While I’m waiting for the call to go through, I scream to John over the wall, “How do I get a computer password?”
I can barely hear John’s response over a voice shouting in my ear, “Lane!”
I takes me a second to realize the voice is coming through the phone “Oh Swen! Sorry, again,” I whisper.
“No worries, my sweet. I’m just in from the steam room.” Swen—otherworldly, fantastical Swen. “So how’s the new job going?”
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.” Lowering my voice, and cupping my hand over the receiver, I whisper, “There are like, a million, trillion men here.” Again, I avoid silly exclamations.
He asks. “What are you wearing?” I briefly wonder if I am feeding a fantasy he has scheduled after high tea, but describe the whole outfit and croc-shoe debacle anyway (sometimes the mileage you get out of a great story is worth the hassle of surviving the experience), when that hideous globe tie appears before me once again.
“I see you’re settling in nicely.” Tom says.
“I’ll get that off to you right away,” I say into the receiver. Swen says, “Ooh, I like the sound of that.” I try not to cringe as I hang up the phone. Tom glances with a bit of a rosy cheek to where I’ve propped his little note from the flowers atop my computer monitor.
“Thanks for the flowers. That was awfully sweet of you. How’d your meeting go?” To seem professional I add, “Are there any notes you’ll need me to transcribe?”
“Well, if you haven’t any more shopping to do this afternoon, that would be a great help,” he says and hands me a couple of scrawled-on sheets of yellow legal paper.
Now I’m the one with the pink cheeks.
“I’ve got you a password already. It’s really a lot of trouble for nothing, and I figured I’d save you the hassle. It’s—” He lowers his voice to a whisper, “Faulkner.”
I type in the notes quickly, calling Tom every once and again to ask what “MD” (managing director) and “IBD” (Investment Banking Division) stand for, and embarrassingly, once to ask what “TR” is—”Um, that’s, ummm, me,” he replies, being careful of my feelings. I roll back in my chair to peek at him through the plates of clear glass that serve as his office wall, and twirl my finger at my ear. “Duh,” I say.
He smiles and says. “I gotta go, there’s some strange girl staring at me through my window.”
When I grab the sheets off the printer I take in my new department. There are about one hundred people in my surrounding area, and I’m already picturing all of us out at happy hour, complaining that “numbers are down,” or whatever it is these people complain about. There’s a bunch of boisterous guys a few desks down who keep walking around to hand each other papers and files—and more than once, I’ve noticed them whispering and pointing in my direction. I’m intrigued.
I bring the papers to Tom, and he gives them a once-over, nodding his head approvingly. “You do nice work,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say, feeling a wave of pride from a job well-done. I’m a kitten who’s mastered the litter box.
“You ready for your tour?” he asks.
God am I ever. I get to go around once again—taking it all in, top to bottom—all those strong legs, backs, arms, “Let me just grab my notebook,” I say, not wanting to miss anything I can possibly use for my article.
Now Tom has professional reasons for showing me the building, but I have my own reasons for touring it, so taking it all in is not the easiest thing in the world. First we go around our floor.
“This entire floor is investments. And most of it is Mergers and Acquisitions. The guys in the cubicles are the number crunchers. You know, the guys who play with the figures to see what companies would look like combined, to find out who’s in trouble, who can afford to acquire another company. There are about one hundred and fifty of those guys on this floor. They’re called analysts, and they’re assigned to different projects that the managing directors and vice presidents are working on.”
I’m trying to get this info down, and note, in code, which ones are cute and which ones have checked me out, and which cologne it is that’s wafting up into my nasal passages and causing heat to emanate from my neck.
He continues. “Now there are lots of managing directors. That’s MDs. No, not the medical type. About ten right now, and they’re all working on different projects in various sectors of the marketplace. So, over here,” he says, waving over a section midway down this corridor of open-front offices, “the trafficking segment of our department makes sure that nobody’s contacting the same companies to suggest different deals. Otherwise we would all look like we don’t know what the hell is going on.”
