knock on doors of strange people who were hardly disposed to give you a minute of their precious corporate time. Now, there are a number of ways of finding these very busy individuals. The worst is cold calling since getting these people to return messages and ceding, as much as an inch of space on their perpetually overbooked calendars, is a monumental challenge. The best method to meet this folks is companies’ information sessions. These were happening with some degree of frequency to accommodate just about any flavour in the scarce job market – marketing, I.T. and, of course, finance.
No option was as ever as attractive as Finance when in comes to the whole concept of MBA. In fact I think the entire notion was designed by some bright people to provide a quick way for redemption for all those who “wasted” their time taking arts in the undergrad. By chance and due to very effective branding, having an MBA also allowed many people with very useful skills such as engineering and science to leapfrog their careers into much greener pastures. In any case, the main promise of the whole undertaking is about making more money and not much else.
Nothing, of course, provides a quicker access to money than finance itself. There is no point of beating around the bush with more circumspect schemes such as marketing or IT. Why not take finance and forget about everything else. A healthy portion of us did just that.
Magic of Finance
Apart from the most direct access to money, finance also offered another unbeatable advantage – much lower specific minimum job requirements for most opportunities. Say, if you wanted to get a management job in IT. Ok, no amount of MBA IT training was going to be all that appealing to prospective employers without some prior exposure to the subject. A similar line of thinking went into marketing and logistics. Well, when it came to managing other peoples’ money, none of that was as nearly important – just take a few courses on futures, options and M&M theory and, viola! You qualify to roam the financial world with just about any degree of impunity or usefulness.
This approach, while disadvantaging some hard working accountants, economists and other similar types, worked just splendidly for those with the majority of their adult working career in retail and ethnic eateries. Fantastic! Being reasonably well disposed to numbers and having a somewhat presentable personality, with a pinch of aggression, were the only necessary attributes. This all came especially handy when the competition heated up around the most desirable jobs of all – Wall Street-type of employment. Surely, late into the last autumn session it was great to get any sort of employment, but money jobs still figured in wet dreams for all wanting a warm place next to the treasure.
When saying Wall Street, I do not necessarily mean swarms of high investment types descending on balmy Vancouver in search of raw and rare talent. Such a scenario would be almost an unconscionable waste of precious gold minting hours of Armani-trudging managing directors. They have much more proximate and abundant pastures right under their noses – Wharton, Harvard and Columbia. Of course, our ambitiously self-deluded bosses at UBC tried their hardest to dispel the notion of their superiority. All to no avail, as hardly any New York based and self-respecting recruiter was about to spend any time in our picturesque and placid campus. It boasted exceptional views of ski hills and sweeping ocean sunsets, but not much else.
So instead of sharp and undoubtedly most successful New York types, we were happy to pick through the crumbs from Calgary, Toronto and the US west coast. Vancouver, qualifying as an ultimate financial backwater, hardly sent any hope our way with few minor exceptions touting virtues of start-up and junior exchange capital. With these scarce options in mind, most fought a tough competitive battle on the way to a brighter future. One lesson was clear from the outset – cheap tuition does not feed your future needs nearly as well as a nice dinner date with a managing director on the prowl for some warm bodies.
Luckily and unlike some completely forgotten MBA programs that pepper North American landscape in thicker fashion than stars in the Mediterranean sky, we did get some visitors from busier and definitely more moneyed places. Some came with solid vacancies to fill in our midst, others showed up to spend a couple of days in the mild climate and tout their own fortunes without a slightest intent to seriously give any of us a chance. These were sort of rude stabs at gloating self-congratulatory hand-slaps designed to exercise demons of “Nah, Nah, Nah, Nah” syndrome.
The tour provided desperately overworked investment bankers not only with a chance to relax but also to wallow in glee peering at the misfortunes and poverty of future generations. The rest was easy as these boys and gals usually showed up armed with glossy presentation materials that included up-beat videos of nirvana that awaited anyone able enough to impress the bosses. Oddly enough, fast-switching, attention-grabbing video images failed to reveal a single sour, sleep deprived and crumpled face of someone working in the, hundred hours per week, twilight zone. All looked fresh, happy and well pressed with latest fashions hardly making an appearance from behind mounds of monitors, telephone cords and trend charts. Cheerful smiles and unadulterated work ethic in ethnically diverse environment reminded me of something else I had had a chance to experience – Amway promotional videos.
Goldman Minds
Goldman Sachs went as low as bringing actual live specimens to depress a heck out of us. Truth be told, however, as Goldman, despite being the most prestigious perch in Wall Street pecking order, did in fact hired from the ranks of the lowly UBC. Most of it, however, came on the account of younger undergrad set claiming an exclusive membership in the highly touted Investment Club. These thoroughly trained in all aspects finance youngsters served a perfect gun fodder for the lowest investment banking ranks – the analysts. They typically ended up in a sort of three-year Wall Street boot camps that required tireless and cheerful allegiance that easily exceeded any imaginable notion of overtime in the outside world. By comparison, a fourteen hour stint at a Victorian steel mill might have been a blessing.
On the other hand the older, more discerning and broader educated set of the MBA program did not stand a chance when competing for straight output. And this is not even evoking Wall Street’s most sacred taboo of money. Anyone with an MBA degree would automatically qualify to work on the next tier of the pecking order – Associates’ Camp. This meant more money, experience and responsibility for slightly shorter hours. The trade-off was prior experience of course. For most of us without prior Wall Street experience, dreams of working for Goldman remained just that – dreams.
But, in the “true” spirit of meritorious existence at the top, Goldman opened a recruitment session to all – MBA and undergrad alike. They sent over a very slick managing director with a long crooked nose and a handkerchief in the breast pocket of his undoubtedly pricey striped suit. He came in tow with a guardedly cheerful HR type and two second-year analysts brimming with youth, enthusiasm and complete lack of personal life. They slavishly exhibited a total religious devotion to the firm and its well-tentacled purposes. After the first open session on campus that featured an overstuffed auditorium with anyone reasonably familiar with a concept of money, a select group of us was invited for a more intimate encounter at the local Goldman offices.
Predictably, the offices occupied one of the most expensive towers perching on the edge of Coal Harbour. The views afforded by wide floor-to-ceiling windows were magnificent, extensive sushi spread scrumptious and furnishings sumptuous. The rest betrayed a certain degree of chicanery as few imposing monitors and Bloomberg screens vainly flickered unto empty seats of those fortunate enough to carry a Goldman employee ID. The atmosphere was sterile with no evidence of victorious sweat drippings, instead every square inch of space was covered with many a glossy financial publication exuding uniform and complete lack of usefulness judged by their unsmudged covers.
This place served mainly as a representative office – another term for an expensive retirement program designed to provide respite for kindred spirits on their jaunts from Tokyo to New York. Afforded by the best and the richest firms, these reclusive pads are given to those who outlived their usefulness in the jungles of New York and London. Re-charged and re-shined, the local jungle types did not bother to keep a real Wall Street edge about them. They worked 40-hour weeks, ate well, skied and did yard work at home. The hard years in Manhattan had paid off – they did little, got paid a bunch by Vancouver standards, and seemingly relished visits from wide-eyed applicants from sub-standard schools.
While the New York based managing director in the striped suit tended to plough right into his zigzagging and upbeat presentation with pre-canned enthusiasm of a Wal-Mart clerk, these folks did not mind to chat up a bit on topics ranging from fishing to modern art – moneyed retirement is a happy paradigm. They had all time in the world to entertain us; the guy from New York did not. With his cloyed-eyed HR sidekick he did not want to spend a minute extra than necessary with losers from UBC. They had bigger fish to fry, mostly down south around Berkeley and other smarter and more prestigious locales.
I weighed my odds well below of those with 6/49. Consuming large portions of fresh sushi was the only option not smacking of masochism. The New York based analysts provided the rest of the evening entertainment. One of them, Kim, a diminutive and tireless Oriental type never ceased beaming her effulgent Goldman minted enthusiasm our way. Noting could drop her bright disposition by even few lumens. At first, I attributed the lack of very human moodiness to chronic insomnia, technical charts and multiple lunch orders that typically fill analyst’s life to the brim. But when requested by her superiors to bring in yet another sushi tray, she deliriously exclaimed “I Love This Place!!!” – I felt like reaching for a panic button. May be it was time to split.
