The Buy Side (37 page)

I’m there less than fifteen minutes when my boss calls me into his office. Jeff begins by asking how I’m doing. He’s very kind, saying how much courage it must take to face my problem, how proud he is of me. But then he begins to talk about business and the state of the firm,
which isn’t great. Our assets under management are back to what they were when I was first hired. Investors used us as a source of funds and withdrew money despite our performance in 2008. It’s then I know the purpose of this meeting.

Being fired doesn’t make me want to use. Negative circumstances usually didn’t send me directly to a drink or a drug. In a way, being let go is a relief. I’m not ready to be back on the buy side. And as I walk out of Berkowitz’s office for good, I wonder if I’ll ever be.

Although the house is going into foreclosure, Jenn and I are not getting back together, and no firm wants me as their trader, the next few months have a graceful simplicity to them. I attend an outpatient program at a place called the Realization Center and go to a few meetings a week. A colleague on Wall Street offers me a job selling his geopolitical research—I used the product at Berkowitz. All it entails is picking up the phone and leveraging what is left of my contacts. But the best part of the job is, I can work from home. It allows me the opportunity to take Lola to preschool three times a week. It also gives me time to write.

I’d started writing in rehab. And the words came out of me in a kind of Kerouac flourish—the quantity, that is, not the quality. To be honest, most of what spills onto the page isn’t pretty. And yet there’s something utterly perfect about it. It’s as if I’ve opened a door to a room that’s been sealed shut since college. I’d tried to pry open the door a few times during my Wall Street career—writing those movie scripts and working on that rap song. But even though it was my fantasy to chase profits and inspiration, my job (and, I guess, my addiction) had always pushed my creative urges into a dark corner. I wasn’t alone. Some of the funniest, most creative people I’ve ever met work on Wall Street. But, like their bonuses, their talent is sealed in bank
vaults. Here in early sobriety, however, when anything seems possible, I begin to allow myself to dream. In the real world it’s not that easy, though. And the buy side isn’t about to turn its back on me.

I’m pitching my geopolitical research to a new behemoth hedge fund named Pioneer Path when they ask me to come in and meet them. The office is gorgeous. New everything. The receptionist greets me and offers me coffee or water as she leads me to a conference room. As I’m laying out my research on the table, a light-skinned black guy named Deric walks into the room wearing a huge smile. I knew Deric when he traded for Lehman. Although we weren’t super tight, I do remember several fun dinners we had together. I remember too that he’s a big poker player, and I like him. He comes over and gives me the Wall Street hug. It’s only my third pitch meeting, so even with the friendly face across the table, I’m a little nervous and not as smooth as I’d like to be. But I explain to him, as honestly as I can, how I used to use the product, the value I found in it, and how it helped me trade when I was on the buy side. Though he watches me intently, he seems to be feigning interest in what I say. The smile never leaves his face. When I close the presentation, he just sits there quietly looking at me, nodding slightly. “How much you gonna get paid this year?” he asks. I look around the room, stalling and trying to figure out why he asked the question. Nothing comes to me. I know my earnings this year will be awful. Maybe thirty grand.

“About three hundred grand,” I say. I just lied. “Actually, probably less.”

“What if I could double that?” he says. His smile grows even wider. The amount of money dances in front of me, beckoning. “Come back and see me next week,” he says, standing and reaching his hand out to shake mine. “We’re looking for a new healthcare trader.”

Ten minutes later, I’m on the street with an appointment reminder
on my cell phone for a meeting with the HR person at Pioneer Path the following week. My mind spins with scenarios. With that type of guarantee, I could make a stick with my eyes closed. I could even save the house, maybe move back to the city, get an apartment in Tribeca. If I can stay sober, I’ll have more money than I can spend.

The interview with HR goes flawlessly. I’m emboldened by my sobriety. I answer her questions with honor and integrity and try to convey that I have the work ethic of a Boy Scout. At the end of the interview she asks me to come back the next day to meet with some traders. “Be happy to,” I say.

The following day, the traders quiz me on Obama and healthcare reform. To help me prepare for my interview, I called an old Healthcare Mafia friend named Chris, who still trades healthcare. Chris filled me in on what I’d missed, and all I already knew comes back. I hit every question the traders throw on the barrel of the bat. It feels almost surreal, the clarity I have and how confident I feel. In my heart, I know I’d be a great hire for them—
if
I can stay sober. But is this what I’m supposed to be doing? They tell me to come back for a final interview.

In the car on the ride home I call Jenn, Kevin, Uncle Tucker, and my parents to ask their advice. Although the responses vary—from Jenn’s “It’s your decision” to Uncle Tucker’s enthusiasm—most of their advice boils down to the same thing: I have to do what I think is right for me.

