by Jacob Taylor
The interview process was quite thorough, as you’d expect. I came in to Big Rock’s office with a sea of other young people. We were all chasing the six-figure golden ticket. The first filter was a standardized aptitude test on a computer, after which I rejoined the herd in a plush waiting room. Everywhere I looked were well-dressed men and women, gleaming with the eye of the tiger. I knew I didn’t have any edge in my father’s schlumpy, hand-me-down suit. Why is my tie twice as wide as everyone else’s? My spirits were deflating quickly. What was I even doing here? I didn’t need this. I got up to leave.
Just as I spotted the exit, a representative appeared and called my name to come back. I had made it to the next round. Maybe I did have a chance?! I was informed the next section would include a psych screening. Welp, thanks for playing. No way I was making it through that filter with my unfortunate habit of putting my foot in my mouth.
I stayed on my best behavior, but I did answer the psych questions with as much honesty as I could muster. I figured that everyone else would be saying what they thought the company wanted to hear. My only chance was to zig with honesty when my competition was zagging to pander.
I found myself back in the waiting room where it had thinned out considerably. Eventually someone came out and called my name. It was time for the actual interview. Maybe that whole honesty schtick had worked?
My panel of evaluators didn’t seem that much older than me. It was clear none of them wanted to be there. It was getting late in the afternoon and you could see visions of happy hour dancing in their heads.
The panel ran through its list of perfunctory questions. I answered with as much enthusiasm as I could summon, playing my part in this strange courting dance. I cracked a joke here and there, earning a few courtesy chuckles.
Before I knew it, they were standing up to shake my hand. It was over. As I was walking out, I overheard the beginning of their deliberations.
“Journalism? C’mon,” one of them said.
“Dave did say he wanted diversity…” said another.
“That’s not what he meant,” said a third as the door closed. Well, that was fun. That reminds me, I should pick up a Powerball ticket--better odds than getting this job that I don’t even recall actually wanting.
But maybe journalism was the diversity Dave meant after all. I got a phone call a few days later informing me that I was being offered one of the openings. When could I start?
Oh, snap. What do I do now? And how do I tell my parents I’m going to work for the man?!
CHAPTER 5
There’s always a catch. I found in my offer letter that I’d be making nothing near what Career Fair Chad had promised. He technically told me the truth when he said an analyst starts at six figures. He failed to mention that I would be hired as a junior analyst at $30,000. It’s better than nothing, but now what?
Should I keep looking for a non-existent journalism job? Hide out in grad school? Start my own investigative journalism website that would crash and burn? It started to feel like I had to take the Big Rock offer. Wasn’t that my only real play to get out of crushing debt and finally start adult life? Besides, if all went well, I’d be promoted to analyst and be making six figures in no time. Then I would have the resources to make smarter decisions. I could keep looking for journalism jobs on the side while I faked my way through whatever “private equity” meant.
I would take the position. Now time for the serious phone call with my parents. I was sick with dread. Yet the conversation was not what I was expecting. No yelling at me for selling out. Nothing about me being a cog in the machinery of oppression. They seemed as preoccupied with their own stuff as ever. They were noticeably happy when I mentioned the starting salary. Maybe they were just relieved to have dodged the boomerang of moving me back in with them? There was a strange anticlimactic feeling that I couldn’t square.
I’d find out later what was really going on.
CHAPTER 6
Life at Big Rock was a whirlwind compared to the lazy pace of college. If this is what it’s like to be an adult, then you can keep it. But like all things, you get used to it and you find a new normal.
I can only recently explain to you what “private equity” actually means. Here’s the simple version: they buy entire companies, make changes, and usually sell the company off to someone else after a few years and a couple coats of paint. Most private equity companies borrow a lot of other people’s money to “acquire targets.” Big Rock was no different. We’re talking billions of dollars flowing around--almost incomprehensible amounts of money. It’s weird how quickly you get numb to all the zeros.
When private equity “make changes” at a company, there’s a wide spectrum of what that means. On one end is being an owner of the business. Investing in assets and people, coaching existing management, paying down debts, and improving operations. Think of a white knight riding in to slay the dragons. The hero saves the day and makes everything in the kingdom right again.
On the other end of the spectrum is behaving more like a short term renter--a squatter even. Getting control, selling off assets, stripping down the workforce to a skeleton crew, downsizing previous management, adding debt, and hollowing out operations. It’s pillage and plunder with a thin veneer of civility. All of these actions create a one-time surge in profits. Everything looks better, for a while. Not an issue if you find someone to sell to before it all turns into a pumpkin. This style of private equity is like someone who undergoes heavy doses of plastic surgery. It may look better in the short term, but eventually it all deflates and starts to look wonky. Big Rock was on this short-term-renter side of the spectrum. In fact, they were one of the best-known plastic surgeons in the business.
What does a junior analyst do, you ask? I would gather information, clean up data sets, read and summarize research, help write reports, fetch coffee. I did whatever the real analysts wanted me to do. The goal was to find fat target companies that needed Big Rock’s special touch and send those ideas up the chain of command for others to take the credit. I felt like a scout surveying the countryside for where to next send the ravenous horde.