Gingerly moving from Kim’s circle of influence, I longed for some little more earthly and critical attitude. Since mostly available from calm, and already sparred with, local office occupants, I had to divert my attention to yet another high prised analyst – Sandra. With a neat short hair, tight business suit and a couple of austere silver rings on her almost athletic fingers – she did not bode all that well. And yet, I persevered in finding akin human spirit. Much to my delight she turned out to reside right in my old digs – around 44th and 8th, in the heart of Midtown Manhattan. Unguardedly I plunged right into reminiscing of old glories - theatres, restaurants and other attributes of good life. Part into my monolog I felt a little less affinity on Sandra’s part. Few more moments later and I realized that she managed to drag her way into her apartment only on those few select occasions when she did not find herself catching few ZZZs right in front of her monitor. Her blank stare into my happy memories quickly insinuated her geographic attachments – she could have been living on the moon for all what mattered. Interesting…
Undeterred, I moved the topic closer to her heart – Goldman Sachs. Once back on the familiar turf, her hands, eyes and entire posture came back to life in one efficient albeit jerky motion. Recent blank stare of indifference was gone with fires of unbridled enthusiasm threatening to burn my last decent suit. The words were coming out faster than I could process - figures, facts and pizza lunches were having a heyday. I was feeling dizzy. The apogee came with Sandra declaring her particular passion for “Big Deals”. With this her blue eyes blazed like that of a mythical Greek goddess. For the longest time, I had naively thought that one hundred one-dollar bills added up to an exact equivalent of one one-hundred dollar bill, apparently not… Asking why “Big Deals” mattered so much to her brave heart appeared a little superfluous. With sushi nearly gone and topics exhausted my candidacy was happy to re-emerge into mild shore breezes of normality.
Citi Contention
The rest of the last semester was spent in very similar and often desperate activities. At times, recruiters seemed to be actually disposed to hire. These usually came in stultified mid-range suits so common to any commercial banking man. Shorter work days and smaller pay packets was their dull lot in life. Alas, the pickings were dearth and we were just as delighted to meet these guys with their offerings of cheap chicken wraps and coca-cola. One such man, Albert, was a proverbial HR man from Scotia Bank. His bolding and shiny occiput exuded nearly fatherly warmth and his trilingual business card featured English, Mandarin and Brail. His manners felt reassuring and hopeful. Sure enough, few days later he called back to inform that I was among some fortunate sods to partake in a trip to the home office in Toronto. My elation was boundless, eventually some sort of breakthrough!
Just few days before the trip, we felt another beam of real tropical sunshine - a visit from a Calgary Citibank man. John was a toll, gangly and shy teenager in his early thirties who had hard time fitting into his shortish suit. He clearly was not a standard issue HR man with glossy brochures; instead he came for a reason, with some jobs to be filled and pronto. I could not lose the opportunity, especially since the proposed job description sounded nearly cosmic - “Financial Engineering” – this sounded very close to my dear options and futures.
I put on my grey suit, revised latest cutting edge terminology and dug aggression out of the tool kit of behaviours. Despite certain contrast with the shy Calgary man, my efforts seemed to be paying off, as I was invited to a dinner for eight in one of the most exclusive city gourmet corners. Being among some other potential contenders, I pushed on, further capitalizing on the latest superficialities in oil and gas hedging techniques. All was going well except John, joined by his Toronto boss Derek, was not going to capitulate right in the midst of lobster and steak. Their early morning departure next day was not helping either. I had to wait.
Two days later, I went for the jugular. Piggybacking on the invitation from Scotia Bank, I called Derek and requested another interview. A no lose proposition for him, since he was not to be burdened by my expenses, which were to be stoically born by commercial banking men. He seemed to appreciate my frontal assault set a couple of meetings with “Financial Engineers” from Citi. Well, things were really rolling. Feeling elated, I even managed to successfully fit an interview with the Canadian technology wonder – Nortel. I felt like a fat Toronto squirrel on a fitness kick.
Big TO
Those forty-eight hours in Toronto, were some of the most intense of my short job searching career. After a jet-lag adjusted wake-up, I headed straight to the burnished surroundings of Scotia Bank. They were serving rubber chicken, water and Nanaimo bars. Most of the event, thickly attended by wannabees from eastern schools, was peppered with self-adulation of lending to debt strapped nations of South America and other dubious undertakings emerging amidst the technology bubble in North America. After an obligatory question-and-answer period covering anything from bland to stupid; we were led to private interviews by some of the brass. My particular encounter with Mike was very pleasant.
After years of service at the temple of finance, Mike eagerly looked to quiet retirement with fishing by mosquito ridden lakes north of Toronto, just like generations of bureaucrats before him. His numerous and dated awards of all shades of gold dotted his table and evenly matched his slightly crumpled and predictably outdated suit. His soft and benevolent features only predisposed to a “relationship” discussion that shied away from technicalities and specifics. I tried to relax, smile and bounce in the gentle waves of Mike’s day that proceeded at its habitual snail pace only to be interrupted by lunches and meetings with muffins. We parted like dear friends, as I was delivered right back to my dear soft HR man with Brail on his business cards. Here the mesmerising horizons of gloriously grey banking career opened up to plethora of possibilities, outcomes and general happiness.
Albert proceeded describing my bright career steps in vivid detail that included wing-tipped shoes, dry cleaned shirts and opportunities to play a “fly on the wall” in very important executive meetings. I was melting like cheese on a grilled sandwich. In fact, I was ready to be even fly’s assistant, I would have done fly’s laundry and fetch its lunch, and anything else to acquire a modest career with predictable bonuses and tight smiles at performance reviews.
Mercifully, before I could turn in a completely unrecognisable soft gooey mass, Albert ended his futuristic tales with promises of future contacts and best wishes for my undoubtedly budding career. Surrounded by architectural giants of downtown Toronto with a golden pen from Scotia people, I was ready for rougher challenges. Bring on the Citibank!
No Muffins for You!
Citibank Tower, situated a kitty corner from the architectural excesses of Royal York, at first promised a similar plush banking story with golden pens and all. The bright expectations turned upside down, as soon as I emerged on the fateful 10th floor. Things suddenly appeared austere to the point of lunar – no hand-woven carpets, bright lights and stately secretary help. The only piece of furniture resembling a reception desk was covered with primordial dust and had not been occupied since the last re-org that hit the trading folk pretty hard, pulverising at least 60% of warm bodies into expandable statistics. On my arrival the only remaining people here were “Financial Engineers”, a couple of currency salespeople and a bunch of lowly money market personal mercilessly shoved in the furthest reaches of neon-lit floor.
Luckily, the brutish clean-up was long over and the local cohorts were looking to add to the remaining Canadian business. Financial Engineering, or more aptly Structured Finance, was one these places looking to step up. I guess in the preceding year they made more money than expected hence prompting the forever prescient internal audit folk to strongly recommend some hasty additions to handle the burgeoning mass of dollars.
Since it was late fall, most MBA types were still in school. UBC offered winter crop and Western did not – “nah, nah, nah, nah” – at least for once we could beat out self-conceited folk from Lower Canada. It was too early to celebrate though as I was still to go through a battery of interviews with Structured Finance types – none of that commercial banking myrrh, bring on bond math and aggression. Mercifully, I was not thrown into the churning cauldron right away, as I was eased in by friendly and easily impressed HR princess Julie. Being just out of the undergrad and about five years my junior, she was ready to buy my gobbledegook about teamwork, ambition and SKILLS. She was duly impressed and promptly forwarded me to the good old Derek.
We met just like a pair of old unlikely friends – one is fully stocked up and charged with MBA bullshit and the other chiselled and tested through the years at the front lines of Wall Street warfare. We were ready to spar – my uncertain but irrefutably stellar academics in a cheapish pre-employment suit versus his understated Armani crowned with bolding egg-head of a certain genius. This no nonsense man fired first – “Let’s talk about Real Return Bonds”.
Not to bore anyone with technicalities let’s just say that these were the most remote from my mind - stunning and cutting my tracks almost instantaneously. I was ready to talk anything but these beasts designed by the Government of Canada to appease pensioners stuck in perpetual fear of inflation. This was outright ambush. If derailed my train was not going to make it all the way to the Citi stop. Braking at this late juncture was not an option so I applied maximum speed designed for certain crash landing. The rest was a matter of luck. My feverish stumbles in bond mathematics worked like a charm as I even managed to get praise from our stoic priest of finance. From here on it was going to be a piece pf cake and it nearly was.
