Breathe In, Cash Out

by Madeleine Henry

  I laugh in a release of nervous tension.

  “You’re doing what makes you happy then?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “It feels right.”

  “And I bet no one else in your class is going into yoga, huh?” he asks.

  “Nope,” I say. “Not a one.”

  “Wimps,” he says.

  I laugh. “What?” I ask.

  “You know how fucking brave it is to do something no one else is doing?” he asks. “ ‘Fuck all my training, I’m doing what I love?’ ” I imagine him shaking his head. “No one does that. No one. Nobody wants to stick their neck out. Everyone wants to get lost in the herd. But not you.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “I might not understand this whole yoga thing. . . .” He trails off. “But I didn’t raise a wimp. Anderson to yoga. That’s for damn sure.”

  “Thanks,” I say. We pause.

  “So you’ve been doing yoga at your job?” he asks.

  “Sort of,” I say. “I’ve been trying. Next time I’m home, I’ll explain more how this could go for me. And . . .” I remember meditating at my desk, the poses in the coat closet, and teaching yoga to a room full of bankers. “I have a few pretty hilarious stories for you.”

  * * *

  For the next week-plus, I checked my Chase mobile app for the bonus as often as I checked the time. Today, I woke up, sat on the toilet, and saw $60K had buoyed my balance overnight. The rest had gone into my 401(k). My pee felt golden. That made it Quitting Day, and I wouldn’t be the only one. The exodus was about to commence.

  I dressed in black leggings, white sneakers, and a gray hoodie. At 8:15 a.m., the HG floor is a ghost town. Not even the MDs are here as I take a nostalgic stroll around thirty-five and admire the window panorama. I can see the tops of skyscrapers for miles. This morning, the top-of-the-world view is Lion King–esque, the gorgeous stuff of stock photos. People always take in the view after a tough climb.

  Eventually, Jason’s routine carries him past my desk on the way to his. He nods hello and walks to his daytime plot, holding a crinkly bag of Chobani and Coke for breakfast. It’s time. I make the trip to his office without a notebook. I knock on Jason’s glass wall, and he waves me inside. His smile holds, unthwarted by my dress code liberties. I take a seat at his marble staffing table, Indian style. I never refused work at this table. Now, I will refuse the entire job.

  “Jason, I’d like to quit,” I say.

  Our roles have just reversed. I am bringing him the news.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Where are you going?” he asks.

  “Nowhere,” I say. I laugh once at the implications of going nowhere. “As in, I don’t have a job offer anywhere else.”

  “Are you quitting on your way to the gym?” he asks.

  I laugh. Seriously, ouch, stop laughing.

  “No,” I say. “Yoga.”

  “Right, I heard you were getting into that,” he says. He meets my eyes for a moment of personal connection before transitioning into an impersonal Last Day spiel, mostly to do with administrative details. And, just like that, the deed is done. Our meeting is shorter than PATC.

  * * *

  Chloe is the only other member of the pod here, and it’s almost 11 a.m. When I told her that today is my last day, she reacted as if someone she barely knew had died: grief on the face, but not from within. “That’s so sad.”

  Now, Chloe is on a recruiting call. I can sense this candidate’s eagerness from Chloe’s animated responses. Here I am, at the end of the life cycle, and Chloe’s call reminds me of the beginning. Back when I told one of my Anderson interviewers, “I don’t have an extensive background in finance, but I would chew through this table if you asked me to.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she’d responded.

  Back then, I was a junior at Princeton making my own round of recruiting lunches and calls. My most productive call was with a VP named Sheryl in AS’s Leveraged Finance group. By then, I’d passed Anderson’s résumé screen, and my first interview was a month away. Sheryl told me what to expect: first-round interviews would take place on Princeton’s campus. If I did well, I would advance to a Super Day at Anderson’s headquarters in New York City. Super Day would entail two hours of four back-to-back, half-hour interviews. Each would be conducted by one or two current AS employees.