I’ve always found it boring when men talk about the world of finance, when I’ve met them in bars or at parties, but Tom, talking this way in his element (even with that awful tie) seems so regal and important.
“So what kind of deals do you put together?” I ask, and surprisingly, find, I’m actually interested in hearing the answer.
“Well, it can be anything. Say Barneys is doing really well and looking to grow their remainders and discounting business, and Daffy’s is not doing so well. We’ll have the analysts put together a prospectus of what a Barneys/Daffy’s company would look like and present it to them.”
Barneys and Daffy’s? That sounds like a deal I could really get excited about. But Barneys would never want to be associated with a bargain-basement store like Daffy’s that throws around the term “designer” until its been robbed of all meaning. Come on. Anyone knows that. It’s like Vogue merging with Family Circle. That conference room would be left a tattered battlefield strewn with tufts of perfectly flattened blond hair and torn strings of outsize Chanel faux-pearls on the one side, and Lycra and polyester blends on the other side of the enemy line.
When I mention this, Tom smiles and says, “Excellent point.”
The whole floor is coming to life before my eyes, as I imagine the important negotiations, intimidation tactics, and fiscal something or others in progress.
Tom opens a door that leads to a stairwell and explains the mysterious path John led me through earlier. “Since we’re on twenty-five, and the elevators are divided into two towers—one to twenty-five and twenty-six to thirty-nine—the fastest way to get to our floor from the lobby is to take the express straight up to twenty-six, rather than stopping on every floor all the way up to twenty-five. Same when you go down.”
I follow him up the one flight, smiling at the two women chatting here (my coworkers); they go quiet when they notice Tom, and I remark to myself that he must be pretty important.
“Now, the first thing everyone learns in this building is that there are no arrows above the elevators to indicate whether they’re going up or down. Instead, the red light means up, white down.”
“Why? Wouldn’t it be easier just to have arrows?” I ask.
He shrugs. “That’s just the way it is. Feel free to draft a letter of concern to the management office, but I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
“Tom, nice to see you,” says an older man in the elevator.
“Jim,” Tom says and nods. “This is my new assistant Lane.” He introduces me, and Jim sticks his hairy hand in my direction.
I shake it. “Nice to meet you,” I say.
“A pleasure,” he says, smiling.
And before we get to our destination—the conference floor on thirty—the elevator stops to let in one bespectacled man, a couple of casually dressed guys in jeans and tees, one skinny, and two blond men who could be twins. Wow. Wow. Wow.
“Tom, which—” I want to clarify once again which is down and which is up.
He stops me and says, “Red, up.”
I smile. “Thanks.” I’m taking notes and Tom screws up his face, probably wondering what the heck I could possibly be writing down, and considering that if it’s the elevator instructions then perhaps he hasn’t made the best choice in hiring me. Of course, this is ex
actly what I’m writing down, because my mind is so cluttered with all the men that I’m sure I won’t remember, and so I cup my hand over my paper, like someone afraid a classmate is cheating off their exam. I shake my head and further shade my notes when he tries to peek over. Tom finds this amusing.
The conference floor is exactly what it sounds like—a floor lined with identically bland conference rooms, each with its own unspectacular piece of corporate art. Outside each room are tables of food, soda cans, bottled water, and appropriate amounts of garnish, for those meeting inside. Those rooms that have meetings in session are marked with signs indicating which potential mergers or acquisitions are being discussed: “Verizon and Time Warner;” “Macy’s and Marshall’s;” “Starbucks and Tealuxe.”
Tom adopts a hushed tone to indicate we need to be quiet. “So this is where it all happens. When we have meetings I’ll need you to come in and take down the minutes. It’s not too bad—at least you’ll get a free lunch.”
I haven’t eaten yet and I spy a cookie that looks fantastic, but resist the urge to grab for it. This isn’t so hard to do, as there are so many men standing around and walking past that the last thing I want to do is stuff my face like a pig. (Another article idea? “The Man Diet.”) Now where have I seen that guy before?
