by John LeFevre
Mistakes are bound to happen from time to time. The remarkable thing is that despite this kind of reckless and selfish behavior being the norm, it’s really a testament to how much I care about her that I am able to avoid incidents like this from occurring more often.
An almost identical scenario occurs just a few months later. After a particularly challenging deal, I head out early for drinks with a hedge fund client and Charlie, our sales guy who covers him.
After a few drinks, the client heads home. The Warden is working late again so Charlie and I decide to grab dinner at a tapas bar in SoHo. Over the next couple of hours, we have five bottles of wine between the two of us. We contemplate going out after dinner, but I want to get home before the Warden to avoid another slipup. Cutting a night short is way better than adding to her scorecard of how many nights out I’ve had in any given week. And after five bottles of wine, we’re both dangerously close to flipping the switch, from which there is no turning back.
Walking out of the restaurant, Charlie trips and falls down the stairs. He’s out cold, totally lifeless, other than the blood slowly pooling around his head. I don’t know what to do; he’s not moving and I’m incapable of providing any kind of assistance. Anybody entering or exiting from the restaurant is forced to step over his motionless body. Even though he’s my good friend, it’s fucking hilarious.
Within a few minutes, the police have arrived along with the paramedics in an ambulance. They manage to drag Charlie outside, prop him against the curb, and then wake him up with some smelling salts. He is adamant about refusing treatment and becomes increasingly belligerent with the paramedics and the cops.
The shouting escalates and evolves into pushing and shoving as they attempt to restrain Charlie. He looks over at me. “Dude, let’s fucking bolt.” With that, we sprint down the steep cobblestone alleyway and slip into the darkness before finding a taxi a few blocks down. Worried that he might pass out and never wake up, I convince him to stay over at my place.
The next morning, like clockwork, 7 a.m. comes and I’m showering and suiting up. Charlie’s still passed out on my couch. “Yo, you gotta go home. You’re gonna be late.” I don’t even bother to slow down on my way out; there’s no time for a recap. But I do notice that there’s no sign of the Warden. Damn, did she pull an all-nighter in the office? I might be totally in the clear.
By 7:30 a.m., I am in my seat leading the syndicate portion of the daily credit sales call. I’m impressed to see that Charlie, sitting three rows over, has managed to make it in on time, even if he is unshaven and glassy-eyed.
Around 9 a.m., I get a call from the Warden. “I just want to let you know that I am going to be late for work because I’m sitting here trying to scrub blood out of the cashmere throw that my grandmother gave me.” Fuck, I forgot to check the spare bedroom before I left my apartment, although that’s probably a good thing.
“Listen, baby, I’m really sorry but I can’t have this conversation right now—”
She cuts me off and continues her tirade. “Do you realize that I came home at one a.m., exhausted, only to find a half-dressed bloody corpse on our couch? I guess I should have expected it after the bloody handprints on the door and the trail of blood that greeted me once I got inside. What a fucking fantastic way for me to get home.”
The fire in my ear is matched only by the commotion of people now standing behind Charlie. He’s either numb or still too drunk to have noticed, but it would appear, based on the reactions around him, that the wound on his head has split open again and blood is oozing down his neck and soaking the back of his shirt.
I interrupt the Warden. “Is my Minotti couch stained?”
“Fuck you.” Click. I look up again to see Charlie being led out of the trading floor and off to the hospital.
Despite all of these ups and downs, my relationship with the Warden survives. One of the primary benefits to me is that she saves me from myself. Who knows what would happen if I didn’t spend so much time trying to adhere to the image of me that she wants to believe in. The wheels would probably come off, as they certainly tended to do whenever she took a business trip.
Since we always vacation together, I never really enjoy the benefit of any extended freedom. Very occasionally, I’ll hit the jackpot with her getting sent on a two-week global roadshow. Warden-free weekends are rare, but to have two in a row, that’s a cause for celebration.
