by John LeFevre
Of course, we had all heard the story. Ed Bowman hired a helicopter and some former SAS soldiers as actors to swoop in and stage a mock kidnapping of Mahir Haddad during the middle of an outdoor team-building exercise. That would have been hilarious had it not been for the fact that Mahir had grown up in war-torn Beirut and had seen close friends and family kidnapped or killed; he was not amused.
Mahir extracted his revenge on the Dino Ferrari that Ed had obnoxiously driven to the off-site, covering it in toothpaste and inadvertently destroying the original paint job in the process. For fear of further escalation, Tom Maheras was brought in to forge a truce and temper the culture of aggressive and mean-spirited trading-floor antics and office pranks.
However, the goofs continued. Just as I was finding my feet on the trading floor, Rick Goldberg, the global head of , set the benchmark with a suitcase prank that quickly became the stuff of Salomon Brothers legend.
On a trading floor, it’s not uncommon for people who are traveling to leave their suitcases right next to their desks. It’s not that they are necessarily afraid of being victimized if they let their bags out of their sight; it’s simply a logistical function of the closets being so far away.
One day, this New Jersey guido-made-good,Vinny Funaro, comes in with a small Samsonite travel bag. He’s off to Montreal for a bachelor party weekend. Goldberg immediately pulls aside one of the analysts and whips out a hundred-dollar bill. “Okay, here’s what I’m going to need you to do. Go down and find the nearest restaurant supply store, or God knows what, and buy me a big, metal, industrial spatula. Can you handle that?” The analyst nods confidently. This was typical Goldberg, getting his foot in the door before dropping the hammer. “Good. Then I’m going to need you to also pick up some dirty magazines. I want raunchy, hard-core porn, as much as you can carry. And it has to be gay.”
“Fuck you,” the analyst shoots back. “I’m not doing that.”
There is no such thing as a hierarchy in times like this.
So Goldberg pulls out two more hundred-dollar bills and says, “How about now?”
The kid nods and grabs the money.
“Okay, but for that kind of money, it better be some raunchy shit. Fisting, bukakke. Don’t hold back.”
The analyst comes back about an hour later. “Sorry, the porn was easy; the spatula took fucking forever.” With that, they wait for Funaro to leave his desk. As soon as he’s off the floor, Goldberg kicks into action with clinical precision. He takes the spatula, bends it into the shape of a gun, and places it at the bottom of Funaro’s suitcase. On top of that, he crafts an intricate nest of pornographic magazines, and then proceeds to construct a sandwich of clothing and gay porn, alternating layers all the way up to the top—where he neatly applies a final layer of clothing, restoring the bag back to its original appearance.
“Say a word and I’ll kill you.” He emphasizes the point, not that he has to; everyone knows where their bread is buttered. And with that, they all watch a short time later as Funaro heads out early to catch his flight and get a head start on his long weekend.
On the following Monday morning, it doesn’t take long for shit to hit the fan. Before he even sits down, Funaro starts losing it. “Which one of you fucksticks did it? Come on, I know Goldberg put you up to it.” He knows no one has the balls to carry out a stunt like that without the order from up top, but he can’t do anything to his boss; all he can do is take it out on the analysts.
Everyone just stares at their screens in silence, trying not to crack up. “Do you fucktards understand what happened to me? My friend from grade school is getting married. A lot of these guys I haven’t seen in years. They aren’t bankers or Wall Street guys. They’re firefighters, cops, and blue-collar guys. You think they understand this shit?”
The gag could not have worked more perfectly. Going through airport security, the gun-shaped spatula set off all kinds of alarms. The TSA agent immediately pulled him aside and asked to inspect the contents of his bag, which of course got no objection on Funaro’s part. The latex-glove-clad agent then started slowly dissecting the sandwich of clothing and hard-core porn, holding each magazine up in the air as if it were radioactive. Meanwhile, the entire bachelor party, having already cleared security, stood there watching this spectacle unfold, asking each other the same questions.
Once security reached the spatula, it became clear that this was someone’s sick idea of a joke. However, it also became clear that this passenger had not “packed the bag himself,” nor was he “familiar with all of its contents,” which triggered an entirely new wave of security protocols. So Funaro and his entire troupe of guidos got held up for another twenty minutes and almost missed their flight. To this day, he has no idea who the culprit was.
When I get to London, it really strikes me how the guys in New York treat us like second-class citizens, as if London is some satellite office. Given the respective sizes of the US and European bond markets, the New York desk generally does more deals in a day than we do in a week. They treat us accordingly, coming through every few months under the guise of “helping” us educate and pitch European clients on targeting US investors. We all know that these trips are an excuse for them to live it up in London, Paris, and Madrid for a week. Of these people, Mike Benton is particularly odious. He’s one of those Americans who immediately adopts the British vernacular with words like “bloody,” “mate,” and “cheers.” He even treats my boss like a tour guide: “Is there a quicker way to Savile Row without taking the bloody tube?”
One day, he comes back to the office and proudly announces to everyone in earshot that he just came back from having a mold of his feet done for custom-made John Lobb shoes. “Bloody expensive at two thousand quid.”