I catch a smidge of conversation. “With the resources we had three years ago … “ It trails off as the three men walk into one of the rooms.
We follow a square route around until we once again reach the glass doors that lead to the elevators, and Tom says, “Okay, here’s your test. We’re going down to the first floor. Let’s see if you can get into the right elevator. Lane.”
Right. I mean, okay, so I asked once, but obviously it’s not that hard. What kind of moron does he think I am anyway? So here I am, all pissed that my boss thinks I can’t figure out something as simple as a white light indicating a descending elevator, when the doors of an elevator with a red light open and a breathtakingly handsome man is revealed. I can’t help myself from walking right through the doors.
“Lane, that’s not us,” Tom says, saving me just as the door is about to close me inside. The handsome one smiles, and I can’t help but return the sentiment, feeling that even if I piddle on the floor men here will adore me.
“Sorry,” I croak.
“Rite of passage,” he assures me.
Enter proper elevator; join ridiculous number of men; exchange looks; get the feeling Tom may be silently laughing at my probably now obvious point-of-view; doors open.
“And this is where you came in,” he reminds me, as we pass a lobby shop selling magazines (maybe something I’ve written is in there?), Snapples, candy, greeting cards, and chewing gum. “And this is the coffee shop,” he indicates with an outstretched hand. It is an adorable little station below a sign that reads JAVA CITY with lines of (what else?) men waiting, to the sounds of frothing, for cappuccinos and lattes. I have never in my life found a coffee shop so exhilarating. “And behind there is the cafeteria. But first I want to show you where it all happens.” We make our way toward the mysterious “it” down an escalator and around a corridor lined with a long table and some vending machines—a great spot for an intimate lunch for two?
Now, before I divulge the scene on the trading floor, I need to tell you what Tom later tells me, when we get to know each other a little better, that these guys sit here all day long staring at computer screens and listening to these thingies called “squawk boxes,” and their lives are all about gambling and taking risks. So they get all antsy sitting there, with all that pent-up excitement and energy, and when women—even more scarce here than elsewhere in this fantastical place—walk the aisles, there tends to be a bit of “hubbub.” I know. Who says, hubbub?
First of all it’s screaming loud in here. Stock quotes run on tickers along large LCD screens. There must be thousands of computers—and each one is fitted with its very own man. “This is one of the largest trading floors on Wall Street,” Tom, says. “There are millions of dollars worth of computers in here. And here’s where it gets interesting—there are strict rules about the investment side and the trading guys here sharing information. That is to say, they cannot under any circumstances. We like to say there are ‘firewalls’ between both sides. So picture a wall that neither side can cross. And don’t ever forget it.”
This sounds so mysterious and Gorden Gecko-esque, I can barely contain my excitement. Espionage, intrigue—it’s all so sexy. All the guys working here are dressed really casually, and next to Tom, they seem so … young, I guess is the word. As we’re walking out, and Tom’s winding down the tour, heading me to the cafeteria for lunch, he asks, “Well, what do you think?”
For the first time today I make a slip. It comes out before I even process it. And this is probably because I feel like I’ve just had sex for about two hours. I’m flushed, having trouble breathing, and not really on planet earth yet.
“There are so many men!” I say, exclamations and all. As soon as it’s out, I cup my hand over my mouth. What if I’ve blown my cover?
“Yeah. That’s what they all say,” Tom says. I’m learning it’s his style to take everything in stride. “After a while you won’t even notice them anymore.”
Sure. Right.
“So,” he resumes his mock-professional tone. “This is the cafeteria.”
Men. Men. Men.
“And more men,” he says.
My breath catches in my throat.
He raises his eyebrows to suggest a joke.
“And you take a box.”
I breathe largely with the conversation shift. He hands me a flattened cardboard box and shows me how to tug it open with my fingers. “And this is the salad bar.” He grabs a bowl and passes another in my direction to see if I, too, would like a salad.