  Sheryl emphasized that Anderson does not care if its interns have worked in finance before. They hire art-history and comp-lit majors along with the econ grads. First and foremost, the firm wants a specific personality type: high-energy, positive, and driven people who are also genuinely likable. Interviewers use an “Airport Test,” where they ask themselves, If I got stuck with this person at an airport, would it be a pain in the ass? They can mark yes or no. Kids with 2400 scores on the SATs get cut when they fail the Airport Test—but, honestly, does any 2400-er pass the Airport Test?

  Background aside, I would still get grilled on finance. In my case, given that I was a non-Wharton kid, my answers would show how fast I could learn and how badly I wanted this job. To prepare for the technical questions, she suggested I study IBankingFAQ.com and case questions for private equity interviews. I should also be able to talk about current events in such detail that I might be asked the current price of gold and rate of a T-bill. To prepare for that part, I should read the front page of the Wall Street Journal every day.

  Snippets from Super Day come back to me now. During one interview, I saw another candidate pass by in the hallway crying. She had been asked to multiply 100,000 by 10,000 in her head and could not do it under the pressure. My next interviewer opened with, “I’m only going to ask you three questions. First, why are manhole covers round?” I was blindsided. He cut me off mid-answer. “Wrong,” he said. Apparently, manhole covers are round because that is the only shape that will not fall in on itself. His next question was, “What is the first derivative of x2?” I got that right: 2x. His last question was, “I have six socks. If I choose two, the chances that I draw a white pair are two in three. What are the chances I draw a black pair?” I got that right, too. A two-in-three chance of drawing a white pair meant there had to be five white socks and one black sock (5/6 x 4/5 = 2/3). One black sock meant zero chance of drawing a black pair. His three questions took five minutes, and he spent the remaining twenty-five on his phone. I just sat there.

  After I’d spent two hours getting grilled, my last interviewer asked if I had received offers to intern at any other banks. I said yes, I had an offer from UBS. “Well, that would really be a step down, wouldn’t it?” she asked. She looked at me as if that was a legitimate question that I was supposed to answer. “Anderson is my first choice,” I said. We shook hands, and I left with the other Princeton kids.

  “And make sure you say team,” Chloe says.

  I remember scribbling that tip down at breakneck speed. When I was on the other side of that call, like my dad, I viewed the analyst job as my ticket to power. I thought it would take me places. I imagined climbing my way up to the next levels of life. Now, though, I see those next levels as nothing but smoke and mirrors. The only place I ever really am is inside my own body, so I should take care of my inner life the way I feel is right.

  When Chloe hangs up, I break out of nostalgia. My AS email will deactivate in an hour, at noon, and I need to send my goodbye email and leave before then. Where is Tripp? He doesn’t know I’m quitting today. If he is Stage Two, I am so going to sober him up.

  * * *

  I endure an exit interview with HR and dispose of all client-related materials. Then I walk the floor to say my goodbyes. These handshakes are a rite of passage. Last year, after a star analyst on track for associate-promote quit, the head of the group refused to shake her hand when she did her own round. But nobody’s pissed when a middle-tier leaves.

  I pull some people aside for a proper goodbye, wave at others, and ignore
the rest. Adam definitely gets a handshake. I snag Zena, too, and she ogles my leggings as if I’m picketing, SUPPORT THE PATRIARCHY. I shake Vivienne’s hand, and after, she Purells at her desk. If she was serious about loving yoga, as she claimed at the holiday party, maybe I’ll see her around. I hope so. When I wave at Harry, he says to remember him if I ever need help with rent. Trixie gets a handshake. All she has to say to me is, “You’re welcome.”

  I find myself at Mark’s empty office. His chair faces out as if he has just left. On his desk is an open to-go carton filled with hard-boiled egg whites in one half and their yolks in the other.

  “Good morning,” he says behind me.

  I swivel around to miss him entirely as he steps inside.

  “Hi, Mark,” I say.

  “Come in,” he says without inflection. He sits in his desk chair and reads a one-sentence email on his desktop.

  “I’m saying goodbye,” I say. “It’s my last day.”

  I walk closer. His phone rings. Outside, Trixie’s voice answers, “Mark Swift’s line.” Mark holds up a one-second finger to her.