I’m not sure if he thought it would be faster or if he was just too cheap to pay for shipping, but he arranges to have the shoes delivered to our office so that we can interoffice them to him for free in the internal overnight pouch. He asks Chris Nichols, also a managing director, to handle it for him.
“Sure, I’ll have Alan [his analyst] send them across when they arrive.”
“Cheers, mate.”
Like clockwork, the shoes arrive six weeks later, in a shoe box that is neatly wrapped in durable brown wrapping paper. Chris, the custodian of the shoes, is traveling on business when the package arrives, so our shared desk assistant casually leaves the package on his desk.
This just so happens to coincide with a day when I am working late into the night. Other than Kamal Meraj, a friend and fellow analyst, the trading floor is completely deserted. As we’re walking out, I can’t help but notice the package just sitting there. I fill Kamal in on the backstory and relay what a complete douchebag Mike Benton is; we both decide this is too good an opportunity to pass up.
We delicately unwrap the box, taking great care to make sure the tape doesn’t tear the packaging. Inside a smart-looking pouch, we find a work of art. It’s like I’m holding a pair of Fabergé eggs. I should be wearing gloves.
We take the real shoes and carefully place them back inside their pouch and into a shopping bag. I hide the shopping bag in the bottom of one of the desk’s seldom-used communal filing cabinets, where old pitch books, deal folders, and offering prospectuses go to die. We know they’ll be safe there, and it’s a location that can never be traced back to us.
Then I take some bright red, hand-painted, wooden Dutch clogs, which I have just stolen from underneath a desk where the Holland coverage team sits, and stuff them into the John Lobb box. They’re perfect; they even have a colorful cartoonish windmill painted across the vamp and toe cap of each shoe. From there, we surgically wrap the box back up in the original packaging and tape and put it back on the desk.
The next day, the package is gone, presumably courtesy of the desk assistant. I’ll never know exactly what happened when Mike Benton received that parcel on the New York trading floor. I’
d like to think that, consistent with his insufferable personality, he made a huge production of opening the box, having spent the last six weeks telling everyone around him how much he paid for “the best shoes in the world.” His face must have been brighter than those clogs.
A few days after the package is shipped, Chris, the managing director and shoe custodian, is back in the office. I watch him take a phone call, in which his emotions vacillate between anger and fits of almost uncontrollable laughter. He hangs up and gathers our attention.
“So, that was Mike. You’re not going to believe what happened to him.” He then proceeds to tell the story of how in place of his £2,000 handcrafted, bespoke John Lobb shoes, he received bright red wooden clogs. He was so blinded with rage that it didn’t even occur to him that it might be a prank. Instead, he immediately called John Lobb and went so ballistic that they simply apologized profusely and said they would immediately get to work making him a new pair free of charge.
Ready for my victory lap, I quietly make my way over to the filing cabinet for the big reveal. The only problem is that the shoes aren’t there. I check both cabinets on either side. There is no mistaking it; the shoes are gone. So I simply slink away back to my seat and never make mention of it again. I can only assume one of the late-night janitors pulled an “Andy Dufresne.”
My favorite suitcase goof of all happened during my last summer in London. On a quiet Friday, one of the associates, Chico, shows up to work wheeling one of those quintessential Tumi carry-on suitcases. Next to the blue-and-green duffel bags, it’s the standard-issue investment banker travel accoutrement.
We call him Chico because that’s the name I gave him. Technically speaking, since we’re close in rank and on the same desk, he is a rival in that we quietly compete for the attention and praise of our mutual superiors. Hence, my first order of business when I moved to the desk was to assign him a dismissive and belittling nickname, which worked to great effect as “Chico” was quickly adopted by most people on the floor.
Chico is one of those guys who really tries hard to play the part of a “Salomon guy.” Even after Salomon Smith Barney is completely integrated into Citigroup, he insists on still saying “Salomon” when he answers the phone. He keeps a copy of Liar’s Poker in his drawer and loves nothing more than exalting gossip and tales of Salomon Brothers lore. “Hey, did you hear Mark Watson’s wife bought him an Aston Martin, and he didn’t even notice the money missing from his account?” Yeah, Chico, we’ve heard you tell that story. “Hey, did you hear Melanie Czarra bought two town houses in Fulham and knocked them together?” Yeah, Chico, you told us.
Chico even tries claiming that he was “on the horn” buying oil futures as the second plane was hitting the World Trade Center on 9/11, as if we don’t know that he still lives at home with his parents.
On this quiet summer day, Chico is quick to inform us that he has a nice, civilized weekend planned in the English countryside. His big goofy grin is unable to contain his excitement; it’s his first weekend away with the new girlfriend and they’re going down to Devon to meet her family.
During lunchtime, I notice that Chico’s computer is asleep. Typically, it’s a point of pride to run downstairs and pick up a quick sandwich and be back at your desk before your computer falls asleep, which is about a ten-minute window. During the summer lull, a sleeping computer can quickly be construed as a long lunch or “cheeky” trip to the pub. That piece of shit has the nerve to take a long lunch on a Friday when he is already leaving early to catch his train? Fuck him; I’m gonna make him pay for that. Not only will I get to teach him a painful lesson, I’ll also improve my own stature and notoriety on the floor.
