by Hazel Parker
“At this exact moment? Yes.”
He laughed. Again, it was not the most convincing laugh that I had ever heard.
“But in the future?”
Marcel raised his eyebrows.
“Looks like we got ourselves our rivals after all.”
He turned the computer to me to show what he was talking about. There was an anonymous email that read: “You’ll never be us. Don’t try to be. -RP and TC.”
“Do you know who RP and TC are?”
“I have an idea,” Marcel said as he pulled the computer back. “But if I’m right, I’m even less worried.”
“Why?”
Marcel smirked.
“My best guess is that it’s whoever runs the clubs out in Vegas and Green Hills. Both on the West Coast. Both about a six-hour flight away. Both running motorcycle clubs, not a fucking bank.”
He winked at me when he said that. I pursed my lips together; the “banks suck” line was something that I’d heard so many times that by now, it might as well have become synonymous with, “Hi, here’s some small talk.”
That, and if I thought about it, I wouldn’t want to admit that despite easily making over ten times whatever Marcel made as a car mechanic at Brooklyn Repairs, I wasn’t nearly as happy in my role as he was in his. And heaven knew that as long as golden handcuffs had their tight embrace around me, there was no way I was escaping it.
“Although, I should note, the Saints in Vegas run a high-end club. One of them could probably come over here. But what are they going to do? Shoot us? They’ll probably ask us to change our name or some shit like that.”
“Are we?”
“Hell no,” Marcel sternly said. “I didn’t get out of jail to have some West Coast hippies tell me what the fuck to do. The name stays.”
“You know, there are legal means they can take to…”
I stopped talking when I realized one, Marcel wouldn’t care, and two, even if he did, he wouldn’t want to hear it from me. Only if a Stone told him would he listen to that.
“I’m just saying,” I said after clearing my throat. “If there’s anything you want me to do on the back end before things might get ugly in person, I have resources we can leverage.”
“That’s nice,” Marcel said. “But it won’t be necessary.”
For a moment, I thought that we’d had a genuinely nice moment.
And then Marcel kept talking.
“If anyone is going to get anything done for us, it’s certainly not going to be the secretary of the club. But, hey, the support is appreciated.”
He then closed his laptop with a shrug.
“I’m going to go and get some food. Kicking my brother’s ass has given me something of an appetite. You want anything?”
Was this a test of some sort? Marcel never asked me if I needed anything.
“I…no, I’m good.”
Marcel shrugged.
“Hey, starve yourself, Bones,” he said with a snort. “You’re lucky Fitz is easy and quick to say. Otherwise, pretty decent chance I’d be calling you Bones.”
Marcel chuckled to himself, repeating the name “Bones” as he walked out of the repair shop. I let myself slide a little bit down the chair I was in, relieved to be done with that round of bullshit.
“Maybe it should get ugly,” I said to myself. “Maybe you should relish the chance to prove yourself in the club.”
But such an idea seemed like I was asking for war to descend upon the club so that I could prove myself. Good for me, terrible for just about everyone else. If that wasn’t stereotypical banker behavior, I wasn’t sure what was.
I went to the mirror and looked at myself. Marcel was somewhat right—I was skinny, but that was only in comparison to all of the Stones. I’d spent my fair share of time in the gym, and when I rolled my sleeves up, I saw pretty clear definition in my arms. When I removed my glasses, I even thought I saw the faint outline of a gruff, take-no-shit biker.
But the one thing I had that no one else knew of, not even Uncle, was what was on my back.
The Savage Saints tattoo.
I’d gotten it only about a week ago, and though it still stung, I wanted it to serve as a representation of me going all-in on the club. If I couldn’t act like a biker, then maybe I could signal that I was one.
The only problem was that if I showed it to the rest of the club and they laughed their asses off, that was the end of it for me. There would be no coming back from that level of disrespect. It would be even worse if someone at the office somehow found out.
It felt like I had one foot in each part of my life—investing and biking—and the respective platforms tried to knock the other out with very little regard for subtlety or sharing the space.
I guess when it came down to it, the only question was which part of my life would win out? No, that wasn’t the right question. I knew which part I wanted to win out and would do everything I could to make win out.
The real question was, how soon could I get out?
* * *
Amelia Hughes
“How soon can I get promoted?”
I sat in the office of the partner overseeing my division of Rothenberg Banking, Ben Wales, on Monday morning. I had had this conversation about three times in the past year. It was a conversation I was tired of having.
Though I refused to use an excuse like sexism for why I wasn’t getting promoted, I was getting to the point where I was willing to pull out any card I needed to reach Executive Director. I had devoted over five years of my life to Rothenberg Banking, and I wasn’t about to let another one go to waste without some appreciation.
Especially since I continued to keep up the eighty-plus hour workweek lifestyle long after all of the analysts fresh out of college had gone elsewhere and worked at some easy-ass jobs, content to let their talents go to waste.
“Miss Hughes, as I have explained to you before,” Ben began in his disarming Australian accent. “An employee of your age simply does not become executive director this quickly. You need to be with the firm for a little bit longer and demonstrate production over a longer sample size than you have in order to receive such an honor.”