I accept.
“And this is the lettuce. And this is the tomato, and these are the carrots, and this is the celery, and this is the green pepper,” he introduces each one to me as we make our way down the line and he chooses the various ingredients.
As I pile on bits from the different bowls, I find it funny that someone as important as Tom does something as trivial as eat lunch.
“And I skip the dressing, because I’m trying to eat right,” he says. I consider following his lead, but practicality has never been my forte, so I opt for extra Italian and shrug my shoulders as he shakes his head and clucks his tongue in disapproval.
He adds a hot pretzel to his box and we head to the register. “Allow me,” he says, as the cashier weighs the salads and tallies up the total.
“You know,” I say, “if you’re trying to stay in shape, a hot pretzel is probably the worst thing you can eat.”
“Why’s that?” he asks.
“Carbs, carbs, carbs—they are the enemy,” I inform him, shaking my head. “So can I have a little piece?” I ask, never capable of resisting a simple carbohydrate.
“Nope,” he says.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Well, I don’t want to be responsible for you eating a microscopic pretzel bite, so you can come back in two weeks and blame an extra ounce on me.”
“I would never.” I’m Betty Boop, lashes working overtime.
“Oh, I’ve heard that one before.” he says, holding the pretzel out of my reach.
“Fine, be like that.” I do my best to feign indifference, focusing on my exciting heap of salad bar selections instead.
“Fine, I will,” he says, unwavering, “Mmmmm,” he murmurs, closing his eyes as he bites into the pretzel. “You would not believe how good this tastes.”
“I hope you get fat,” I retort.
“I’m sure you do,” he says.
So, you see, my welcome at the Mergers and Whatchamicalit department at Salomon Smith Barney was really very sweet. By five o’clock, I’m pretty much settled into what I like to call my “cubey.” Every time I do, Tom says. “It’s a cubi-cle, Lane.” I can tell he enjoys it.
I a
lready have a nickname, something I’ve wanted for years now, really ever since I shed the last one. It was a horrible college moniker: Lame, which was attained for obvious reasons, but which, for similarly obvious reasons, did not suit my fancy when used during introductions.
Tom christened me Ab Fab over lunch as I told him about my magazine writing. He said it didn’t have so much to do with the fact that the characters on the show are, “Obnoxious, spoiled women.” He insisted it was more “the whole fashion world thing, and the fact that it’s just a combination of words that really suits you.”
I could see why Tom would have been an English major. He really does delight in words.
Everyone in the cubicles around me seems to pile out between five and six, which I guess is because they come in so early. And when it starts clearing out, Tom tells me that I can leave for the day if I wish. But since he’s staying, and I’m feeling really good all around (and partially because I can’t bring myself to go back to the real world just yet for fear I will find the whole day was a mere dream), I opt to stay and write about my day’s experiences.
I’ve decided at the end of each day I’ll write down everything that’s happened, so at least I’m staying in practice and I’ll have a chance to dissect every encounter I have, every single professional arm, leg, butt, face, neck, and ear to see if any M&Ms have crossed my path undetected. Also, maybe I’ll stumble upon some other themes over the next couple of months that I can use for other articles.
I can’t help but notice again that in this traditional workspace, actually doing work comes much easier. Which is much more than I can say for my own office at home, which normally inspires me to run to the deli for coffee and human interaction. Appearing studious to the men around me also makes me feel quite desirable (odd, true).
I begin the fourth page of my work journal, probably the longest thing I’ve written in … ever, which I’ve entitled on yet another crisp, gold leaf page, Diary of a Working Girl when John raps on my cubey wall.
“I’m heading home. You’re really making me look bad here,” he says, smiling, and then, perhaps realizing he’d abandoned his nervous default, catches himself and looks down as if attempting to decipher some Beautiful Mind-type code woven into the carpet.
Diary of a Working Girl Page 8