On one such eclipse, I make some plans with a few friends for Sunday brunch and some day drinking. A typical Sunday with the Warden is dreadful by comparison—a long hike followed by a sober brunch, a foot massage, and an afternoon shopping. The vibe is so much more laid-back without her mimosa counting. We’re having a blast and drinking every drink like it’s almost last call. One of our friends, whom we had arranged to meet up with, pulls up in a new BMW M3 convertible. He won’t shut the fuck up about the new car. “Yeah, man, like I’ve been thinking about pulling the trigger on a 3 Series for months. But when I went down to the dealership yesterday, they had this baby, so I just said fuck it, and I lifted the offer on the spot. How fucking crazy is that?”
Four hours of drinking later, I can’t take it anymore. “Dude, shut the fuck up about buying a car every Asian kid in college drives.” I pay my tab, walk out, hail a cab, and head over to the street in Wan Chai where most of the car dealerships are located. I wasn’t doing it out of spite; I simply realized that Hong Kong, as a tropical island, would be a pretty awesome place to have a convertible.
I stumble into a dealership, grab a sales guy, and point at the only convertible in the showroom. “If you can connect me with an insurance agent, and if I can take it home today, I’ll take it.”
Twenty minutes of paperwork later, I am the owner of a cherry-red Maserati convertible. To honor his end of the agreement, the sales guy drives me home in my new car; he knows I am in no shape to get behind the wheel.
I justify the impulse purchase by convincing myself that driving is going to become a new hobby of mine—it’s more fun than going out drinking and, over the long run, costs substantially less. In college, I used similar logic to rationalize why a PlayStation was a phenomenal investment.
I decide to start off day one as a car owner by driving to the office. Typically, a taxi takes five minutes from my apartment building. Today, it takes five minutes just to get out of my parking garage, five minutes to drive, and another five minutes to park below Citi Tower. It turns out that the paddle shifters, a novelty at the time, aren’t really that much fun in heavy traffic.
That evening, I’ve got client drinks, a dinner, and more drinks, which forces me to abandon the idea of driving home. The following evening, I decide to drive out to the Black Sheep, a restaurant in Shek O, a sleepy fishing village on the opposite side of Hong Kong Island. Two of my friends want to join, but I’ve got room for only one. We have a great time, but I don’t really enjoy watching other people get wasted, especially when the Warden is out of town.
The week rolls by and I love the car, but so far, I don’t think I’ve even been out of third gear. That Saturday night, I get home from a reasonably low-key night out around 2 a.m.; it’s low-key in the sense that I remember getting home. Come 4 a.m., I can’t sleep. I know if I pop a Xanax and Ambien now, my entire Sunday will be fucked, and I’ve already made plans to meet some friends at the beach.
I decide to greet the day with an early-morning drive. I start off in the Mid-Levels and head down through Central toward the Harbor Tunnel, which connects Hong Kong Island with the New Territories and Mainland China. As soon as I blow through the Autotoll lane without stopping, I’m on the clock to see how long it will take me to drive from Hong Kong to China. This trip usually takes just under an hour without traffic. I make it in twenty-four minutes. Once I get to the China border, I turn around and come back, this time making it in twenty-two minutes.
I’m gradually getting more and more confi
dent. I’m passing what few cars are on the road like they’re standing still. It’s like I’m playing a video game. Having beat the highway level, now it’s time for the mountain course.
It sounds dangerous—I’m not used to driving on the left side of the road while sitting on the right side of a car. I’m still getting used to using the paddles. I’ve been up all night. It’s after 5 a.m. at this point so more and more cars are starting to come out. And now, it’s starting to rain. But racing along the winding mountainous roads is actually pretty easy. There’s not much traffic so I can live in the middle of the road, which makes taking the corners at high speed exhilarating.
After an hour or so of this, it’s getting light out and the roads are starting to get busy; it’s time to head home. I make my way down from the mountain track and back to the highway. Even though I’m heading home, I still have this race car driver mentality, aggressively weaving in and out of the traffic.