“You’re ahead of your skis,” Kevin says. “They didn’t offer you the job yet.” He reminds me that all I really have to do is not pick up a drink or a drug. “If you do that, everything will work out the way it’s supposed to,” he says.

That night I can barely sleep. I know they’re going to offer me the position, and if they do, I don’t know how I can turn it down. I need
the money, but it feels like I’ll be signing my own death certificate. I don’t know what to do. I’ve never been a big God person in the traditional sense. I remember going to Sunday school as a kid a couple of times, and as a family we went to church when we lived in Ohio. But once we moved to Maine I don’t remember ever going back. One time—it might have been Thanksgiving or Christmas, when we were all together—my sisters told my mother they didn’t believe in God and they were all going to vote Democratic. “We failed, we failed,” my mother laughingly cried. But from a very early age, I’ve thought there is something greater at play in the universe—something both good and bad. I’ve felt those forces my entire life. I experienced the worst during my active drug addiction and saw the best in Lola’s eyes. An image of my daughter’s eyes is the last thing I remember before I finally fall asleep.

The next day I’m seated in the same conference room I’ve visited three times before. A man, sharply dressed, very Wall Street, walks in. He’s holding a copy of the résumé I’d brought on my second visit. There are some noticeable pen marks up and down the sides. I shake his hand firmly and look him in the eyes. We chitchat about the markets, my house, his house, my daughter, sports, and New York in general. He smiles across the table. “So I hear you’re a great healthcare trader,” he says. Then it hits me. I can’t believe no one noticed it on my résumé.

“Actually,” I say, “I haven’t traded healthcare since 2006 when I was at Argus.” His eyebrows arch as he considers my statement. “Yeah,” I say, “we traded everything but healthcare at Berkowitz.”

“Oh” is all he can manage to say.

“Yup,” I say, “I haven’t traded one share of healthcare in four years.”

For a moment he looks away. Maybe he thinks I’m nervous. I’m not nervous. I’ve never been calmer in my life. He begins to explain the
duties of the position. Then he explains how Pioneer is a global firm and the traders alternate holidays and take turns working at night. I interrupt him.

“Yeah, I’m not sure I can do that,” I say. “I have a four-year-old daughter and I just can’t see missing the holidays or losing a few nights a week.” I see a hint of a smile on his face. It’s like he’s sharing this special moment with me. I think it’s safe to say he’s never had an interview quite like this one. “I just don’t think I can make that commitment,” I say, smiling as I do. In fact, I can’t stop smiling. This is the best interview I’ve ever had. He caps his pen and smiles with me.

“Do you have any other questions or anything else to say?” he asks, closing this most untraditional interview in the most traditional way.

“No,” I say. “I don’t. Thank you for your time and consideration.”

It’s around nine thirty a.m. when I walk out of the building and the last gasp of Midtown’s morning workforce rushes by me. It’s cold and overcast. I look up at the gray sky between the tall, shiny glass buildings. I’m on Fifty-Fourth Street and Lexington Avenue, exactly halfway between the Berkowitz office and the puddle I jumped into to fake a mugging. In this magnificent moment, I know my buy side career is over. I’m not sure how my next chapter will read—but wherever I’m headed, I’m ready.

I’M SITTING
in my kitchen at 8:06 p.m. on April 28, 2012. I’ve got on my pajama bottoms and an old white T-shirt—I know: stylish. Unfortunately, I washed the T-shirt with something red and it now has a pinkish tint to it. This is pretty much what I’ve been wearing in my apartment for the last twelve months, though yes, I regularly do my laundry. The view out my window is thought-provoking. Midtown rises from the rocks of Manhattan like a kingdom of money and power. In some ways, especially at night when the lights come on, it seems like a scene from my book. I gaze across the East River several times a day, especially during writing breaks, thinking about how many stories are taking place there.

I’m living in Long Island City in a one-bedroom apartment, smaller than the one I lived in when I moved to the city in 1994. It works for me. I have everything I need. I haven’t had a drink or a drug in two and a half years now. It hasn’t been easy and some days are
harder than others. My goal is no longer happiness but serenity. I have joint custody of my daughter, speak to her every day, and write every day. Though most of my money is gone, I’ve never been happier.

Six months ago a friend told me that if I write this book it will be the final nail in the coffin for my Wall Street career. At which point I said, “Give me the hammer.” To me, this book represents a beginning, a middle, and a new beginning. I wrote it for myself. Writing it is something I
had
to do. I don’t blame Wall Street, the buy side, drugs and alcohol, or anyone for my struggles. Writing about my experiences has shined an even brighter light on what’s wrong with this business. But when I look in the mirror, I don’t see Wall Street.

