Читать книгу Bond Girl - Erin Duffy - Страница 6

IT’S NO SURPRISE that I ended up working in an industry ruled by men. I always loved playing with the boys. I loved to get dirty, skin my knees, and catch frogs. I would rather have tossed a baseball with the three Callahan boys down the street than played hopscotch with my little sister, Cat, in the driveway. My parents laughed when I came home covered in mud, an interesting counterpoint to my quiet sister, who wanted nothing to do with any physical activity that didn’t involve a jump rope or thick colored chalk. At first, the Callahans didn’t mind having me around, and why would they? I was an easy opponent, someone who helped reinforce their developing, fragile male egos; until the day that I hit a home run, a soaring, fast, uncatchable hit to right field (otherwise known as the hedges that lined the Callahans’ front lawn). I ran the bases fast, my knobby knees knocking each other. When I hit home plate, marked by a kitchen towel, I jumped up and down savoring my victory, loving that I had managed to score against boys who were older, bigger, faster, and stronger. Benny Callahan, at ten, two years older than me and the strongest of the group, didn’t like it. In fact, like most boys (and later men), he hated that a girl had challenged him—and won.

“I don’t want to play with a stupid girl. Why don’t you go home and play with your dolls?”

“Don’t be such a sore loser!” I cried. It was my first lesson that success, small or large, comes with consequences.

“Go home! Your parents probably don’t even want you. That’s why you have a boy’s name. My mom told me your parents wish you were a boy.”

“That’s not true! Alex is a girl’s name!”

“Alexandra is a girl’s name. Alex is a boy’s name. Your parents don’t like you and neither do we!”

I had never thought about the fact that my name was just plain Alex, not Alexandra. Ouch.

“I hate you!” I yelled, the joy of my victory vanquished in a flash. I sprinted off as the last of the evening sun disappeared over the horizon, arriving just as my dad returned home from work.

“What’s wrong?” my mother asked, as she hugged me. “Did you get hurt playing baseball?”

“No,” I sobbed, pulling out of her grasp. “Benny said that I have a boy’s name, and that you didn’t name me Alexandra because you wished I was a boy!” I wailed loudly, the way an eight-year-old does when faced with the reality that her parents don’t love her.

My father kneeled on the floor, as if somehow matching my size would better enable him to console me. “That’s not true,” he reassured me. “Your name is Alex because it’s unique, just like you. There will be a million Alexandras running around, but there’s only one Alex.”

“I don’t believe you!” I sobbed hysterically and ran out of the room. How was I going to live in this house until I graduated from high school with parents who didn’t want me? My parents found me in the living room, curled up in a ball on the couch.

“Hey, would you like to come to work with me tomorrow?” my dad asked.

“I can’t,” I said. “I have school.”

“Well, how about tomorrow you don’t go to school? Come to work with me instead, and we’ll spend the day together. Would you like that?”

I looked at Mom for confirmation that I could miss school and spend the day in New York City with my dad. She smiled and nodded.

“Really?” I asked my dad. Until then, all I knew of my father’s job was what I saw when I went with my mom to pick him up at the train station. I would sit in the backseat of the car and wait for the train to pull in. When it did, I’d watch dozens of men wearing suits, ties, and trench coats briskly exit the train and descend the stairs into the parking lot. A few women got off the train, too, wearing skirts and matching jackets. They carried soft leather briefcases and wore socks and sneakers with their skirts. They all looked so important. I couldn’t wait until the day I was able to ride the train with the grown-ups and carry a briefcase of my very own. Of course, I could do without the sneakers and the socks. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. “Can we take the train into the city? The one you take every day?”

“You bet. We can ride the train in the morning and you can come see where I work. Then we can go to lunch and to FAO Schwarz. How does that sound?”

Sounded good to me. Who needs the Callahan boys when you have new toys?