Wagman
When I set my eyes on his diminutive figure in a dark suit for the first time, the clock was rushing well past normal office hours. He just breezed into the room illuminated by the best of moods. This was not unusual as I found out later. Wagman was a real night bird. Completely unsocial and disgruntled around breakfast time, he usually regained some semblance of life by noon and was ready for anything by the time I was ready to go to bed. This time around 7PM he was in a particularly rosy mood. It was nearly poetic, as we sang a duo of options and futures. The scene was just as harmonious as a honeymoon departure under a rice shower. The interview nearly ended in embrace by the wall-to-wall window revealing flickering majesty of the Toronto skyline. The city and scintillating lake waves beaconed prosperous future with the palpable certainty. “It would be a great place to rent, just steps from work and the centre” – Wagman’s midnight eyes wistfully glistened with brotherly myrrh and reflection of the lakeside hi-rises. I felt like I had arrived.
After Wagman I also met Chris who was going to be my grunt buddy on the front lines. A recent MBA graduate from Western with few years of CA experience under his belt, this surely bright and mildly mannered fellow did not exude any undue pride or haughtiness. Instead, his soft spoken tones and dark sleepless circles under his eyes alluded to some other concerns, which did not include any direct competition with me. He was on his way to slow but sure ascent up the corporate ladder without making anyone mad or jealous. He was the best type of competition one could find – ambitious and yet unassuming and certainly entirely above board.
Stars were surely lining up and the only thing left was to actually ask for the job itself. This was not much of an issue with my relatively recent retail experience. If you want to sell anything, you have to ask for a sale unless a “lay-down” type of customer was upon you. Citibank was not one of them, so as soon as I got back home I had to busy myself with devising a proper approach. One was to call the HR lady and softly murmur in her sensitive ear. The other was to call Derek directly and not beat around the bush. I chose the latter only to find out that Derek was going to be away for a couple of days giving me a chance to fire in the HR direction implying that me having some new job offers (true) clearly put Citibank right about the decision time. My direct salvo worked like a charm with Derek promptly firing an offer letter with only my signature missing. Now was the time to play a “little hard to get” after Derek assured of this being “non-exploding” offer and even offered a fully paid for trip to Toronto with my dear wife. After all moving from the laid-back West Coast to the workaholic Toronto clearly required at least some persuasion. I could not resist.
Lotus Land
Very onerous and tiring in the best of times red-eye flights could really dampen one’s spirits during grey December days. Depressed with a thought of the impeding move and thrashed by sleepless travel, Tracy was not in the best of shapes. Add the glum, uniform and thoroughly brick outlines of Toronto suburbia swept up winter desolation, and she wept uncontrollably. I hoped this to be just a momentary weakness and not a sign of things to come. After all I felt heavy just as well, something about this place did not sit right. For now anyway…
Our mood managed to find a bright spot once we reached the beautifully ornate reception hall of the Royal York. After all, this was the most famous Toronto hotel that had long served demanding and powerful and did not fail to create a much needed feeling of an oasis. After a short nap, I was ready to plunge into the world of High Finance just across the street. The mood inside was upbeat as it was Friday – the day of great enthusiasm for all workaholics. Not only Fridays offered a reprieve from formal wear calling itself casual, but it also promised two days away from the office for those who “LOVED” their calling and yet wanted to escape at first opportunity.
It was way better than Mondays when general mood was grim and mechanical. Wagman greeted me in his standard Friday fare consisting of a golf shirt, jeans and loafers with no socks. Who cares about the weather when Friday is here to celebrate! Even jittery markets failed to dampen the mood. Retreating at the first sign of some phantom inflation, the hordes jumped right back driving their bulls ever closer to the precipice. Many suspected that crash was coming but with its timing always uncertain much celebrating was in order – “live, for tomorrow we die” is the hallmark of Wall Street and that day it ruled for yet another day.
So happy to see his future charge, Wagman smiled so widely as to nearly break his small face into smithereens. Vigorously shaking my hand, he announced my appearance and took me for the rounds on the floor or whatever was left of it. The Finance Engineering crowd occupied the prised location next to the huge wall-to-wall windows revealing just about any detail of the famed Toronto skyline garnished with all sorts of delicacies such as Royal York, Union Station and Highway 401. The rest of the lowly employees consisting of money-market folks were shoved to the dim far corner where they belonged. The space of fifty feet in between was as blank and vast as the worst stretch of Sahara desert. It was hopeless there; on this side though things seemed sparkling as deep blue of Mediterranean.
The desk was divided in two. Once side, facing the view, were the dudes dealing with financial institutions. The others, backs to the view, were the corporate handlers. I was to belong in the latter. Guys facing the view seemed cheerier. A couple of them actually graduated from UBC and were happy to see their compatriot in the sea of Westerns and Queens. One of them, Greg with a very fragrant name of Chanel, invited me for a dinner at his suburban home that night. The corporate set on the other hand, apart from effulgent and myrrh-eyed Wagman, was a little less welcoming; hulking behind many a monitor and heavy jargon they seemed happy to confuse the rooky. “Regulatory capital this, swap curve that” – my head was quickly taken for a spin. Seeing a bit of desperation on my face, Wagman quickly came to my rescue explaining some particulars – all of a sudden it was not all that complicated and somebody was clearly blowing some star dust my way.
Take Me for a Spin
Few hours later I felt sufficiently indoctrinated, enough for the first time. Besides, we had an appointment with a Royal La Page realtor to show us around at the behest of HR Julie. This turned out to be a great treat. Excited about our real estate tour we jumped in worn-out jeans and sneakers, so typical of perpetual students. This audacious move was much in contrast to our vis-à-vis, Richard, who was all chic and glitter. Donned in the best fashions of Bloor Street in his brand new Audi A4, he could not have been impressed with the pair. Being a true professional though, he let us into his leather and wooden paneling without a sigh. In any case, my executive future surely counted for some future credit in his real estate annals.
At first everything went just splendidly as Richard took us around the best Toronto had to offer. All was just perfect: busy and bright streets, swirls of shoppers and spectacular real estate undoubtedly suited for executive ilk. Tracy was getting intoxicated with his German engineered auto, regal treatment and dreams of careless corporate wifeship. Floating in the stratosphere was as pleasant as it was dangerous as peeking at yet another multi-million dollar mansion, she inquired whether there were any “nice basements suites” on offer. You see, while back in Surrey, it is a perfectly reasonable request for a newcomer, in Toronto it nearly degenerated into fiasco.
Predictably, Richard’s features betrayed as a swift cloud of disappointment momentarily shadowing his well-maquillaged visage. Being a proud member of a cosmopolitan gay community, his whole being cringed at the notion a basement suite. His whole 100% commissioned future was on the line as he was about to discover our true and less than promising nature. Suddenly, we slid to the very edge of the knife that cleaves cavemen from city dwellers. You either belong or not.
I desperately sought to change the topic in order to save face and appear unfazed. It took a serious and sweaty effort. I had to indulge our sophisticated guide in his own stories for a change. It turned out that Richard double-shifted as a film reviewer for Canadian film authorities. And since every movie coming on the market requires a rating, Richard was always happy to provide his valuable efforts in this tiresome public service – for a fee of course. The only caveat of this job was that one spent very little time reviewing “Saving Private Ryan’s” and “Doctor Zhivago’s” Instead the bulk of the time was consumed by less known titles that usually referred to things slightly less elevated with content boasting much in a way of consensual behaviour – how peculiar...
The rest of the tour went well with Richard showing a couple of very nice digs right on the lakefront with views. I loved them but rents! These were bent to easily obliterate half of my executive salary – who said Toronto was affordable?!
New Life
Leaving Tracy back in Vancouver until the end of the school year was as much as a financial as a strategic decision. What if things did not work out for me? It could happen considering sour and Napoleonic faces behind the corporate desk. “Who knows?” – it was necessary and sad to depart on my own with half of our things to be moved by a corporate mover who did not want us to touch as much as a speck of dust. They hand-wrapped and packed every little knick-knack at some exorbitant rate – alas, there was no way to scheme this perk. It felt very corporate.