I felt no anger while writing this book. I’ve met so many amazing, intelligent, honest, and friendly people while working in the financial industry. It was not my intent to paint an unflattering picture of them. Good and bad people exist in
every
industry. Wall Street is no different.

But if you run a firm on the Street and for some reason you see me in a couple of years knocking on your door asking for a job, do me a favor. Just smile and say, “Not hiring.”

Every time I sit down to write, I close my eyes, put my hands over my heart, and say, “Acknowledgment, Intention, Gratitude, Humility.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

It’s not always our job to understand the universe, but we
should
acknowledge it.

Among the stars who populate
my
universe are Julie Flanders, Nathaniel Tilton, and Brian McDonald. Julie, your intuition, coaching, and kindness helped guide me back to my writer-self. I ended up in your office by chance and by chance I started writing again. Nathaniel, we started writing rhymes together back in the eighties. When we discovered we were both writing books at the same time, I felt I had the support of my childhood friend all over again. Brian, you taught me how to write a book proposal and saw something in between all of my fragments and run-ons that others may not have been able to. You’re a friend, mentor, and big brother.

Another glittering star is Lisa Leshne, my agent. Lisa, your determination, insight, and hard work brought life to this project. Everyone
told me how hard it is to find an agent, especially a great one. I’m lucky. Your passion, honest feedback, and expertise helped me carry this book forward. You made it better.

Also shining bright is Rick Horgan. Rick, your sterling reputation as an editor frightened me at first, but your gentle and knowledgeable hand inspired and infinitely changed the scope of this book. I’m so grateful you believed in this story and pushed me to my limits. I wanted to cut a vein and leave it on the page because of you.
Wow
.

INTENTION

Help, heal, and entertain … The one question I’ve been asking myself the last few years is
How do I get to keep writing?
My intention is to do so.

GRATITUDE

There are so many friends and family who support me—here’s a short list: Lola Duff, Mom and Dad, Debbie, Kristin, and Kelly, Tucker Sine, Ethan and Lenore Duff, Rob and Eliza Sine, Gretchen Berg, Suzanne Turner, Jennifer and Claire Scully, the Gutkowskis, Jason and Lauren Kondi, Keith and Brooke Savitz, Dave and Sara Roter, Steffen and Meg Kondi, Scott and Michelle Levy, Pete and Ruth Cocozza, Scott Friske, Sam Sebastian, Dave DeWalt, Brad Cochran, Monday Men, Don Bosco Hewlett, Kevin Breznahan, Todd and the McWilliams, Writing Sober, Perry Hodge, Kevin Weir, Mike Breheny, Jayme and the Caseys, Chris Lottridge, Peter Young, Kevin O’Keeffe, Chris Langel, Kelly Dillon, Kelly Schwartz, Mike Elovitz, Patrick Grady, Sean Farley, Francesca Kimpton, Joe Foster, Dave Fromm, Sara
Blakely and Jesse Itzler, Steve Ehrenkranz, Kelli Deveaux, Marisa Polvino, Dan Purnick, Rob Lubin, Jennifer Kalish, Ric and Lauren Weisgerber, Ross Peete, Dan Simon, Dave Morris, Liz Wintrich, Patty Donaldson, Katie DiMento, Johnny Hong Kong, Bob Cook, Buckles, Caroline Cofer-Golin, Charlie Della Penna, Jon Fox, Chris O’Connor, Heather O’Hara, John Latino, JT, Kia, Lauren Tant, Lillyan Manus, John Lewin, Lisa Bloomquist, Michelle Debusschere, Joe Assad, Joel Morgan (1973–2004), Lori Carson, Pete Murphy, Matt Candel, James Karabelas, Megan Basten, Kathleen Reardon, Kim Duda, Jim Heins, Amber Senn, Billy Gaus, Chris Arena, Dan Fox, Jaime Meagher, Jeff Bennett, Jen Bingler, Jeremy Bronfman, Joey Raia, Keryn Limmer, David Slaine, Todd Harrison, Krishen Sud, Jeff Berkowitz, Pat Shevlin, Chris Birch, Roger Meilleur, Austin Graham, Dr. Errol Gluck, Carly Novich, Mike Masiuk, Dave Osh, Oliver Wiener, Steve and Judy Taylor, Brian Volpe, Steve Starker, Andrew Walker, Matt Walton, Fred Berman, Zandy Reich, Mary Vogt, Joe D., Danny Breen, Rich Giroux, Melinda Loiacono-Zech, Kevin Debbs, Collin Henne, Bruce Cacho, Dan Hess, Ted Pratt, Christina Carathanassis, the Wenja, Nicole, Eric, Dr. Kondi, the Recovery Place, the Realization Center, Cotton Wood de Tucson.