It became a ritual. My dad would take me to his office a few times a year, even before there was an official “Take Our Daughters to Work” Day. On days when the markets closed early and he wasn’t busy, he’d allow me to come see his office and watch grown-ups at work. We’d take the train from Connecticut to Grand Central Station, and then ride the subway downtown to Wall Street where he was a banker at Sterling Price. I’d sit at his desk in his office and play with all his computers. He had two different keyboards, more phone lines than I had friends to call, and I had access to unlimited candy and cookies from the cafeteria downstairs. From the first time I witnessed the glamour of the Wall Street machine, I was hooked. Downtown buzzed like no place I had ever been; it was and is the economic epicenter of the universe. Everyone walked with purpose: you never saw people casually strolling or window-shopping along the twisted streets south of Canal. Down there people were busy. Time was money, and money was all anyone thought about: how to make it, how to keep it, how to make sure someone else didn’t have more of it than you did. It was electrifying.

“Hurry up, Alex. You’ll get run over down here if you don’t pay attention!” My dad would wave for me to follow him, weaving in and out of the surging crowds as I tried to keep my eyes on his navy suit jacket. Men in the Financial District wore their pinstripes with pride and a swagger—they were the Yankees of Lower Manhattan. Everything and everyone I saw downtown looked expensive: men wearing fine Italian suits, silk Hermès ties, shiny leather shoes. The first time I saw the New York Stock Exchange in person it was like seeing the Parthenon. The American flag hung proudly from one of the many Ionic columns, the building stretching the length of an entire city block. I was only eight years old, but I already felt like I was part of something special. I felt sorry for the people who would never get close enough to know what they were missing, and so amazingly lucky that I wasn’t one of them. I decided to make sure that that never changed.

My father had no idea those days would alter the course of my life.

“The Business” was what my father and all the other Wall Street guys called the finance industry, as if there was no other profession on the face of the earth. And, to them, there wasn’t. The very first time I went to his office, I knew this was what I wanted to do. My parents always joked that I had a lot of energy, sometimes too much. My teachers commented that I talked too much in class, that I ran in the hallways, that I had to learn the difference between my “inside” and my “outside” voice. I always found it all difficult to do, no matter how hard I tried. I could never seem to harness my energy, and I worried that it was something that would end up being a problem for me when I grew up. But everyone ran in the hallways at Sterling Price. Furthermore, from what I could tell, there was no such thing as an inside voice, and all anyone seemed to do all day was talk on the phone or to each other. It was like a giant adult playground, where people could do everything I was always told not to do. It was fantastic! I felt like I had walked into a world where every quality that made me a difficult child was actually valued. I felt like it was where I belonged. From then on, working on “the Street” was the only dream I ever had—I never wanted to be a ballerina, an astronaut, or a teacher. I became the eight-year-old who wanted to work in finance—the quirky, precocious, “interesting” child. My teachers found me amusing. My mother figured I’d grow out of it. But there was no way that was going to happen. I didn’t know where I wanted to go to college, or even what kind of Trapper Keeper I wanted for fourth grade, but I knew what I wanted to do with my life. And once I set my mind on something, there was nothing anyone could do to change it.

I DEDICATED THE NEXT TWELVE years to getting a job on the Street. Originally, it was because I thought it seemed like a really fun job, but in college, it became about something else, too. As I grew up I realized that I was privileged. My father made a good living as a banker, and money was never something we worried about. When I arrived at UVA, I realized how many students had taken out loans to pay for their education. I hadn’t. Some kids couldn’t get home for Thanksgiving or Easter because flights were too expensive. I didn’t even check the fares before I made my reservations. Some kids had to work for spending money. I had my parents’ credit card. My father’s career afforded me luxuries I didn’t even know I had until I left the cocoon of suburban Connecticut and entered the real world. (And college wasn’t even the “real world,” really.) It was eye-opening and scary. I didn’t want to live my adult life without the luxuries I grew up with. I didn’t want to worry about paying bills once I graduated, or end up a grown woman completely dependent on a man. I wanted to give my kids the same blissful upbringing I had no matter what my marital fate. I wanted it more than anything. The Street could make that happen. Besides, no one went to work in the Business because they really liked stocks or bonds, right? They liked financial security. And so did I. So, come senior year of college, I dropped my résumé off in the campus business center and researched various companies to determine where I wanted to work.