Leaving Vancouver on a rainy dark day did not make matters easier ushering in a very wet parting. On the receiving end, snow-swept Toronto hardly beaconed “welcome” to yet another fortune seeker. Ensconced in an apartment-hotel for few weeks, my task was simple - find a place and start my exciting high finance career. The rest was the matter of mechanics – eat, sleep etc. Waking up on the last day of freedom, I decided to survey the rental market of this great city. Obviously priced out of the lakefront, I moved on northward toward Bloor, Eglington and other usual suspects. After few passes at local rental accommodations, I discovered a great dearth of middle market in this thriving metropolis. You either had to rent something really smelly at $1,000 or under, or you jumped right at the freshly painted and well-plumbed stock starting at $1,500. What a dilemma. Surely my executive future looked brilliant but $1,500 for one bedroom felt a little excessive. At least, I had time delighting in paid-for accommodations, courtesy of Wagman and Co.
First Act
Ironed, scrubbed, sporting a tight marine cut I showed up for my first day at work. It turned out that Wagman, whose seat was right next to mine was away on a business trip, so I had to navigate through induction procedures all on my own. Getting set up in any institution of Citibank size is never a speedy task as I had to clear a security camera, endure a couple of HR meetings and stare at my numerous monitors displaying all sorts of very exotic tools. It was all exciting of course but one could do it only for so long as my attention span and boredom were never far apart. Now these two were bracing for yet another clash. Mercifully, I was rescued by Derek to fetch a lunch for the whole crew – a nice tradition where everybody took turns regardless of rank. This time the lot was Derek’s and mine, I felt privileged to spend more time next to the bone fide owner of a Jaguar and a house on the ravine – a Toronto’s equivalent of waterfront minus the fishes. Derek was all ease and chattiness – a proud father of two silver-spoon fed teenagers he could not shut up about their latest lacrosse successes. Far removed from such posh notions, I just blissfully smiled and nodded while lugging a decent share of Chinese take-out boxes to stink up the whole upstairs for the remainder of the day.
After lunch, the surrounding lull was barely interrupted by muted private phone calls coming from the direction of ominous Amar and boastful Paulus. Being totally in the open, the nature of phone calls here dictated the timbre. Loud and exuberant when actually on bank’s business, soft and quiet when on personal matters – most seemed to be particularly soft and quiet that afternoon. The only animation came from Amar and Derek who kept trying to figure out how to skirt some internal and industry regulations on one of their deals. The bank, constrained by many industry and consumer protection safeguards, was at times unable to do certain, inevitably lucrative, deals. This one was held back since perpetually vigilant and “anti-business” internal credit guys refused a “go ahead”. Alas, their gobbledygook kept me awake for just a few minutes.
The last part of the day was filled with extreme inactivity. Once an average person, especially male, gets to about six at night, all signs start pointing in the direction of the couch. Now this typically functions well for regular working stiffs. In investment banking with high salaries and enormous bonuses, many feel compelled to prove their worth by filing as much face time as possible. It is like a poker game with everyone bluffing and refusing to be the first sod to leave. So when average human productivity plummets, when the whole world is about to watch six o’clock criminal chronic usually christened as “News”, very rich investment banking folks huff and puff, hunkering by their numerous screens in desperate attempts to out-duel their peers in the game of “workaholic” poker. While everywhere is the world, the corporate lies of “balanced lifestyle” are usually rebuffed with smirks of irony and schedules of midnight brain storming sessions, people in investment banking do not even try. Instead, having sold their souls, they strive to cram whatever most of the world calls “life” into what is known as “short weekends” and “golf business trips”. Who cares about productivity? French could be the most efficient on an hourly basis. But working only 35 hours per week does not make you rich as cleverly taught by MBA schools. On the contrary, we beat everybody by staying at our desks for 14-16 hours per day. Is it not what Japanese did to bring about their economic miracle? The only difference is that theirs was communal and ours is purely individual undertaking.
My first night was just like any other with everybody just getting closer to their screens to avoid distractive cleaning ladies with mops, rags and paper towels. “Sure, my old school buddies might be at home already watching TV, but who can survive on sixty grand?” – rang rhetorically from the perch of our middle-eastern warrior Amar. He obviously needed more and was not about to leave the battleground.
“Losers…” - just hissed Paulus – sixty grand was an equivalent of utter misery that made anyone on the floor just shudder. Everyone nodded without turning away from their venal efforts.
The steady clicking and “how can one be a human on sixty grand” exclamations progressed steadily into the night. Fortunately for me the local culture made allowances for late night TV with Amar and Paulus departing shortly after Derek who hit the door just after eight. Nobody of junior rank budged from their screens for another half hour – consternated at the prospect of leaving a minute earlier than the next guy. Luckily, some final vestiges of common sense mounted their last and successful effort at the bastions of “workaholic” poker with everyone storming out of the hated fluorescent environs into the hush tones of the night. Another one done, three thousand to go, to the retirement that is.
Morning Dew
After my first restless night contemplating many more in front of those damn monitors I was in early to anticipate the arrival of my next of seat – Steve Wagman. I desperately needed some of his smiles and enthusiasm to last through another day. Alas, my hopes of a bright new day were summarily dashed - Wagman hated mornings with a passion. He showed up with the sourest disposition, death-in-the-family kind, which barely registered my presence. Grumbling something under his nose, he just heavily plunked himself into his chair, slammed his morning paper on the floor and assumed a stoic posture of suffering, starring at the screen whirring up for yet another day. Nothing could cheer him up – I was just a blank spot and early calls from his wife seemed to only make matters worse.
With markets about to open, he quickly perused the basics such as treasury and swaps curves, checked FX and plunged into his beloved spreadsheets – the warmest place to spend much of his days. The longer he banged at his spreadsheets, the brighter his visage became. At first I attributed the metamorphosis to his longing for anything technological. After all an engineering graduate with an MBA from Michigan, he could hardly stay away from all things convoluted. However, then I noticed that it was the same old spreadsheet. A little alarmed by striking resemblance to the famous “Shining”, I slid away assessing my chances of survival. Much to my relief, the menacing grimace of Jack in “Red Rum” gave way to Shylock and company, as the holy spreadsheet turned out to be none other than one accounting for all deals and their profitability. It was actually quite simple, and more banging meant higher bonuses and bigger smiles, the rest was irrelevant. Maybe money could buy happiness?
By lunch time, Steve Wagman was almost his old self happily countenancing phone calls from his three-year old – just about the only chance he got at parenting. His wispy smiles and astute intellect were heavy at work – interjecting, arguing and settling deal mechanics was what he did best. He hardly needed anyone’s help. After all, he was a type-A who loved to control every detail hence not requiring any help from the likes of Chris and myself. Only some grunt work that usually involved cutting, pasting, copying and binding went to us. His business was lucrative, compact and needed no one. Who cares what internal audits say?
Further, much to my surprise, I discovered that despite his title as an investment banker, Steve did very little calling around to line up deals. In fact, hardly anybody called around here. Instead, the whole corporate desk concentrated their efforts on very few choice and very plum clients. Being the derivative guys, Wagman and Co. knew very well that many of their efforts were of rather nebulous nature that required equally adventurous counterparts. Since these did not come around all that often, they pampered their existing milking cows with utmost degree of care and indulgence. After all, it took much care and a real slight of hand to convincing a company A of rising interest rates in the morning, and a company B of exactly the opposite by noon.
The rest of the clients were mostly a lost cause as they usually knew too much, only calling for quotes that were inevitably lost to more aggressive rivals such as Royal and TD. Some did not even bother to call. They were smart, calculating and in no need of derivative deals. These hardly ever bothered to take time for marauders like us. Steve and Amar surely made some lukewarm attempts to conquer the unwieldy infidels, but such efforts were just done for a “check mark” with not much in a way of real expectations other than business class travel, nice dinners and five star beds.
To emphasize singular importance of some clients, Wagman’s living space around his monitors was nearly entirely filled with stacks of paper. Some were puny and cowered in the shade of a giant skyscraper that nearly encroached on my territory. This one belonged to Laidlaw, a famed Canadian conglomerate that miraculously found ways to feast on school buses, ambulances and fertilizer, all at the same time. What did school buses and fertilizer have to do with derivatives? A lot! To some extent derivatives could be very helpful. You are unsure of future price of gasoline – you can lock up your costs for years to come. You want to protect yourself from rising interest rates – you can convert your floating debt into a thirty year instrument etc, etc, etc. Just about any large corporation has some degree involvement into such operations. The real trick is to figure out where risk mitigating ends and risk taking begins. Had all corporate clients just decided to engage in risk mitigation, many jobs like mine would not even exist. This market craves fools and speculators to cleave its living and avoid “sixty grand a year misery”. Alas, fools do not often advance to positions of corporate treasures, so the speculators are the best bet. They do not come often and are not easily caught. But once ensnared, this valuable fish has to be cultivated, pampered and pandered to. There is no other choice.