Whoever Diversity Dave was, he may have actually been onto something. My background in journalism was proving handy. My internet sleuthing skills were well-honed and my report writing had a crispness that others lacked. I was used to writing under a deadline for the newspaper; this felt mild by comparison. The problem was there was so much financial jargon. Probably no surprise, but my business minor didn’t prepare me for any of this. Everyone was speaking a foreign language. I’m surprised I didn’t strain my neck from all the vacant nodding I did. Amortization, synergies, ebi-what-da-eff-are-you-talking-about? Can’t we speak plain English? Is time so short that we really need an acronym for everything?
I did not fit into Big Rock’s locker room culture. My stomach did flips when I imagined coworker interactions. I felt like I was wearing a mask at all times. I contemplated getting a service animal to cope with my anxiety, but figured it’d only draw more attention and harassment. Nice parakeet, Nick.
There was one person who made my life especially difficult. I’m not sure why this guy appointed himself my personal Biff Tannen, but he relished the role. His name was Vance. He had a flair for making my Big Rock experience creatively unpleasant. He was hired about six months before me, so maybe it was just “good-natured” hazing. I was the punchline of every joke. My favorite was an autographed picture of a shirtless Justin Bieber that kept appearing on my desk. Thanks, Vance.
Vance was everything I was not: tall, handsome, confident, smooth in speech, dapper in dress, socially adept. He was the crown prince of Big Rock and entitlement personified. He came from a well-to-do family and the rumor was it required one sizeable donation to get him into Harvard, and a second lump sum to get him out the door with a degree in marketing. He was now pursuing his MBA while he worked at Big Rock. Overachiever. Who knows what donations were required for the MBA, but he was ready to ascend
the privileged throne of his choosing. He could have been the missing Winklevoss triplet.
I remember turning the corner in the break room and overhearing him talking to some coworkers around the watercooler about that weekend’s sexual escapades in sordid detail. They were both models? C’mon, Vance. Born on third base and thought he hit a triple. I could only wonder what that was like.
I’m just self-aware enough to admit that I was jealous. Like crazy, Hulk-smash jealous. Who wouldn’t be? He had everything. I also saw a lot of unscrupulous behavior. Changing numbers on reports to get the “right” results. Taking credit for work that wasn’t his. Liberal abuse of the expense account. He wasn’t abnormal for Big Rock’s bro culture; he was just so brazen about it. At least the others made an effort to be sort of sly.
It felt like the rules didn’t apply to him, and he knew it. Little did I know we were on a collision course.
CHAPTER 7
After surviving just shy of one year on the job, I was interrupted from my usual grind by my phone ringing. It was an HR representative informing me I had to report to a certain conference room. I wondered if I should start packing a parting-gift cardboard box with office supplies now. The jig was up.
I found my way to the conference room through a sea of cubicles. The man from HR was there with a director who was two or three levels above me. It looked bad. Even though I technically reported to this director, I was pretty sure he couldn’t have picked me out of a lineup to save his life. I guess his management style was more “decentralized”?
“Hi...,” the HR guy said glancing down at his paperwork to find my name, “... Nick. Have a seat.”
“Am I in trouble?” I blurted. My mind was already racing.
“No,” my boss said. “Well, maybe.” They both laughed awkwardly. I didn’t join them.
“Let’s get down to brass tacks,” Mr. HR continued. “The note that keeps coming up on your evaluations is that you need to catch up on your understanding of business to be a more effective analyst. We know you studied journalism in school, but we thought you’d be able to ramp up your business acumen more quickly than this.”
“We really do need you to improve,” said the boss. How did he know? I doubt he’d read anything I’d ever written.
“Ok…” I trailed off.
“But naturally, we can’t have you learning everything on Big Rock’s dime,” said Mr. HR. The boss just nodded. “We suggest you apply to grad school and get your MBA after hours. There’s a working professional program that should allow you to continue your duties at BR. If you get accepted, we’ll keep you on in your junior analyst role. And if you make it all the way to graduation, you’ll be a likely candidate to move up the ladder.” He smiled like he’d just bestowed a splendid gift upon me. “But obviously, no guarantees.” Obviously.
“What happens if I apply and don’t get in?” I asked. I knew I was a journalist masquerading in the business world. Any MBA program would peg me as a phony straight away.
“We’ll have to go in a different direction,” my boss said. I love the euphemisms of corporate speak. “The good news is, they are taking applications now. If you hurry, you can take the GMAT and then apply. Your coworker, Vance, is halfway through the program. Maybe he can put in a good word for you?” Yeah, I bet he’d be happy to. I figured it’d be a bad idea to ask what the GMAT was at this point.
“OK, thanks,” was all I could muster. I returned to my desk in a daze.
It turns out the GMAT is like the SATs, but for business school. Most people study for at least six months before they take the test. The more perfectionist types will spend over a year. I had six days. I ran to the closest bookstore and grabbed an armful of study guides. As I thumbed through them, my mood sank. This test would be impossible. Well, we had a good run. Would they notice if I stopped showing up to work?