As soon as I started educating myself on the differences among the top ten brokerage firms, I realized that Cromwell Pierce was where I wanted to be. My father worked at Sterling Price, Cromwell’s fiercest competitor. Sterling is a more uptight, old-school firm. Cromwell had a reputation for being younger, hipper, and a more fun place to work. The headquarters were located downtown, away from the tourist mecca that was Midtown Manhattan (where some of the banks had migrated over the years), and was close to the waterfront. I decided I wanted to apply to the sales and trading program and not the investment banking division. One thing I didn’t like about my father’s profession was that he worked obscenely long hours most of the time, and he told me that starting out I would be expected to work sixteen-hour days and weekends. Not something I had any interest in doing. Salespeople and traders worked much more humane hours, and weekends were rarely required. It was an easy enough decision to make. My mother sent me a black skirt suit that made me look like Working Girl Barbie, but was a necessary evil if I wanted to impress the people conducting the interview. More than one hundred students were interviewing for just three spots, and while we all sat in the campus business center waiting for our names to be called, the tension was palpable. I had done my due diligence: read the Wall Street Journal every day for two weeks, watched CNBC during the day to bone up on industry lingo and jargon, some of which I already knew from my dad, and learned as much about Cromwell as I could. I felt prepared; at least, I thought I was.

When my name was called and I was escorted to a small windowless room, my knees were weak with fear and anticipation. At a large mahogany desk sat two middle-aged men, waiting for me. I took my seat facing them and exhaled one last deep breath before flashing a smile and folding my hands demurely in my lap.

The man on the right, a broad-shouldered blond guy named Ted something or other, wearing a pink tie with yellow starfish on it, spoke first.

“So, Alex, it says here that you’re a finance major. Do you think that makes you adequately prepared for a job on the Street?”

“Well, no, the short answer is, I don’t. I think a solid understanding of the fundamentals will help, but from what I’ve been told, there isn’t a course in the world that can prepare you for a career on Wall Street. You have no idea what it’s really about until you actually do it.”

They both nodded slightly. Ted’s sidekick, a slightly older man who was graying at the temples and had leathery skin that suggested a lot of time spent outdoors, was next to ask a question.

“What’s the square root of two?”

The square root of two? Does two even have a square root? The square root of a number is the number that you squared to get the first number. So the square root of sixteen was four and the square root of four was two. What the hell was the square root of two? It couldn’t be one, because one times one is still one. So it had to be some number greater than one but less than two. Fractions. Shit. Leatherface smirked. Then it hit me.

“The square root of two is the number that you multiply times itself to get two. I don’t know what the exact number is but the square root times itself will equal two.”

Leatherface leaned back in his chair and smiled approvingly, while Ted straightened his starfish tie.

“Interesting answer. You have a unique way of thinking, Ms. Garrett. We like that in the Business. Thinking outside the box is an important ability, and it can’t be taught. You either have it or you don’t.”

“Thank you.” I breathed a sigh of relief, crossed my legs, and noticed a slight tear in my nylons by my left anklebone. Swell.

Starfish Ted looked at me intently. “Do you squeeze the toothpaste tube from the bottom or the top?”

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. What the hell did that have to do with anything?

“Do I what?” I asked him, confused.

“Do you squeeze the toothpaste tube from the top or the bottom?”

Okay, seriously what kind of screwed-up interview was this? I figured the best way to answer the question was honestly, because trying to figure out what these guys were up to seemed futile. “I umm, I don’t. I use one of those toothpaste pumps.”

Leatherface laughed. “You’re the first person that didn’t try to figure out what we wanted you to say.”

“Is there a correct answer?”