Laidlaw was exactly the client. Their treasury department seemed to have a great of appetite to try their fortunes in non-core businesses. All of it came under steady and indulging supervision of dear Wagman who devoted hours and days to their amusement. He knew Laidlaw better than Laidlaw knew itself. He collected every bit of reports, correspondences and presentation in one huge paper sky-scraper on the left side of his desk. His photographic memory did not need a file organiser as he could easily snatch anything out of this pile with precision of a robot. One needed last year’s annual report – here it is! Looking for the last piece of advice we gave them – voila! Steve always coordinated his personal calendar with folks at Laidlaw and vastly preferred to communicate with them personally. Surely, in worst case scenario their calls could be answered by Amar or Derek but never by lower flunkies.
“Hello, Citibank Alex speaking!” – I had to repeat the mantra numerous times before Steve was even remotely satisfied.
“Now, as soon as you feel as much as a hint it is Laidlaw – immediately give to one of us - never, never say that we will call them later!” – were his most oft used instructing passages.
Alas, apart from telephone training there was no other. Anybody hardly needed help on our side of the aisle and when required my buddy Chris was always there to pick up the slack. I just stuck out as a sore thumb, trying to learn as much as I could without stepping on anyone’s toes. I went to fetch lunches, subscribed to sterile ambience of the corporate library, prepared many a useless presentation to many a useless client and stayed away from Amar. He seemed to be always there to mercilessly land me in some trouble. Grammar mistakes, frozen screens and unworkable spread sheets always showed up on his account. He was my bad luck and seemed to revel in it, loving to torment the junior.
Anything to do with Laidlaw was even further out of my reach. In fact, had it been, I would have been well-served to have graduated with an English degree, as my finance prowess seemed much less appealing when compared with vexing conjugations, verbs and above all - spelling. Also, an apparent temperament mismatch between me and my job was the most annoying. You see, in some glorious writs, investment banking is frequently portrayed as a sort of game between ferocious lions, ready to shed their restless energy in a deathly match. In reality it is often quite the opposite with docility being the best personal quality. Just imagine sitting hours on end in front of hated monitors – editing, crafting and binding. On such diet any real lion would die in a matter of weeks. Something was not right. Even when reaping some good Laidlaw winnings I heard no hand-slaps, shouts and other manly expressions of triumph. Instead they just exchanged smiles like prudish sixteen year-olds belonging in a boarding school.
Turning on the Egg Beater
A typical deal with Laidlaw went down like this…
“Hi Steve, this is Sandy. Rates look good and I want to do that bond forward deal” – Laidlaw was about to issue a goodly deal of fresh debt. An issuance date was not yet exactly known but they wanted to ensure a lock-in on interest rates. If rates went up they would be a winner, and they went down “oh, well we locked in with certainty”.
“Oh, Sandy”- Wagman just lit up despite the earlish hour – “no problem, I am calling New York”
“Eh, Periv Laidlaw wants to do that bond forward for 100 bucks ($100 million). Do you best, will you, and do not screw around with me. They are on the phone and want to do it now!”
The whole place went on code red, everyone stopped, and Wagman sweated clutching the phone as it were a spare floating vest on Titanic. He actually clutched two – Laidlaw on the right and Periv on the left. He was relaying the conversation back and forth, sort of like a live 230 kilovolt wire. With each new quote and update from Periv he voice went up a pitch hire. In about forty second the only thing he could do was to scream at Periv at the top of his lungs “Done yet?!”
“Sandy you are done at 5.823%” he triumphantly purred back.
Having hung up he just slumped back into his seat in total exhaustion. After few minutes and few breaths of rarefied air Steve was back to his keyboard, banging in the winnings. He just took in about $130K for his tireless travails. It did not take much, 0.001% here and 0.001% there and a very healthy year-end bonus was guaranteed. More churning the better – with Laidlaw it was particularly great.
Few days later…
“Steve, I have noticed that we are in the money. I would like to close out the position” – Sandy preferred firmness to cover-up her relatively novice skills. Gone were the good intentions of fixing the interest rate when some visible and bonus-able profit was on the line.
“Sure, a great idea” – “Done yet?!” – “Sandy you are done at 5.835%”. Steve just made another cool $100K or so. Sandy was even happier with winnings of over a million. Everybody was a winner – amazing!
This routine repeated many times over with ever vacillating interest rates. Sandy always came in as a prudent money manager in search of a hedge and left a ruthless speculator with booty in tow. A proverbial money machine, sought after for ages by the brightest of human race, was finally produced, born in front of my very eyes. Wagman kept banging on his spreadsheet, Sandy bought a new Volvo and Laidlaw management did not have a clue.
When reported at our weekly meetings, the Laidlaw winnings were met with utmost admiration and glee. After all everyone would benefit from risky churning at shareholder expense, the irony lost just about on everyone despite two or more university degrees.
Evening Conquests
Numerous marauders throughout history reached their victories through things clandestine and nocturnal. After all Caesar was knifed down after a late Curia session, Soviets started their Stalingrad operation in the middle of the night and Richard III met his treacherous end once everyone went to sleep. Things in Citibank were not that different as I learned on my first day. Alas, this was enough to prepare me for…
“Great! Everyone is gone and now is the time to get some real work done. I love evenings!” – Wagman was just feverishly rubbing his hands as in anticipation of caviar and champagne dinner. His maniacally glistening pupils were pulsating in pools of unspent energy. It was past 6PM and Steve was ready for some real work. “Family, what family? – “Now we can really do things, no phone calls and distractions, just work” – his dreamy eyes were filling with myrrh very fast.
So while a wife with two small children in a large rental house (Steve did not believe in real estate) were biding their evenings in bland solace of dinners consisting of broccoli and fish, daddy was easily tripling his output feverishly banging on his spreadsheet. Not a penny of daily loot could go missing. Above all, the hush settling over the desk was perfect to churn out more smoky ideas and tasty presentations.
I was just cringing at the unwelcome thought of staying past my bedtime so early in my innocent clerical career of holding vigils with Wagman. Midnight perhaps? Luckily, after eight years at his seat Steve was loosing some of his youthful steam and was typically ready to depart at around 9PM. Surprisingly, the idea of spending an evening with a remote was no more foreign to him than an average Toronto workaholic. Children have already gone to bed removing much in a way of unnecessary distractions and wife on the stand-by to heat up late dinners. Perfect – “Now I could leave with Chris and Alex holding the fort”- he mused.
Suddenly shortly before the take-off Steve faced a wondrous sight – a junior employee was getting his stuff together and was about to leave himself. Stunned, barely comprehending such flagrant sin of insubordination he stuttered “want a ride?” “Indeed?” - instead of a threat I got an offer that escaped his undoubtedly constrained trachea. “Sure” – boss’s company to do some brown nosing and saved subway fare were definite inducements. Minutes later we were zipping past sleepy pedestrians to our respective remote controls - his in a $2,500 per months red brick on a ravine and mine in a smelly $700 per month two-room bachelor affair.
Toronto Chic
Whenever asked where I weighed my anchor, the answer of Yonge and Eglington inevitably caused positive emotions akin to upward mobility and a cell phone. And justifiably so since the area posed as a proverbial centre of chic, youth and better tomorrow – expensive houses and upscale apartments clustered around this fateful intersection like mushrooms. The fact, that many a sleeping pad in the area was actually a throw-back into desperate seventies with high gas prices, orange carpets and love for cockroaches, was never mentioned. For a good reason mind you, as my sublet, from “a friend of a friend of a friend” on a long-term consulting gig, consigned me to the precise replica of dark imagination that beset architects in the wake of Woodstock and Vietnam War.
I could not really complain – TV still worked and supply of dishes was more than ample for my “fast rice and tuna” needs, heat worked and a small store in the basement carried all sort of movies, pop corn and frozen pizza. It really was nearly perfect save for frequent fumigations and random fire alarms. While the former had a tendency to interrupt my elaborate cooking routines, the latter always happened right in the middle of the night to disturb my fitful investment banking attempts at sleep. After all, I stood to make millions in the near future and dreaming about it was no easy feat.