It just so happens that I have a few old boxes obstructing my legroom, filled with unread bond prospectuses for long-since-priced deals. I expeditiously, but not at all subtly, remove all the contents of Chico’s suitcase and replace them with an equal weight of Greece and Poland bond prospectuses. I’m not a total animal; instead of throwing his original contents away (which I should do because apparently Chico still shops at T.M.Lewin, a shitty version of Brooks Brothers), I place them into a trash bag and hide them in the coat closet—not where I hid the disappearing John Lobbs.
At this point, what I’ve done is hardly a secret. Not only are a few of my colleagues complicit, they’re accessories, having helped me temper my exuberance in loading the bag, thus making sure it wasn’t unnaturally heavy. Part of me expects some kindhearted soul to pull Chico aside and give him a heads-up, or slyly suggest that he look inside his luggage. Nope. Nathan. Nada.
Two o’clock comes and Chico cheerfully says his good-byes and heads off to catch his train. People keep looking around, waiting for someone else to say or do something. Nothing. There are some sheepish looks, a few long stares, and a slight whiff of sympathy, but for the most part, people are just trying not to laugh. Finally, he’s gone; a giant collective exhale fills the row, followed by uproarious laughter.
“You really should have said something,” one guy laments, mostly to alleviate his own guilt. Too late for that.
The head of the desk, a well-regarded transplant from the New York office, stands up, points down to his own Tumi suitcase next to his seat, and says, “Now, I know I don’t even have to check inside my suitcase. You can’t be that fucking stupid.” And with that, we all have one final laugh and get back to work.
It took us many months to find out exactly what happened next, but Chico would later say that it was the single most humiliating experience of his entire life.
This flashy young investment banker with a double first from Cambridge meets his posh girlfriend at Paddington Station, where they are off to meet her family in the countryside for a weekend full of long walks, trips to the pub, and tennis on the family’s estate. Unsurprisingly, the trains run late and they are stretched to make it in time for the formal family dinner. A few quick introductions and then it’s off upstairs to change. It’s like Downton fucking Abbey.
This is when Chico opens his bag for the first time. The words he later uses to describe the feeling are “horror” and “disbelief.” It’s early evening and there isn’t a store for miles; he’ll have no choice but to explain to everyone that he is the victim of a horrendous prank.
Worse than the inconvenience and the humiliation of having to borrow clothing is the implication, and the manner in which the prank is interpreted by a potential father-in-law on whom he is trying to make a good first impression. The only logical conclusion for Chico’s girlfriend and her parents to draw is that he must not receive a great deal of respect in the office. Who would want their daughter to date the office bitch?
They broke up a few months later, and frankly, I don’t blame her. To this day, when somebody messes with another person, it’s not uncommon for us to say, “Man, you just got Chico’d.”
The
Parental Visit
At the end of my first year as an analyst, I’m feeling pretty good about myself. Performance reviews have come back and I’m ranked at the top of my class. At this point in my career, it actually doesn’t matter if I get a bonus of $50,000 or $100,000. The most important thing is being told that no one else in my class is ranked higher or paid better. The money is also nice, but it’s not like I have student loans to worry about.
My rabbi (mentor) balks when I tell him I’m going to invest my bonus in a diversified equity portfolio so that I am better positioned to buy an apartment the following year. “Why the fuck are you going to worry about trying to save money now? Why struggle to save one dollar today when it’ll be easy for you to save ten in just a couple of years? Spend that cash. Believe in yourself, baby.”
It makes so much sense that I convince a few of my analyst class friends to go to Saint-Tropez the following month, with the sole purpose of spending our entire bonuses in five days. That assignment turns out to be significantly easier than we had anticipated.
Working late (after 8 p.m.) also allows me to take advantage of the company’s generous dinner allowance (£20) and free car service home. Even if we finish earlier, most of the analysts will usually go out for drinks or sometimes hit the gym before coming back, ordering food, and taking a car home. My go-to is takeout from Nobu’s sister restaurant in Canary Wharf, which I pick up on my way home. I am addicted to the rock shrimp salad, the hamachi sashimi with jalapeño and ponzu sauce, and the black cod with miso. My spend is usually closer to £40, so I just add another analyst’s name on the receipt and expense it as dinner for two. I don’t feel bad about it; it’s what we are taught by the older analysts. And I’m not even that bad; the M&A analysts are far more brazen.
Once we are issued BlackBerrys around 2002, and we’re able to check emails anywhere at any time, there is nothing that chains young bankers to their desks. This isn’t really true for us on the trading floor; I typically need to be in front of my Bloomberg terminal, manning the dealerboard, and within earshot of the trading and syndicate desks. But the M&A analysts don’t give a shit, especially if their direct superiors are out of the office. Many of them start going to movies in the middle of the day, and if they get an urgent call or important email, it’s no different from if they had been at Starbucks or just having a cigarette. Then they’ll go back to the theater the next day to pick up where they left off and finish the movie.
Investment banking analysts are like prisoners; the smallest acts of insubordination give us an incredible amount of joy and help us endure the generally stressful existence of being a banking analyst.