  “Two years up, huh?” he asks. “Where to?”

  “Yoga instructor,” I say.

  “Ah,” he says. He eyes my outfit. “I thought it was just buy side and tech poaching you. Now we have to compete with meaning.”

  I imagine a new set of rules titled Anderson’s Meaning Initiatives. GMI #4: 1 percent of your salary has been donated to charities teaching financial literacy to Manhattan youth. . . . Meanwhile, the wrinkles in Mark’s forehead preserve a mask of frustration and focus. Behind him, emails accrue in Outlook, subject lines colored unread blue.

  “I heard you’re working with Skylar?” I ask.

  “Who?” he asks.

  “Skylar Smith,” I say. “For yoga.”

  “Right,” he says, as if nothing resonated. “Mary thinks it’s good for me.”

  His phone rings again. Outside, Trixie answers, “Mark Swift’s line. Please hold.” Mark holds up another one-second finger.

  “If Mary gets bored with Skylar, I can give her your name,” he says.

  “No thanks,” I say. “I just meant good luck. And—be careful.”

  “Whatever I do, don’t relax, I suppose?” he asks, amused.

  “Sort of,” I say awkwardly.

  “Allegra, if I can’t relax on a yoga mat, then I am fucked to high heaven.”

  He turns to face his phone, where two lines flash activity-red. He picks up an egg white, chews, and swallows. I wish him the best as I leave.

  * * *

  Puja trudges in at 11:30 a.m. wearing business formal, a clear tip-off that she’s been interviewing for a job somewhere. Chloe’s back zips up straight. Puja glares at her screen. Behind her, Tripp strolls in at a leisurely pace, as if he is an hour early to a beach picnic.

  “Where have you been?” I demand.

  “Bonuses are in, baby,” he says.

  Tripp falls into his office chair, wheeling it into the wall and completing the four-piece puzzle of our pod. He looks from Puja to me, then from me back to Puja.

  “What the fuck is dress code today?” he asks.

  “You want to go first?” I ask Puja.

  “Yes,” Chloe responds for her.

  Chloe knows I’m leaving. She wants to know where Puja might be going. Puja drops her head in her hands.

  “First of all, it’s a hedge fund of thirty men,” she says. “Only men. The only woman there was a secretary. Anyway, so the first question he asked me was, ‘You’re from Dartmouth, did you see the game last night?’ and I totally didn’t. So I panicked and said I didn’t like sports.”

  “That was your angle?” Chloe asks.

  “Yeah,” she says. “I mean, I was expecting accounting questions. I had been going through my index cards on equity investments, and then all he wants to talk about is sports and the personal section at the bottom of my résumé.”

  “What’s even on the personal section for you?” Tripp asks.

  “Exactly,” Puja says. “I made that whole line up. I don’t know anything about photography. Literally. I said my favorite camera was an iPhone, and he asked which one, and I didn’t know. Like, an 8? And apparently the secretary gets a free membership to Equinox, but no one else at the firm does.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Fuck ’em, Pooje,” Tripp says.

  “You wouldn’t want to work there anyway,” Chloe says.

  “Well, what about you?” Tripp asks. “Where’d you interview? Booty Barre?”

  “I’m leaving,” I say.

  “To work out?” he asks.

  “No, I’m quitting. Today is my last day.”

  “Oh, really?” he asks.

  His eyes sparkle.

  “Yes,” I reply.

  He and I both know what that means.

  “Well, thanks for the A-leg-room,” he says. He stacks his feet on my lap and lounges backward in a mock recline. I laugh and toss him off of me. Puja comes over and hugs me. It’s actually sweet.

  “I’m so jealous you’re leaving,” she whispers in my ear.

  A couple of minutes to noon, as I proofread my goodbye email, Tripp declares that he is a genius because he finally figured out call forwarding from his desk landline to his cell phone. He calls it the “greatest thing since delay-send.” That’s the Outlook function allowing an email to be delivered at a specific time in the future. Tripp was a fan of delay sending as much of his work as he could for 4 or 5 a.m., to give the impression of an unrelenting work ethic. Now, Tripp leans forward toward my computer screen and inserts his nose an inch away from my goodbye email.