The only question I was at a complete loss to answer had to do with “how many of these millions exactly” I could count on. Nobody would tell me. It turned out to be a very interesting conundrum. The whole world knows what people make flipping burgers at McDonalds, teaching grade eight and running Fortune 500 companies. All of this information is widely publicized, debated and compared. However, when it comes to Wall Street the only word that comes to mind is “a lot”. When on the outside it is a purely philosophical question with a masochistic hue. However, on the inside I really wanted to know. The more I tried the more I ran into an amazing paradox – while admonishing the rest of the world to engage in careful financial planning, Wall Street folks themselves are just groping in the dark waiting for their annual bonus. Anybody I asked just shrugged and refused to even remotely engage in a numbers discussion. When you want to find a plausible price range for a barrel of sweet crude, no problem – it would be done in a minute. Do you want to know the next of seat compensation? – good luck and stay tuned. I really struggled to breach such unified front – sort of stealing secrets of Knights Templar. The only thing I knew with certainty was that my salary amounted to $80K plus a $40K first year bonus. Or was it?
Alan the Wise
The only guy that stood apart from the corporate desk was a South African Alan with a very soft and soothing accent so common to many a beneficiary of apartheid. It was not his accent but his whole demeanour that revealed much more contemplative soul than the rest of my venal compatriots. Just to prove the point he even sat on the opposite side together with the Financial Institutions folks. He was very perceptive and smart, qualities that did not necessarily make him a top producer. He might have lacked a certain killer instinct and did not prosper like the rest. Somewhat hurried after a Masonic ritual called “Annual Bonus Day”, he clearly sensed that his time to move on was coming.
“Eh, Alex, want to go for coffee?” – he suggested after a lengthy session on the apparent magic of his Excel swaps model.
“Sure” – I was just as grateful to change the scenery. Besides, Alan clearly wanted to tell me something destined for my exclusive consumption.
Having found a room, he did not beat around the bush. “You know, I have never seen any rookie being treated as badly.”
“Oh, well that’s just in the morning. Once he is awake by 6PM, he is not so bad. He even gives me rides home”
“Trust me buddy, I have known Steve for years and nothing he does is accidental. He is a very smart and calculating type. If I were you, I‘d be thinking of looking elsewhere. In fact, I am leaving in two weeks to join to be an account manager on the credit side – more independent work, reasonable bosses and shorter work day. Surely, a bit less money – who cares though, eh? ”
“Great, congratulations! What about Steve? ”
“You see, they have hired you after this internal audit that told them they had to throw another warm body at the place. Unfortunately, if there is anything to do here it is for someone with experience and contacts. Helping Steve or Amar is hardly full-time work, save for lunch duty. They have enough to be busy themselves but unless there is more stuff coming there would be not much else.”
“Just listen – look around and plan for a way out. You have time” – were his parting words.
Well, whatever rosy paint left on my glasses, it fell off instantaneously. I had to plan a retreat. “To where” was definitely a question. Staying in Toronto was certainly a plausible option. However, after some contemplation my preferences weighed against nasty weather, workaholic bent and the lack of family - features that strongly smelled Toronto. Going to Vancouver felt like a retreat to paradise after an expedition to Soviet Arctic. Few days later I called to see if Vancouver Stock Exchange was willing to revive its previous employment offer. It took a bit of MBA charm not to sound desperate. Somehow they were still open to my candidacy. More work was still needed but the option was on the table. At least now I could breeze easier facing mornings with Wagman.
Randy – a Falling Star
For now things went along the same way. Sour mornings with Steve, silent treatment by perpetually burly Amar, not much to do during the day, and much to say on the way back home in Steve’s humble Infinity G20. The better things went with my Vancouver prospects, the more amusing it became back here. With every week I knew that my local career was not likely to rival that of Michael Milkin, so my sleep improved with burdens of future millions becoming ever less tiresome.
Having extra time to lift my head was a great chance to see what went on around. Guys from Financial Institutions Desk were much friendlier, more open, had actual new daily business to face and went home earlier. At least someone was having fun. A month later, I also had something else to celebrate as they hired Randy from my MBA class. They even asked me what I thought of him before they made the decision – what an honour! Now I had some company. We could compare notes, make fun of Wagman and design Amar-repellent strategies together.
Randy was a Toronto native and had a father who was a Maple Leafs season ticket holder. Not much of a find with Leafs lingering at the bottom of the standings, he came through with flying colours when it counted - a pair of tickets for a game with NY Rangers. I was only happy to oblige. This turned out to be my last and only chance to see the Great One himself – Wayne Gretzky. He had a fantastic game easily grabbing the “Man of the Match” honours displaying his amazing talent spraying pucks to his team mates with accuracy of a laser and imagination of Picasso. The rink itself was also a super treat. One of the oldest in the NHL, it had ancient seats, open players’ benches and a scoreboard with no replays – a fantastic archaeological specimen close to rivalling those of Luxor. I was on cloud nine. Thanks Randy!
Being a very introverted and thoughtful individual Randy kept a lot to himself when working on his own first steps along the swaps curve. He definitely had more to do and tried his best to fit in. Alas, even much thinner jungle on his side was a little too much for his spirit, longing for staid cold columned halls of back office. He did not let on with me only suspecting his future intentions. Six weeks in, Randy called in sick and never came back. Not knowing his exact status for few days Wagman started taking bets on his return – “eh, Amar I bet $50 he is not back, what’s your call?”
March Madness
Nobody was more avid than Steve when in came to betting. Even his sour morning routines frequently softened at a first chance to bet – basketball, football and personnel decisions were clearly on the agenda. Being a bright and calculating double-university graduate Steve was never in the mood to bet on things stupid and random. He loved all things complex and competitive. Forget about slot machines and give me some basketball!
Nothing could rival his betting fever when it came to the famed March Madness. Since graduating with his MBA from Michigan, Steve was a rightful insider eager to prove his bragging rights. Once the grid of 64 top college teams was determined, he went to work phones like I had never seen before. Forget about options, who cares about bond forwards when there is a chance to jockey your horse to the finish line ahead of everyone else’s. Steve did not play small, entering few huge US pools with entrée fees ranging in the hundreds - pulling in his friends, weighing his chances and following each free throw on the overhead monitor. He made celebratory winner circles around the floor when guessing right and sulked behind his spreadsheets when proven wrong.
It was very amusing time for me with chances to learn just about anything there was to know about Duke, Florida or USC. For poor Chris it was quiet different experience, as poor guy had to carry the Laidlaw load since the business had to go on and new schemes had to be proposed just in case Laidlaw ever actually managed to issue its debt thus abolishing the need for fateful bond forward schemes. On a couple of occasions he even pulled in all-nighters with yours truly staying by his side till 2 or 3AM – a great introduction to amateur sports!
NY Guys
All our charm, panache and aggression were not really worth a dime without the real guys behind every Laidlaw transaction – our dear New York traders. They really were the bread and butter of our murky business. After all they were the ones that undertook actual transaction on our behalf with outside parties, ran accounting and compiled complicated models that our spreadsheet creations were meant to mirror but never to override.
With our lives in their magnanimous hands, these obscure characters were in the least inclined to take our nonsense as they did not have to. In fact much contrary to wavy, imploring and at times threatening Wagman’s timbre, they preferred to be concise, technical and almost unintelligible with some cryptic terms that made even some seasoned people stumble at times. In addition to belonging to the famed New York trading floor, our derivative geniuses were all Pakistani and Indian engineers from MIT. Sukhi, Derip and Periv were cool and very smart customers who were never in a mood to have a fast one pulled over them. Short on idiomatic English, their accented tongues were always there to lash out at our shenanigans.
“Steve, do not give me this bullshit”
“Amar, I told you thousand times already, I cannot find those bleeding bonds anywhere”
“Paulus, I need to unwind my 30-year long position instead of piling it up!” – were the typical icy retorts from prodigies of the overcrowded subcontinent.
Moreover, these guys really knew what they were talking about despite their apparent lack of formal financial education. What’s up with that? Well, coming from someone who had a chance to assess both sides of the coin - just about any engineering subject, especially elevated at the MIT level, is way harder, more demanding and complex than any finance taught at Harvard or Wharton. Since trading inevitably requires much more elevated levels of technical IQ and quickness, former English and history graduates with newly baked finance MBA are not likely to cut the muster. Sure, they can pontificate on markets, wear well-pressed and expensive suits, and tirelessly smile during glitzy presentations. But when the rubber hits the road, many tend to be useless. Wall Street bosses are well aware of this paradox and usually consign these people to investment banking and sales – the departments requiring highly polished skills in affected British. The traders, on the other hand, are not there to impress but to make money with decisive key strokes, brief phone calls and lightning-quick mental acrobatics. Consequently, many banks draw on their talent from top notch engineering and mathematics departments instead of relying on crapshoot crops of MBA schools.
