Deci means 10. Contrary to popular belief, to decimate is not to destroy suddenly.
Romans decimated societies 10% at a time. It’s a slow process.
A hardened bond soldier arrives washed-up and well-dressed from Beverly Hills to decimate the Bear Stearns junk desk every few weeks.
One at a time, the survivors of Milken’s famous wreck gradually reconvene on our rocky bluff. They take cross country rest stops at Salomon Brothers, Smith Barney or First Boston to gather information about competitors before regrouping here.
Remaining Drexel castaways formed Apollo, Cerberus or Moelis & Company. Firms are named after Greek letters, myths, igneous material or trees.
Our “back east” people and weather are both noticeably colder. By necessity and nature, our communication is blunt and direct. After several years in this department, that delivery has become my brand. Hipster calls me un-insultable for good reason.
The Bear Stearns junk desk taught me not to fear management; but if I want to survive in this industry, I should learn to play the game.
The House That Jack Built
I order Plantronics headsets for modern traders (like Hipster) and traditional handsets for everyone else. The hefty black phone handles are connected to the underside of the desk with a jack and 6 feet of coiled phone cord.
They serve nicely as a back massage device, when turned horizontally to straddle the spine.
They add emphasis, when pounded loudly on trading desks to express frustration with customers or coworkers.
Handsets come with an optional mute button. Those can malfunction.
The most recent salesman hails from Manhattan Beach. My enthusiasm for other people’s grunt work is depleted. His sincere career advice begins.
“Lesson #1. Try not to meet your clients. Especially if you’ve got a commanding voice. You sound bigger than you are. Keep the mystery. It works.”
I’m flattered. Agencies use me to make products appear larger than they really are.
The wiry salesman beside him agrees, “I live in The House That Jack Built. But I’ve never met Jack once. He’s my biggest client. Why give him something to dislike?”
I turn back to the beachcomber. “What’s Lesson #2?”
“Your memory is a problem,” the newcomer smirks.
I’m baffled. “What are you talking about? I’ve got a fantastic memory!”
He shakes his head.
“Precisely. Just practice saying, ‘I’m sorry, Your Honor. I do not recall.”
He means it.
An Imaginary Club
The preferred desk is practically deserted, when I deliver the afternoon axe sheet.
Rachel was dragged off a few months ago by the authorities. Her desk remains empty, like Tiny Tim’s lonely, abandoned stool in A Christmas Carol.
Nancy is at the YWCA, taking a clandestine aerobics class between Lehman’s money market preferred auctions.
Coach is either enjoying liquid lunch with customers or meeting with lawyers again.
Seated directly across from me, Champ discusses lifting and food across the walkway. He is a team player, who looks like a Polo model from Connecticut.
A 10 foot gap separates our desks. It is interrupted by Ish Kabibble, the head of corporate bond sales. He resembles the comedian emulated by Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber. They both sport a bowl cut and try too hard to be funny or relevant.
He stands between us, awaiting our acknowledgement. Let the pandering begin.
Ish Kabibble looks silently left and right, to assure that his imaginary bond floor fairway is clear of human obstacles. His many golf pro lessons clumsily come to fruition all at once, like Ralph Kramden addressing the ball on The Honeymooners.
Champ perks up in his chair, like an informercial audience member. Or perhaps a spectator at our coworker Christopher Stanwich’s fancy golf club in Greenwich.
Ish Kabibble keeps his head down properly. He brings his invisible driver above his right ear and rotates one foot. Champ grins in anticipation.
Ish Kabibble uses his fake club like he needs more practice.
Regardless, Champ chirps enthusiastically, “Great swing!”
“Thanks!” the big bond boss gleams, while turning to me.
I respond with a Bugs Bunny smirk, “I think you put it in the rough!”
My lack of affirmation falls on the bond boss’s disappointed ears. Champ is horrified but amused.
Ish Kabibble laments, “You don’t know how to play the game.”
“What do you mean?” I tilt my head. “My father’s brought me golfing since I was 12.”
Champ laughs, “That ain’t the game he’s talkin’ bout!”
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