I’m coming up fast in the middle lane on what looks like a Mercedes C-Class. No need to slow down; I move across into the left lane in order to blow by this guy. As I make my move to pass him, I shift into fourth gear and accelerate to really put an exclamation point on it. In Hong Kong, since you drive on the left side, you should pass on the right, their fast lane. Not smart on my part—all the rainwater has run off the road to the left side. So as I attempt to accelerate by him, I lose all traction on the left tires and just start spinning out of control.
All this guy sees as I blow by him is my taillights, then my headlights, then my taillights, and then my headlights. I have no idea how many times I spin around, but it’s not enough to slow me down that much. I careen across all three lanes right in front of him, hit the concrete divider head-on, and bounce back into the middle of the road.
None of this happens with any sense of clarity. All I can remember is losing control and starting to spin. The next thing I know I’m staring at an air bag and the entire car is filled with smoke. My car is a smoking, crumpled heap, sitting in the middle of the road, with debris strewn across all three lanes.
Mr. C-Class slows down, probably to make sure that I’m not dead. But when I look over at him, he sneers, offers a wave that is unequivocally sarcastic, rolls down his window, yells, “Ma fan gweilo!” (troublesome white devil), and speeds off.
I get out without a scratch, fortunate to have hit the concrete divider head-on. I walk around and inspect the damage; the car is fucked. At this point, there’s not really much I can do about it.
The three lanes of traffic now have to converge into a single makeshift lane along the shoulder in order to get around me. Up until the accident, I hadn’t recalled there being this many cars out on the road. That’s when I see a taxi waiting in the line of cars trying to get by. He doesn’t want to stop for me so I physically stand in front of his cab to prevent him, and everyone behind him, from moving.
As I jump in, I give him my home address in polite Cantonese.
“No hospital?” he says.
I shake my head. He says, “You drink? I call police.”
“No. No. No drink.”
“I call police anyway.” There is no chance he believes me.
“No. No. No police. One thousand Hong Kong dollars okay?”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m asleep in my bed. A few hours after that, I’m at the beach, beer in hand, with a new story to tell. At this point, there’s nothing I can do to change what happened so no point in spoiling the rest of my weekend.
Monday morning, I call the sales guy at the dealership. “Dude, I need your help. I need you to find my car.”
“Okay. Where is it?”
“I had some engine trouble early Sunday morning. I left it on the side of the road. But I’m not sure where. Can you just find it for me?” I’m at my desk on the trading floor, so I’m trying to be discreet.
“Okay. Okay. I find it for you.” About three hours later, he calls me back. “Okay. Okay. I think you crash your car, yes? It is in police impound. You have to go there with ID and fill out a police report. Do you know leaving the scene of accident is a criminal offense in Hong Kong? You very lucky this not in Apple Daily [the Hong Kong equivalent of the New York Post].”
This proposed solution doesn’t really work for me. “I can’t do that. I’m too busy. Just do me a favor and figure it out. I don’t care what it takes, but I’m not going there in person, and I’m not filling out a police report. I paid you a lot of money for this car. Just figure it out.”
About an hour later, he calls me back. “Hey, I don’t know if you are going to like this but think I might have found a solution. Just between us.”
“Hold up. Hold up. Lemme call you back from my cell.” I hang up the recorded line, grab a spare conference room, and call him back from my cell phone. This is where my Maserati story has to come to an abrupt end. Suffice to say, despite having heard all about my new car, my girlfriend never gets to see it. And she definitely never gets the real story. It would be disastrous to arm the Warden with this kind of ammunition to throw back in my face.
The warning signs are all there for both of us—objectively, this is a terribly dysfunctional relationship. She wants the person I am 20% of the time 100% of the time. I find myself getting increasingly excited every time she works late or goes out of town.