“Do you really think I’m like any other employee at Rothenberg?” I said, doing my best to stay professional but blunt. “You can see the work I’ve put in. You can see the data for my accomplishments; the sales I’ve made, the leads I’ve generated, the—”
“Yes, yes, Miss Hughes, we are very appreciative of all that you have done for us.”
I folded my arms and leaned back in the guest chair in Ben’s office. At least we had the kind of relationship where I didn’t have to put on a pretty smile if I didn’t like what he was stating. He never had to doubt where I stood, and right now, I stood on pretty pissed-off ground.
“You know full well that I’m worthy of this promotion and that you’re only hurting the company if you play office politics.”
“Yes, well, you do also realize the pace you are working at is unsustainable, right?”
I had to admit, of all the reasons I got told I couldn’t do something, that was a new one. The investing world was notorious for turning its employees into chopped meat; it was maybe one in a hundred executives or partners who suggested or even implied to their employees that they needed to slow their work pace down. This just felt like more bullshit for why I couldn’t get the role.
“I’ve been doing it for five years, and I’m to believe that suddenly I’ll hit the wall now?” I asked incredulously.
“You should believe that what you’re doing will get you in trouble, yes,” Ben said. “No one is expecting you to treat this like a nine-to-five. We all know that, at minimum, you’re going to be working sixty hours a week here. But what you’re doing? That’s how employees get heart attacks and drop dead in their thirties. How good are you to the company when you’re in a coffin, Amelia?”
“Christ,” I said. “Look at me. Seriously, I’m giving you the chance to look at my body
. I’m in shape. I run marathons. What part of me suggests to you I’d drop dead?”
Ben chuckled politely.
“I know what you’re doing here, Ben, and I—”
“Look, we’ll look into it, OK?” Ben finally said, exasperated. “I’ll take it to the rest of the department management and see what they think. But I’m serious, Amelia. You ought to start looking for things to balance yourself outside of work. It’s great you’re dedicated to Rothenberg. But we want you here for the next thirty years, not the next three. Understood?”
“Yes,” I said. “But I don’t agree with it.”
“Well, hopefully you do before you reach the point where you walk out the door, never to return because of a medical issue.”
I scoffed at Ben, who just smiled at me from behind his desk. I didn’t say anything else as I walked out of the office and took the elevator for my floor.
Even if I wanted to find outside activities, what was I going to do? Go on a meetup site? Use Facebook? Join a martial arts class?
Or, God forbid, date?
That seemed outright ridiculous. Of all the things I could do, dating while working on Wall Street was the most ludicrous idea of them all. The only people who understood what it meant to work such a demanding job were other bankers, and let’s just say that the chances of me dating someone else on this street were about as remote as me quitting Rothenberg Banking and going to live in the wilderness of Montana.
I relished the challenge of facing the bro culture of Wall Street and not just kicking ass but rising above all the other asshats in the field. I took pride in not backing down, not being afraid to embrace the “bitch” moniker even though it secretly bothered me. I enjoyed seeing the shocked look on my colleague’s faces when I got promotions and they didn’t.
Which, yeah, made it incredibly frustrating to have Ben turn me away for a third time. If bankers played by who was most qualified and less by office politics, we’d fucking crush every other bank in the area, and it wouldn’t even be close. We’d have the funds to purchase all of them ten times over.
For now, though, it looked like the most likely outcome of the next few months would be me continuing to work in my current role, outselling and outperforming the rest of my department while I waited to reach an appropriate age.
And if I was going to do that, I was going to need a shitload of coffee.
I decided against getting out on my floor, instead choosing to get off at the second floor, which housed the employee cafeteria and lounge. I brushed past some of the executives who came in a little later than the rest, smiling politely to them, doing my little part to play the silly game of office politics. I began pouring the strongest cup of coffee I could while looking at my watch.
Not even nine. And this is my third cup already.
OK, maybe that will be something that causes me problems. Not something I can worry about right now, though.
As the cup poured, I looked over the cafeteria and examined the rest of the people there. Most of them were analysts whose names I hadn’t yet learned. A few were higher-level execs, but after dealing with Ben’s bullshit, I had a feeling trying to network right now would just result in me being blunt with people who weren’t ready for it.
Everyone looked on edge. Everyone was sipping coffee with shaky hands or with a struggle to stay awake.
Everyone, that was, except for one guy sitting in the corner of the cafe, the one person in all of Rothenberg who seemed to be somehow both extraordinarily good at what he did and didn’t also suffer periodical nervous breakdowns.
Thomas Fitzgerald.
With his square-rimmed glasses, his navy blue suit, and his brown dress shoes, he looked every bit the part of the banker. But unlike everyone else, he leaned back in his chair, not forward; he read from his laptop with ease, not with the nervous look of someone set to give an executive presentation; and he even smiled and chuckled, something that was practically unseen in the banking world.
I had only interacted with Thomas in superficial settings, but he was one of the few people that I genuinely respected as both a professional and a person at Rothenberg. He was understated, but he told the truth; he was kind, but firm; and he did his job well.
He was also someone I knew very little about outside of work. He was someone that I certainly was curious to know more about.