In this endeavour Citibank is no exception. What is unique about Citibank however is the number of Pakistanis and Indians working at the place. Well, this seemingly inexplicable preference is just outgrowth of Wall Street’s propensity for all things clannish. For example, Goldman Sachs has been known for its Jewish tendencies, while Merrill loved Wasps and Solomon Brothers was in love with Italians. It all typically depends on who rules the roost at any given time plus some long-standing tradition. In Citibank, the descendants of the Indian subcontinent have made a name for themselves over the years. Still very much connected culturally and ethnically to their homeland, many preferred to keep it this way hence paving a way for Sukhis and Parveens. These guys were hungry, smart and deadly. Put through a three-month indoctrination into high finance they were typically ready to take on anyone with masqueraded by “insightful” MBA accreditations. Once let into the shark infested waters of derivative finance, these characters typically survived with admirable consistency and zest. After all, it beat just about any engineering options even after MIT.
Originators with more experience and finesse were not particularly inclined to appreciate the indispensable upstarts. This created, at times healthy, tension needed to keep everyone straight. I admired these guys since it helped me to see through Napoleonic tendencies of my bosses. They were a breath of fresh air amidst the stale stratosphere of the tenth floor. A prospect of seeing them in person was definitely a welcome one.
Bourse Course
Just before my three-months review I was sent to the Bourse Course in New York. What is this beast? – was my first reaction.
“No big deal, just a foreign exchange simulation course. You just seat there with a bunch of other people and play a fictional market” – Wagman was his late night nonchalance swaying in his amply oversized chair.
I was overjoyed, at least a got shot of something outside the office for a couple of days. I hated the place and getting away on their dime was a perfect stab at revenge. But “there must be something wrong with this, it cannot be this easy”. I had been here enough to know that there was this something, some caveat, I was yet to discover. “Oh, well, I’ll just go and see what happens”.
Travelling on company business was a serious affair that was taken very professionally here. While there was no requirement to fly first class on any occasion as it was habitual for the likes of Goldman Sachs, our office employed a dedicated travel agent who was always ready to assist hurried and short-tempered bankers. Not only that, anybody going to New York had to stay in just a handful highly priced five star digs. Forbidden were the talks of anything smelling of half-priced Broadway tickets and pizza, instead I had to contend with exclusive opulence of Drake Hotel on Park Avenue. How splendid!
Just before I left, I learned what was really expected of me – “You know, anybody who goes there from Toronto, wins. So keep up the tradition”. This was blasted Amar with his subtle grin that was about to send me to roast in inferno – “have a nice trip”, in other words.
Amar’s words did not produce their full frightful effect as once in New York I plunged into the merry-go-around of social visits to old friends. This was a time to relax before I could show my snobby jungle co-workers what I was made of. I could have lousy phone manners but when it came to propensity for quick head arithmetic I had something to contend with. On the morning of the first day, I was ready for a battle. Bristling with sharp awareness of my surroundings I departed for Citibank tower in Queens. Situated in the heart of a questionable neighbourhood with spectacular Manhattan views, this one stuck like a large fish carcass in the middle depressed low red brick architecture of previous housing booms. Unimpressed by boarded up storefronts and general propensity for uncollected garbage I was happy to slink into the safer lobby surroundings of corporate America.
Once in the penthouse, I assessed my peers and soon to be contenders. Some, from IT departments, were easy pickings. They were friendly, uncanny and certainly in no particular compunction to attain the trophy. Some other sales types seemed a bit more threatening. Certain characters had been around for years and had to be sharp enough to play the wretched game. My true competition was represented by a whole new crop of treasuries’ and money market traders. Not nearly as dangerous as derivative characters, they definitely presented an ominous threat – “we will see…”
Waiting was the worse part, as the foreign exchange trader from London, Lydia, took nearly two full days in explaining currency trading in all its splendour. She beamed with perennial confidence of an experienced shark in skirt. Possessing certain charms and aplomb, she smoothly drove her delivery from the very basics to complex, sweeping across the entire spectrum – from spot contracts to derivatives. Most folks were in awe, feverishly writing down every note and tenor that came out of her mouth. I was not worried about them; instead I kept assessing my rivals bunched up at the end of the table. They had heard this crap many times before and were exceedingly bored and relaxed in their tie-less jungle attire. I felt like David in front of the ruthless Goliath.
Finally, it came to the game itself. The rules were spelt out and I prepared for the worst since we were not to play as individuals. On the contrary and in line with latest corporate abracadabra we were to pair up and form teams. Now I had to haul somebody else’s ass up to the pedestal – great! My miserable chances took a quick downturn when I was paired with Irene, a sales lady from Chicago. Nice in all possible respects including her long career peddling financial instruments to all sorts of municipal clients, she did not really have a clue how to play this game, she just kept staring at a couple of black voice boxes – the only piece of technology to assist in our, otherwise primordial, instincts. Weighing my chances, I had a bit of luck quickly assigning Irene to clerical tasks of recording trades. She quickly and sheepishly agreed. Now I was all alone in front of those treasuries’ blokes.
“Here came the starting gong” – just like in a boxing match. “Bong” – every team nervously plunged in deal making with paper flying all over. Now we all stood at the altar of ultimate market maker Lydia. She started the trading with ferocious oscillations between “bids”, “asks” and “spreads” that bobbed in a wild frenzy spurned on leg breaking news cycle that constantly threatened “an upheaval” in thirty second intervals. I felt like a US Marine in a boot camp goaded by ever demanding staff sergeants on the second marathon of the day. I looked right – Irene was there to record my first transaction into the smoke of history. I looked left and my trading rivals had already made their first trade.
“I bid hundred at 50!” – I screamed. It felt frightening but exhilarating. Realizing how wide the spreads set by the market-maker were made me breeze easier. I kept taking thin slices out of each round-trip transaction hereby making my first steps at profitability. More trades on my books, the bigger the profits. The only other way to play the game was to take a heavy one-sided position and keep your fingers crossed. That’s exactly what my trader boys did. They just accumulated a precipitous one-sided position and waited for the gamble to materialise.
“Boom” – precipitous news moved their way and they made a killing. I just kept trading. “Boom” another windfall with congratulatory hand-slaps at the next table. “Crap!”
“Gong” the game came to its merciful end. This was the first round; tomorrow we would play another round to determine the ultimate winner. For now, I was sitting third with thirty something trades and my adventurous rivals sat on the very top with only five trades and a whole pile of imaginary dough to boot. Hopefully, tomorrow will be a better day…
The second round promised to be another test of the opposing strategies – patience versus gamble. “Gong” we went at it like real pros, no more hesitation – Irene was marking the trades and I kept calling the voice box. “Gong” – we are done. The only thing was to tally up. I could not predict the outcome as my main rivals kept their faces straight in a manner of true gamblers - same hand-slaps, same smiles and much trepidation. Finally, Lydia revealed the results. “Number three – a couple of IT guys, number two – two sales people from San Francisco”. I felt desolate; my heart was sinking faster than Titanic.
“The first place goes to Irene and Alex” – Victory! Phenomenal! I was beside myself with joy. I could hardly believe my luck. After all, our tireless trading in thin margin waters paid off, beating the treasuries’ boys hands down. They went in the same direction as my heart few minutes ago. Now they floated with the famous wreckage at the bottom of the Atlantic. Having bet their house on one directional trade, they were lost under the ways of bad market news, wiping out their entire position in a matter of minutes. Hallelujah! Now I could at least claim the same bragging rights as Amar, Wagman and the rest of the stuck-up Toronto crew. Now I could march in with my head high, just like Octavian after beating the crap out of the treacherous Anthony.
