My gym smells like grilled Swiss cheese and corned beef sandwiches. It’s in the basement of Reuben’s Deli on 38th Street. Madison Avenue Muscle doubles as a fitness agency for print ads and television.
My friends play thugs. I make products look larger.
Commercial agents McDonald/Richards, Gilla/Roos, Rogers & Lerman or Funnyface send me on “go see” auditions.
A photographer with a Park Avenue South studio shoots me upward, through a thick slab of glass. Blue sky and clouds are painted above. They needed someone short enough not to hit the ceiling, who can fit in tight spaces without ducking. It’s fun.
Despite taking YWCA step classes in the middle of the day, Nancy warns me that Milken’s crowd might think that I’m not serious about Wall Street.
I’m not. At least not for now.
This is a dead-end job, until I find a new one. They even told me so.
Instead of standing on glass, I have a figurative career ceiling placed over my head.
Just like Rachel’s perfume Giorgio, these Drexel guys from Beverly Hills stink.
Gym Party
Reverse curls, deadlifts, donkey squats, weighted dips, pull-ups and rowing are my escape from trading floor personalities. When not lifting or eating, these guys are cast as heavies or cops in gangster and prison flicks.
Hollywood bodyguards, butlers, bouncers, New York City firemen and their girlfriends form my social circle after work. A designer from Chaus Blouse and Crazy Horse knew my father from the garment district. Her name appears on his old customer lists.
She adopts a British accent, although she was born in Queens.
My goon friends are actual bullies, not the office kind. They like to eat and decide that I should have a party.
An actual, real life British butler proposes, “May I bring Vegemite and invite my friend Margaret?”
“Yes to both. Is she funny?”
He smirks, “Well, she certainly thinks so.”
Our small gathering takes place on that next Friday night, in my studio on 84th Street and 3rd Avenue. Across the street from the landlord with no filing system.
Weightlifters eat homemade Thai food and smoke Camel Lights out on the fire escape. Their girlfriends examine the unpainted pine bookshelf.
The buxom garment district designer borrows The Encyclopedia of Bad Taste. It’s a comprehensive survey of Americana, including (but not limited to) spray cheese, pink flamingos, Vegas, Zsa Zsa Gabor, lawn gnomes, Jello, pro wrestling, Elvis, macrame and “Breasts (comma) Enormous.”
Generation X describes well-educated bike messengers awaiting economic recovery.
A Confederacy of Dunces follows the madcap misadventures of one Ignatius J. Reilly. Books don’t make me laugh. This one does.
A Separate Peace is about codependent prep school kids. Jealousy turns toxic, when the smarter guy hurts the B-student friend, whom he envies the most. Phineas and Gene duos abound on Wall Street.
Party Tapes
Tonight’s music includes Good Life and Big Fun by the Inner City.
Dirty Cash from The Adventures of Stevie V reminds me of work. Monie in the Middle is on the party tape too. Steel Pulse, The English Beat, Shaggy, Shabba Ranks, Tiger and UB40.
We need some new music. My very jarring doorbell buzzes. It really is disturbing.
I open the door to find a cute Korean chick, dressed in a Catholic school girl uniform with platform Mary Jane shoes. A clear lunchbox serves as her stylish lunchpurse. She looks like the type to get in trouble with the nuns.
Margaret arrives bearing a lighter, cigarettes and a collection of Maxell party tapes with very boxy writing. Lots of Psychedelic Furs, Squeeze and B-52’s (their early Rock Lobster era, not that Love Shack crap).
“Your music selection needs some help. Keep these,” she insists, emptying her clear lunchpurse. Margaret leaves me a stack of hand-written party tapes. “These will remind me that we met. William Morris is my agent. You have no idea who I am?”
“Nope, sorry. Stumped.”
I will hold onto these cassette tapes, just in case I ever move to California. But then again, that’s very unlikely.
Options
The following week, Eeyore the Mentor offers career advice. A jaded kindred spirit watches out for me.
“Derivatives are big right now. Interest rate swaps are structured by math guys like you. You should go do that. Or go to law school.”
I make the “yuck” face.
Eeyore continues with the huddle, “You got a call from your prep school friends out in the Bay Area. They’re doing that internet thing. You should either join them, write a show or go to law school.”
I call my classmate’s 415 area code phone number on the sticky note.
A venture cap guy suggests that I join his friends out in California. Tech people can use my language and math skills. Knowing about stocks and bonds wouldn’t hurt.
I shrug over the phone, “I appreciate it, but I’m at Bear Stearns. I’ll be just fine!”
Share this post