Even when we go out together for drinks or dinner with my friends, it becomes a game. Any time she goes to the bathroom or steps outside to take a work call, my friends and I will all do a quick shot. Of course, at the end of the night, after six or seven off-the-record shots, I’ll have to put up with her saying, “Jesus, you’re this wasted from two glasses of wine. I told you you’re allergic to alcohol.” But it’s worth it. She already thinks I have a slow metabolism. Now she also thinks I’m a lightweight.
The trouble is that it’s just so convenient and comfortable. We’re both too busy with our jobs to worry about any major changes in our personal lives. Sometimes, it’s just nice to have this part of life figured out, even if it’s not perfect.
Replacement is also a real issue for me. I have no problem dating Asian girls; God knows I’m an equal opportunity employer. But historically speaking, nature has seemingly instilled in me a specific affinity for buxom blondes. Nearly all the white women in Asia are married. The rest are older thirtysomething Europeans, transient Americans, or big-boned Australian rugby chicks who’d violate my adherence to the Mickey Mantle Rule—I only date broads with small hands. Makes my cock look bigger. There’s a small group of second-rate eastern European models who are sent to Asia for short-term modeling gigs, but they’re just one roofie away from waking up as hookers in Dubai or North Korea.
So the Warden and I persevere. With adequate time to let the bad out, I can enjoy a vacation from myself and happily pretend to be the person she wants me to be when we are together.
Then Barney Frank’s financial crisis comes along and destroys everything. Credit markets become completely dysfunctional. We are faced with shorter and shorter windows to get deals done, followed by prolonged periods, weeks and months, where absolutely nothing happens.
I’m spinning my wheels in the office, finding the end of the Internet every morning by 10 a.m., taking a long lunch to hit the gym or drink with my equally bored and frustrated colleagues and counterparts. We’ll then spend the afternoon playing Bloomberg chat room trivia (a game I invented), or doing inane things like syndicate-wide haiku contests.
The only productive thing I can do when markets are completely frozen is develop stronger relationships with my buy-side clients. This means longer lunches, boozier dinners, more frequent nights out, and the occasional golfing trip to Macau.
Other causalities of the crisis are my girlfriend’s weekly trips to Korea or China, the frequent global roadshows, and the all-nighters in the office. Now, she wants to plan dinners every night and romantic getaways every weekend.
&n
bsp; We liked each other so much more when it was just two or three days a week. Now, I find myself waiting for her to fall asleep so that I can sneak out of bed, play Madden on the PlayStation, and enjoy a few beers.
She’s getting to see the person I am the other 80% of the time, and I’m getting to know the person she is 100% of the time. And we hate each other.
Finally, neither of us can take it anymore. We decide that the best thing to do is try yet another trial separation. The next day, I move out of the apartment we recently moved into together and into the Four Seasons.
The Four Seasons is amazing. I can walk to work. I’ve got a rooftop infinity pool overlooking all of Hong Kong harbor and Kowloon. I can get Michelin-starred room service. I don’t have a midweek curfew or need to worry about alibis and having to make apologies in the form of Graff earrings. Best of all, “I live in the Four Seasons” is an amazing pickup line for Cantonese girls.
The Warden retains full-time custody of my maid, who meets me in the lobby every Monday morning at 7 a.m. to pick up all of my dirty laundry and to give me a suitcase full of clean clothes. I might be living in one of the nicest hotels in the world, but I’m not going to pay for their laundry services. Amazingly, I’m not alone in this ritual. I see several other maids in the lobby, suitcases in tow, also waiting for their respective employers. Hong Kong truly is a destroyer of gweilo marriages.
Apparently, I still had a lot more bad to get out of my system. After nearly six months of living the life of a touring rock star, I receive this email from Four Seasons management:
From: @.com
To: John Lefevre
Date: Tue, Jul 20, 2010 at 5:59 PM
Subject: Four Seasons Place—Room 4827
Importance: High