“Yes,” Starfish answered. “It’s moot now though, Pump Girl.”

Pump Girl? I didn’t think I liked being called that.

The rest of the interview was easy. We discussed my résumé and my family background. I think having an investment banker for a father scored me a few points. When I left the business center, I felt pretty good about my meeting with Leatherface and Starfish Ted. Two weeks later, I received a letter in the mail, offering me a position in the 2006 analyst program. I was assigned to the government bond desk in the fixed-income division, starting in July. My lifelong dream had been realized. Watch out Wall Street, I thought. Here I come.

SINCE MY NEW JOB STARTED in July, and there was no way in hell I was going to get up at 5:00 A.M. every morning to catch the train into the city from Connecticut, I quickly set about the brutal task of finding an apartment in the city. Thankfully, my best friend, Liv, was looking to move right away also, so the two of us ran around Manhattan for two weeks after graduation, looking for a non-rat-infested building we could afford. We finally found a place suitable for two people and moved in June 15. We divided our tiny one-bedroom Murray Hill apartment into two bedrooms by erecting a fake wall in the living room. I had the real bedroom, and Liv had the fake one, no larger than a prison cell, but with better flooring. The living room could barely accommodate one sofa, a tiny coffee table, and four people comfortably. Our combined income was more than $100,000—a lot by normal standards—and yet neither of us could afford her own place. Of all the things that are great about New York, rent isn’t one of them. Liv had a job at another investment bank, but in Human Resources, and so we both needed a Manhattan address to spare us the horror of commuting.

We lugged all our belongings, which wasn’t much, into the service elevator and up to the twelfth floor with the help of my friend Annie. Annie and I had become friends the first week of freshman year at UVA. We lived on the same floor in the same dorm. One night, when our resident adviser was locked in her room with her boyfriend, we stole the sofa from the lounge and moved it into Annie’s room at the end of the hall. When she was caught a week later, she was forced to sort mail at the university post office for a month as punishment. But she never told the RA that the great couch caper of 2002 was orchestrated by yours truly. For that, I will love her forever.

Annie had decided to prolong school as long as possible by attending NYU to get a master’s in psychology. After discovering how early Liv and I had to get up now that we were part of the working world, she was pretty sure she didn’t want to enter it.

“How on earth are you going to get up at 5:30 and not be a zombie by 3:00?” Annie asked. “That’s just unholy.” She looked at me the same way I look at people over forty who aren’t married: with unabashed pity. She sat on the living room floor and pushed her curly blond hair behind her ears. Annie had done gymnastics as a kid and possessed a flexible, toned physique I wouldn’t have even if I lived on carrot sticks. I know this for a fact. I tried for most of freshman year.

“I’m sure I’ll get used to it,” I said as I jammed sweaters in my closet.

“I’d rather die,” she added.

“Are you excited?” Liv asked as she broke down boxes with a razor and laid them flat against the wall next to a bookshelf. She picked dust bunnies off her black spandex shorts with a perfectly manicured nail and ran her sleeve across her forehead. “I don’t start until next week, and I’m kind of dreading it.”

“I’m excited. I guess a little nervous, too. It’s like the first day of school all over again. New people, new places. I hope I don’t screw up anything too badly.”

“You’ll be fine,” Annie assured me as she stood to leave for her own apartment on the Upper West Side. And by “her own apartment” I mean the one her parents kept in the city for the two times a year they came to Manhattan to see a show. She gave me a quick hug and waved goodbye to Liv as she headed for the elevators. “Call me tomorrow and let me know how it goes,” she yelled over her shoulder.

I helped Liv lug boxes to the refuse room down the hall, and we spent the next few hours unpacking, cleaning, hanging, ironing, scrubbing, organizing, and discussing how excited we both were to have our very own apartment in Manhattan. I went to bed at 9:30, still leaving a lot of boxes untouched, and prayed that my first week of work would be merciful. I’m sure it won’t be too bad, I assured myself. It’s just a job. How bad could it possibly be?