Detour
Before I could jump on my parade bandwagon, I had chance at a dry run around the New York trading floor. Having checked out of the Drake with calls to Russia pulling in at least $8USD per minute and a painful ensuing explanation by the front desk, I was loaded up for a bear. Expecting to be a bug-like specimen under the microscope of corporate scrutiny in the nearly sterile, bright and glistening computer land, I was much relieved to discover that New York trading floor was a huge dingy cavern that glowed computer green for nearly complete lack of natural sunshine – a great place to hide! One nearly needed a flashlight to proceed in any direction; otherwise creeping along the walls was the only plausible way to get about for a novice like myself. Rows upon rows of desks revealed multitudes of bodies hunched in all sorts of lounging positions – chatting, screaming and starring at the abyss. It was like another world ruled by ruthless techno-slave drivers goading their victims to a perpetual drudgery in this subterranean hole. Feeling unseen and secure, I inched closer and closer to the derivative desk. Past defeated treasuries’ boys in white, over yesterday’s pizza boxes of foreign exchange desk with heavy Italian bent, I finally arrived at the derivative fortress. Surrounded by hardware on all sides, the enclave resembled that of a tight-knit pioneer desperation attempt at defence behind their encircled wagons in the scorching wild west of 19th century Nevada. The first man in the sentry position betrayed surprisingly pale complexion under a mound of impenetrable curly hair – a Pierre Richard style.
“Hi, what can I help you with?” – a tired and unwelcoming gaze measured yours truly as though an incoming torpedo through a submarine periscope.
“I am Alex from Toronto, and you are?” – I quickly spat out the password.
“Oh, Yaa I am Pierre-Yves”
I was stunned. Nothing had prepared my imagination for this familiar heavily accented and sharp timbre to belong to anyone hailing from the homeland of the Sun King himself. My Indian Periv had just wilted into nothingness that had instantly re-reincarnated into Pierre-Yves, how sub-continental! I could hardly close my gaping mouth almost permanently warped by the shock of betrayed serendipity.
Pierre-Yves just swished back to his screens and my persona was no more interesting to him than yesterday’s hot dog. Feew! I got a second to recover before meeting the rest of the crew. Much to my relief there were no more surprises in store. Their appearance, manners and wit confirmed my preconceptions. And as much as I appreciated their Amar-less existence, their pale sunless faces and dearth of counteroffers consigned me back to Toronto land in a very short order.
Time to Move
Back on arrival my re-entry failed to generate as much as a ripple of congratulatory chatter, the parade flags were collecting dust in the closet. Even my impending one-day vacation following the generous Canadian phenomena of Easter Monday caused much concern for dear Wagman – “people do not take vacations here in the first year”. My employment contract said otherwise but it did not seem to matter. Even a slight hint at a lack of “work ethic” was reprehensible.
Few days later after a near commitment from Vancouver Stock Exchange to extend their employment offer once again, I was ready to face my fate in more certain terms. The timing was just perfect as I was about to face-off my dear boss in my three-month review. Thank God!
This was predictably a dismal affair with me assuming a very humble, almost monastic, pose of penance. Talking back at these torture sessions is usually only to one’s detriment. Instead I just shut up and listened. After few congratulatory opening remarks of my New York conquests, Wagman swerved right into the meat of things. His lingo was impeccable as it is the favourite tool of corporate HR bullshit and usually goes like “he decided to leave to pursue a new career opportunities” instead of “he was fired”, or “she decided to spend more time with the family” as opposed to “ruthlessly downsized”. Even those fired for cause usually go for “violation of corporate IT policies” versus “downloading porn”.
This time it was no different, as my candidacy as experiencing post-hiring blues and betrayed a certain “lack of fit”. “Useless” would have been a better term for the perpetually underutilized. Since starting at my gloriously paid position, I had managed to spend most of my time developing talents in the Copy Room - printing, collating and binding much hated presentations. Hence after three months of tireless efforts there was very little to attest to my worthiness. Never good at all things detailed above, I constantly managed to bungle binding jobs, muffed Power Point presentations and jammed the corporate printer. Even few of my involvements of note such as one fateful presentation to Laidlaw did not contribute anything to the opposite side of the blind scale of justice.
I was getting ready to be sacked when suddenly Wagman decided to unfurl the actual decision – “we will give you another month of trial…” Oh goody, I had few more chances to screw up.
Stars line up once again
In all other circumstances, the following month would have miserable for just about anybody trying to override their fate. It would have been so much fretting, tossing, turning and nail chewing that comparable amount of time in Gulag could have been a relief. In my case it was a great time. Having an offer from Vancouver and not having to look for another job in Toronto felt almost like a vacation. Days were getting longer, trees were blooming and beautiful east coast spring was in full swing. I could not have felt any better.
Did I entirely write off my Citibank career? Almost as I knew that even slightest mistake was not going to be forgiven. I knew that real test was going to show up in just a few days. So I prepared to give my best shot, provided my blasted hardware did not freeze. Giving a full week’s of descent effort was certainly doable. Feeling the near resolution in the air I was only happy to show up earlier and leave later, demonstrating my worthiness of a Wall Street clone after all.
Later in the week the test came in the ominous form of Amar. Never a good omen this one promised to be a real test of fortitude as his impending business trip next morning demanded a complete full-blown presentation. The fact that he knew about the trip for at least a week did not seem to matter. Nothing had been done so far and we had only few hours to concoct yet another tale of impending demise that could only be helped by a healthy infusion of derivates. At first everything went smoothly but then we hit a usual snag as our “up-to-date” hardware could hardly handle anything measuring in megabytes. Staying late was looming on the horizon. A couple of hours later, it was inevitable. All in all, we ended up staying until about 2AM. Truth be told, Amar was not about to miss a chance to earn some face time points himself keeping me company till the bitter end. After having read and re-read the presentation, he remained satisfied, bound for the west coast he left in a good mood.
Next day in the course of his useless presentation in front of suspicious corporate folks he discovered “Oh Horror!” a glaring misspelling of a powerful name. The waiting in the wings Prime Minister of Quebec was re-christened as “Sharest” instead of “Charest”. By all accounts a phenomenal blunder in the world of the humongous confidence trick that is modern investment banking!
You see, I was still new to Canada and subtleties of French names with their crushing weight on country’s fortunes were still eluding my humble English. The name Charest, while very potent to vacillating fortunes of world’s interest rates, failed to register its spelling on the Microsoft machines of the day. The worst was that my French was non-existent ruining any last defences. I was cooked. Surely Amar proofed and re-proofed his material; of course, the laid-back and underpaid west coast types were not going to buy into his ruse in the first place; most definitely Derek did not count on much when sending Amar into the known concession territory for the likes of TD and Royal. None of it mattered and I was undone.
Spending my last few weeks at the place was a pure bliss. Knowing that my future was not going to going to be aligned with Blue and White I just met bare minimum to comply with decorum – i.e. showing up for work, turning on my computer and pretending to be a good corporate rat fetching lunches for my overworked and underutilized colleagues. The only remaining question was ‘how much?” How much severance could I get?
Take Money and Run
“Not much” according to a couple of labour lawyers, my clueless self decided to consult with. The only potential hook had to do with potential misrepresentation of the position in the first place. After all, I was hired to do a “big job”. Instead I served lunches, made photo-copies and had much satire to sharpen my teeth on. The internal audit said “Hire!” and hire they did. Whether there was an actual job there in the first place was less certain.
All of this of course sounds fine, except any potential legal action was not a slam-dunk making most lawyers less than enthusiastic to take it. I decided to wait and see instead. I even started building some figures in my head, trying to determine “what my valuable departure would be worth to the almighty bank”. Numbers between five and ten grand kept popping up as worthy figures. After all, I would be hard pressed to eke out an annual pension out of this damaging experience unless moving to Chad or Sudan, which were less than feasible options.
Having compiled a rough sense of my worth I decided to force an issue with Derek. After all, my extra month was up and Vancouver Stock Exchange was anxious to set a starting date. Relaxed and happy to bring this chapter to a close, my chin-wag with the boss was rather pleasurable. As if playing the cue he was the most pleasant self, as if at the last kilometre of a painful marathon run. I did not let on about the VSE of course, saying that I would be just happy to undertake a job search in the Big TO.
Sure enough, a few days later Wagman received a brown envelope from HR. Right away I knew the meaning and cast a last glance in the direction of my nice and tormenting colleagues alike. Our paths were about to part, perhaps never to cross in vast and turbulent waters of high finance. I even felt a pinch of slight sadness.
My last meeting with Wagman was just another positive experience. He assured me of his “best efforts to line up the best package there was” and I could only gloat at the magnanimous offer of twenty grand that easily doubled my best expectations. I felt like kissing his youthful rosy cheeks. Our eyes, his and mine, were fast filling up with fraternal myrrh. They surely hired and fired in style. It was a pity they usually did it only once… Oh, yea I forgot to tell you – Laidlaw went bankrupt two years later.