With a healthy dose of diffidence, I submitted my application and started cramming around every waking moment, and even a few when I wasn’t awake. I was studying for my life, or at least it felt that way. I’d be lying if I said not wanting to be shown up by Vance wasn’t also a motivation. Why should he get everything?
I was fast-tracked to interview with the school before taking the GMAT. Everything went well enough with the interview. The usual standard questions and answers. Smile and nod here. Funny anecdote there. Hearty handshake, pump one-two-three. The school informed me that if I scored well enough on the GMAT, I was in.
I’d never taken a standardized test that determined if I would wind up homeless or not. As you can imagine, it was rather motivating. The admissions board required me to get a 650 or higher. That would put me in the upper 75th percentile of test takers, no small feat on such short notice.
On the morning of the GMAT, I had to pull over on the way to the testing center to vomit in the bushes. And again in the bathroom when I got there. Don’t worry, I knew I’d be a mess and built the time into my schedule. Why was I so nervous? I didn’t even want an MBA. But the thought of being destitute scared me. I needed this Big Rock job and the eventual money I’d be making. So. Much. Damned. Debt.
I finished the test feeling strangely invigorated. I gave it my best effort, and I felt I had done reasonably well... but 650 was such a high hurdle. I secretly put the odds as a coin-flip; it would be close. I started compiling a mental list of overpasses I might someday inhabit. Oh, that one looks quaint, though a bit drafty in winter.
Two weeks later, I got a call from the school. They had received my GMAT results. Gulp. I had scored a 700, putting me in the 90th percentile. What?! They were pleased to offer me admission in the fall.
Wow, I was going to business school. Maybe I wasn’t destined to be living in that van down by the river just yet? I didn’t know it then, but business school would provide me the lucky break that would change my life forever.
CHAPTER 8
The leaves changed colors, signaling for school to start. I thought between work and school that Vance and I would have enough commonalities to start getting along. Maybe even bond? I was wrong. I remained his social fulcrum. He made jokes at my expense to elevate his status in this new group, with the added bonus of lowering mine. I guess leopards don’t change their spots, regardless of the environment.
I did make one new friend at business school. His name was Larry and he was a bowling ball of a man. He was the starting nose tackle for his college football team, though that had been a few years and countless cheeseburgers ago. He grew up country strong on a farm moving hay bales around before breakfast. He now owned his own business where he did appraisals of industrial equipment. It seemed to fit his country personality. He was back in school to learn more valuation techniques and to figure out how to take his business to the next level. His words--I honestly wasn’t sure what he hoped to accomplish.
Larry and I became friends because we were both a little socially awkward. Like two castaways stranded on a deserted island, it was easier to survive as a pair than solo. It didn’t take long for Vance to pounce. “Look everyone, it’s Nick and the Fat Man.” Ummm, wasn’t the show called, “Jake and the Fat Man,” dummy?
The irony was not lost on me that it’s wasn’t that long ago that I had been trying to make a name for myself in the journalism world by taking down the man, and now I was spending my nights and weekends to become him. Packing away my anti-capitalist sentiments was a matter of survival. When you’re in a room full of blood-thirsty economic savages, it’s best to just keep your mouth shut and avoid drawing unwanted attention. Keep your friends close...
My hope was that business school would be a magic decoder ring for my work at Big Rock. Suddenly, everything might make sense. This was not the case. In many ways, I was more confused than ever--like if you handed a foreigner a dictionary and expected them to just suddenly be fluent. Work and school kept me brain-numbingly busy. I just kept putting one foot in front of the other as I wandered through the wilderness of young adulthood.
At the end of my
first semester, there was a drawing at school to travel to the Midwest to meet some billionaire captain of industry. Everyone was in a big stir over the chance at a Q&A session that was sure to lead to their own fortune. Or at least a lucrative job offer. I figured this guru was more likely to fleece them than to teach them to get rich. How else do you become a billionaire if not by seizing every opportunity for gain? That’s just math.
In the name of conformity, I threw my name into the school’s drawing. I didn’t want to win, so I was happy the odds were so long. Then something weird happened. I actually won. I was miraculously selected to travel to Wichita, Kansas and meet the billionaire.
It dawned on me this could be a golden opportunity. With special insider access, I could write my ultimate take-down piece. He’d never suspect a thing coming from an innocuous, wet-behind-the-ears student. It might even be just the ticket to catapult myself into a real career in journalism. As an added bonus, I’d have company: Larry also won.
But guess who didn’t win? Vance! He still managed to get his shot in. “What’s that old geezer going to teach you? He’ll probably be dead before you even make it out there. Nothing worthwhile is happening in a flyover state like Kansas anyway.”
Stay classy, Vance.
CHAPTER 9
It wasn’t long before February brought my Wichita trip. I was up before the sun to catch an early departure. After a smooth, homework-filled flight, I stepped off the plane and climbed the jetway. The airport carpet was brown and shiny from years of foot traffic. The paint on the walls was just on the verge of peeling. Tiny by most airport standards, I quickly made my way outside only to be stopped for a loss by a stinging cold wind in my face. I was a long way from home in sunny California. Dirty piles of plowed snow blighted every line of sight. Welcome to winter in Wichita.