But just as the thought of going up to him to vent and talk life came to mind, Thomas closed his laptop, hummed to himself, and headed over to the elevators. Damn it.
As he got on the elevator, though, his demeanor reminded me that I needed to get back to work. I could not focus on men.
That was doubly true for men who made me curious. That was the kind of path that eventually led to romance, which eventually led to marriage, which eventually led to kids.
In other words, the most toxic and fatal thing to a successful career.
Chapter 1: Fitz
It was six on a Thursday evening and employees at Rothenberg Banking had only just started to close up shop for the day.
Outside, the sun was setting on New York City. Traffic was picking up; taxis were honking everywhere; people were complaining about the inevitable MTA delays.
I was witness to precisely none of this. I was witness to very little in the city, actually. Even having worked in Rothenberg for fifteen years, I still didn’t get much in the way of free time. If I got free time, in any case, it was spent at Brooklyn Repairs.
Right now, I was trying my hardest to get the hell out. I had to help create a pitch to lead the IPO of some new startup company dealing with automatic food ordering, and it was boring the shit out of me. I had no interest in helping this company, which was run by a bunch of kids who had dropped out of college. I just wanted to get to Brooklyn, sneak onto my bike, ride around for a bit, and have beers with the rest of the Savage Saints.
I just needed to wrap up the last section, email it to my boss, an obese man in his forties named Gerald, and then get the hell out. Gerald would have comments that I couldn’t ignore, but at least I could be out of the office and breathing the Manhattan air soon enough. It was pretty telling that I was more eager to breathe the pollution-heavy Manhattan air than I was remaining in my cubicle.
“In summary…” I said, reading the text as I wrote it on the screen. “We anticipate that we can carry Foodivery to a market cap of approximately two billion dollars.”
I read it one more time through, forcing myself to pay attention as best as I could even with my apathy reaching all-time highs. Once I was satisfied that I didn’t have anything else to add, I hit send, stored my laptop, zipped up my bags, clicked my suitcase shut, and stood up.
“Fitzgerald.”
Goddamnit.
“Can I see you in my office please?”
Gerald’s voice, which was garbled by how overweight he was, was unmistakable. It was also the kind of thing that I couldn’t ignore, no matter how much I wanted to believe I could sneak out. Ignoring him was tantamount to resigning, and though I wanted a way out of this job, I wasn’t quite that ready to escape.
“Yeah, coming now,” I said, ignoring the stares from the rest of my colleagues as I trudged over, suitcase in hand, to Gerald’s office.
Two things were always predictable as soon as I entered Gerald’s office. One, there were bound to be leftover food containers somewhere. And two, the place always had a stench akin to someone having not showered for a week in there. The only reason I didn’t just assume it was Gerald was because the visual of my boss showering was not one that I wanted to have.
And sure enough, when I entered, I saw a bag from Shake Shack, a box from Geno’s Pizza, and a stench that suggested that Gerald had, well, not showered in some time.
“Have a seat,” Gerald said.
I did as he requested, trying not to make my repulsed reaction to the smell obvious.
“Thomas, we love you here at Rothenberg Banking, and we think you’re a wonderful employee.”
&nbs
p; Holy shit. It’s almost the end of the week, and my boss is giving me some spiel about how I’m a valued employee. He’s going to fire me.
This…this might be kind of nice, actually. I’ll have the force compelling me to focus on the Savage Saints full-time. I can finally be me. Not like I don’t have money in the bank, either. I have plenty—
“But we have noticed that you’ve been leaving work a little earlier than normal and are coming in looking a little disorganized.”
OK, I could still get fired. I still have a chance of being let go here. It’s not out of the question.
“We just want to make sure everything is OK and want to see if there is anything we can help you with.”
Oh.
It probably said everything that my initial reaction to thinking I was going to get fired was one of suppressed joy. It probably said even more that, as far as Gerald was aware, I was just a polite, satisfied employee who didn’t realize he was making a mistake. I knew how to play the game well, and that was a trait that was probably not helping my cause in quitting the investment world.
“Thank you for your concern, Gerald, but everything is quite alright in my life outside of work. I guess it was one of those things that I just didn’t realize was happening until someone mentioned it. I appreciate you bringing it to my attention.”
The fuck are you doing, Fitz? You don’t even refer to yourself as Thomas. You go by your nickname. And yet you’re trying to suck up to this obese asshole?
“Very good, Thomas,” he said. “We do recognize that you are one of the top performers here. Just acknowledge that many employees here look up to you, and if they see you leaving the workplace early, they may not be aware that you are continuing to produce at home. Please be cognizant of this, especially as you pursue management opportunities.”
“Yes, sir, I am very aware of that, and I will attempt to be cognizant of that. Thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
God, it was all just one massive bullshit reality show, except even those weren’t as bad. Reality shows had conflicts. Gerald and I never talked badly to each other; we were the ultimate in corporate speak. Gerald probably went home and bitched about me to…I don’t know, his girlfriend? His hired escort? Whatever female company he had. I certainly bitched about him to Uncle. I would have bitched about him to the rest of the Savage Saints, but no one who worked as a mechanic wanted to hear how the poor banker had a bad boss.