  “You should reduce the font size,” he says. “Freak all the MDs out. They’ll think they’re getting old.”

  “Nah,” I say. “Is it good to go?”

  “Yes,” he says with conviction. “It’s time.”

  All,

  After two years and two months, today is my last day at Anderson Shaw.

  I feel very fortunate to have started my career at such an outstanding firm that is truly exceptional in many ways. I am grateful to have learned from such a remarkable group of people. In particular, a heartfelt thank-you to my pod and fellow analyst class.

  I will be teaching yoga. My contact info is below if you are interested in a private class. It may seem crazy, but it beats working yourself to death—I promise.

  Warm regards,

  Allegra

  (I) @PretzelYoga (E) Allegra@PretzelYoga.com (C) 9175554029

  I send.

  “Guess that means we don’t work together anymore,” he says.

  “Guess not,” I say.

  He winks.

  * * *

  On my way out, I approach the pretzel stand, which gleams in the sunlight. Tripp has already texted me three times in a row to ask me out tonight. So far, he has suggested drinks (“to wash down that cake we got today? #$”), or dinner (“pro is that’s longer than drinks”), or a trip to Pier 1 Imports to redecorate my studio (“jk you have great taste—in men”). I can’t wait to see him again. I’m smiling as I reach the stand.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “You again,” says the pretzel-stand man.

  I pull out my phone and show him the latest landing page for @PretzelYoga, which has a few hundred posts and 25K followers.

  “I named this after your stand,” I say.

  “Does that make me money?” he asks.

  “Well, no,” I say. “I thought it would make you happy.”

  “What, you make money, and I feel good?” he asks. “Get the fuck out.”

  I pocket my phone. He waves me away.

  “You know, I quit today,” I say.

  He looks at me sideways. His forehead wrinkles with thought, as if he is figuring out whether or not he still hates me.

  “Quit, huh?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “To do what?” he asks.

  “Teach yoga,” I say.

 
“Yoga?” he says. “Yoga. You know I’m from India, lady?” He shakes his head. “Leave Anderson Shaw and tell the Indian man, ‘I teach yoga.’ I used to think you were a smart asshole. Now I see you’re not so smart.” He fixes me an extra-large pretzel with every topping. “Take the pretzel, lady. You need it more than me.”

  As I hold the pretzel, I don’t feel like the clown he thinks I am. Instead, I see how my practice has already changed someone. The ultimate miser just gave me a free pretzel out of the goodness of his heart. That’s got to be a start.

  acknowledgments

  Special thanks to Suzanne Gluck and Eve Attermann at William Morris Endeavor for believing in me and for leading a seamless process. This book would not have been possible without Lara Blackman, my editor now at Audible, who really got this story and helped me focus the narrative. For her ideas, jokes, and guidance, I am extremely grateful. Kaitlin Olson, my editor extraordinaire at Atria, has also been instrumental in making this book a reality. I am on team pink cover!

  I benefited tremendously from the counsel of Tom Distler at Brooks & Distler, of Robert Stein at Pryor Cashman, and of Jennifer Weidman at Simon & Schuster. Thanks to Emma Parry at Janklow & Nesbit and David McCormick at McCormick Literary for their early reads and advice. Thanks also to authors Jill Davis and Wednesday Martin; to photographers Lucy Brown and Bradley Lau; to copy editor Polly Watson; and to my Yale English professor Alfred Guy for his lessons senior year. Last but not least, thank you to my dear family—Jody, both Emils, and Parker—for their unconditional support, and to Dave Alexandre.

  Breathe In, Cash Out

  Madeleine Henry

  This reading group guide for Breathe In, Cash Out includes discussion questions, ideas for enhancing your book club, and an author Q & A. The suggested questions are intended to help your reading group find new and interesting angles and topics for your discussion. We hope that these ideas will enrich your conversation and increase your enjoyment of the book.

  Questions for Discussion

  1. The novel starts with Skylar asking the question “Are you okay?” Why do you think Madeleine Henry chose to begin the novel this way? What does this scene accomplish?