might be able to go beer for beer with the goyim jocks and frat boys that this firm needs to bring aboard
if its financial ship is to sail as tall in the new century as it did in the old.
Part of my job is to go after these guys, my classmates of five short years ago. Chi Psis and Psi Us who staggered across
the stage at graduation, talking through their hangovers about Jamaica, Antigua, St. Martin, about the three months of sun
and spleefs that would wipe out whatever scrap of their liberal education had managed to survive senior week and enable them
to start fresh and ruthless at big Wall Street firms in the fall. Some of them are pulling down serious bucks now, and a few
times a month I’ll be expected to treat one to our floor seats at the Garden or to eighteen holes out on Amagansett or even,
if he’s that kind of guy, to a night at Scores, the thinking being that down the line, when they decide they need someone
to count their money for them, they’ll remember Sprewell dunking over Shaq or the three-wood they blasted to the green or
the blond angel with the schoolgirl smile who rocked back on her golden ass, uncrossed her high-heeled ankles, and offered
them a long, sweet look at heaven. They’ll remember, and they’ll reach for the phone and give us a call.
That’s the theory, anyway. We’ll see. And if it costs me? If I go so high and no higher, and watch as the grinders march past
on their way to partner? So be it. Because right now all those grinders are staring into the dull green glow of the spreadsheets
they took home with them for the weekend, and I’m watching from a limo as Diane Silio steps from a bar doorway into the soft
light of a streetlamp, the wind tugging at the open collar of her blouse as she gives our secretaries a last hug good-bye
and now walks, taut and lithe, away from her old life and toward a night she hasn’t begun to imagine.
It is the custom of the firm, on the last day of one of its own, to fete them at the Porterfield, in the financial district,
an immaculate homage to gentleman culture and a favorite of the partners. At five o’clock the secretaries and some of us junior
associates took Diane over, and for two hours she sat in our center along the gleaming brass bar, sipping Kahlua and cream,
her legs crossed demurely on the rung of a barstool. Her eyes found mine more than once, even after the partners started dropping
in, each staying long enough for a martini or an old-fashioned and then each invoking clients or family, handing Diane a gold-edged
parting envelope, accepting the hug they’d waited seven years for, and leaving for their garages and cars and Connecticut
weekends.
As they took their turns with her, I looked toward the door and saw Mimi Lessing come through it. She shook her long hair
once, softly, and walked toward the group. I ordered a glass of white wine from the bartender and held it out to her as she
reached us.
“Jake Teller,” she said, smiling. “Why, thank you.”
“To life after tax season,” I said, touching my glass to hers.
“Amen.” In the soft light of the bar her dark hair shimmered, and again my eyes went to the smooth skin beneath her camisole.
“My last glass till April first,” she said. She took a sip. “So, you’ve been with us two weeks?”
“Yes.”
“What brought you?”
“The odds. Two hundred associates at Grant Thornton and eight partners.”
She laughed. “Here it’s twelve and four. Well, you picked a fine time to start.” Mimi’s eyes looked past me a second. She
lowered her voice. “You must know Diane well,” she said.
“Why?”
“She’s watching you.”
She was. The last of the partners had gone by then, and everyone had relaxed. Diane, warmed by the two drinks, the attention,
the dark outline of the crisp hundreds in the envelopes on her lap, had pulled the clip from her smooth hair and leaned into
the last hour of her special night.
if its financial ship is to sail as tall in the new century as it did in the old.
Part of my job is to go after these guys, my classmates of five short years ago. Chi Psis and Psi Us who staggered across
the stage at graduation, talking through their hangovers about Jamaica, Antigua, St. Martin, about the three months of sun
and spleefs that would wipe out whatever scrap of their liberal education had managed to survive senior week and enable them
to start fresh and ruthless at big Wall Street firms in the fall. Some of them are pulling down serious bucks now, and a few
times a month I’ll be expected to treat one to our floor seats at the Garden or to eighteen holes out on Amagansett or even,
if he’s that kind of guy, to a night at Scores, the thinking being that down the line, when they decide they need someone
to count their money for them, they’ll remember Sprewell dunking over Shaq or the three-wood they blasted to the green or
the blond angel with the schoolgirl smile who rocked back on her golden ass, uncrossed her high-heeled ankles, and offered
them a long, sweet look at heaven. They’ll remember, and they’ll reach for the phone and give us a call.
That’s the theory, anyway. We’ll see. And if it costs me? If I go so high and no higher, and watch as the grinders march past
on their way to partner? So be it. Because right now all those grinders are staring into the dull green glow of the spreadsheets
they took home with them for the weekend, and I’m watching from a limo as Diane Silio steps from a bar doorway into the soft
light of a streetlamp, the wind tugging at the open collar of her blouse as she gives our secretaries a last hug good-bye
and now walks, taut and lithe, away from her old life and toward a night she hasn’t begun to imagine.
It is the custom of the firm, on the last day of one of its own, to fete them at the Porterfield, in the financial district,
an immaculate homage to gentleman culture and a favorite of the partners. At five o’clock the secretaries and some of us junior
associates took Diane over, and for two hours she sat in our center along the gleaming brass bar, sipping Kahlua and cream,
her legs crossed demurely on the rung of a barstool. Her eyes found mine more than once, even after the partners started dropping
in, each staying long enough for a martini or an old-fashioned and then each invoking clients or family, handing Diane a gold-edged
parting envelope, accepting the hug they’d waited seven years for, and leaving for their garages and cars and Connecticut
weekends.
As they took their turns with her, I looked toward the door and saw Mimi Lessing come through it. She shook her long hair
once, softly, and walked toward the group. I ordered a glass of white wine from the bartender and held it out to her as she
reached us.
“Jake Teller,” she said, smiling. “Why, thank you.”
“To life after tax season,” I said, touching my glass to hers.
“Amen.” In the soft light of the bar her dark hair shimmered, and again my eyes went to the smooth skin beneath her camisole.
“My last glass till April first,” she said. She took a sip. “So, you’ve been with us two weeks?”
“Yes.”
“What brought you?”
“The odds. Two hundred associates at Grant Thornton and eight partners.”
She laughed. “Here it’s twelve and four. Well, you picked a fine time to start.” Mimi’s eyes looked past me a second. She
lowered her voice. “You must know Diane well,” she said.
“Why?”
“She’s watching you.”
She was. The last of the partners had gone by then, and everyone had relaxed. Diane, warmed by the two drinks, the attention,
the dark outline of the crisp hundreds in the envelopes on her lap, had pulled the clip from her smooth hair and leaned into
the last hour of her special night.
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