In the midst of our passion, we had paid only lip service to our flaws, resorting to understatements and indulging in subtle, secretive games for fear of falling short in the eyes of our beloved. At other times, we so believed the strength of our love would somehow triumph over everything; we were so fascinated with the ideal of love in all its perfection, that we stripped ourselves naked by revealing vulnerabilities that put us at the mercy of each other. When, in the course of daily life, the honeymoon ended and our faults made their way to the surface, they no longer seemed trivial or surmountable; they caused us instead to feel betrayed. Before we knew it, the seeds of resentment had grown into thickets of discord.
I leaned back against the back cushion, deep in reminiscence. The room was almost completely dark, save the glow from my computer screen shedding a single point of light. I reached for the glass on the side table and took a sip of lukewarm water. The monotonous ticking of the clock in the kitchen, and the faint roar of planes in the night sky, were the only discernable noises besides the clicking of the keyboard and the vent of the computer notebook on my lap. I could feel its slow burn through the fabric of my jeans. Later my thigh would display the telling red, marbled marks. I had no desire to move back to my desk, feeling comfortable in the living room chair, legs propped on the coffee table. For the first time, as I dug into long gone memories, I felt completely at peace with my past. I took a deep breath and went back in time.
But what else was there to say than that our love had undergone a hideous transmutation? Trust had been violated repeatedly in a relationship that lasted more than a decade, small waves of bliss quickly drowned by tides of acrimony. All along, what was missing was compassion and, ultimately, true love. Robbie’s abandonment of his child was only an indication of the depth of his despair and anguish over the failure of a long-cherished and idealized romance with a fairytale beginning and a nightmarish end. That, in a nutshell, was all of it.
25
Wall Street Waltz
At the very moment my financial and marital life unraveled, my professional career progressed, albeit on a wobbly course. When I first joined Merrill Lynch’s financial advisors, I imagined I had found my calling. The first three months were entirely devoted to the study of industry rules, regulations, and practices, and taking the licensing exams. They were followed by twenty-one months of grueling training while I built a client base. That particular side of the job I abhorred, for to create a customer book from scratch, new hires had to learn to network ceaselessly, make countless cold-calls-often right out of phone directories—and otherwise metamorphose into annoying, thick-skinned telemarketers day in and day out.
Every six months, recruits were supposed to reach a higher level in the firm’s Professional Development Program (PDP), and a new amount of commissions and assets, to move on to the next stage. I missed my first two echelons yet still managed to survive. Underneath a brave smile and winning composure, every day, from nine to five, I dwelt in a tunnel of anguish beset by tides of rejection. I felt lonely and despondent and found no support from management whatsoever. I was far from being the only one suffering from the pressures of the job. Jana, a dear friend to this day and a bright and beautiful Scandinavian-looking woman I had met during the Series 7 training, developed such a prospecting phobia and fear of rebuff that she became physically ill and lost an absurd amount of weight. She felt she had no choice but to quit and look for another line of business.
I could not do the same. My Master’s Degree was in politics and international relations, and I had an incomplete doctoral thesis, which did not open too many lucrative fields for me. I needed to make money-which is not to say that I did not try to find another job when the going got tough; I even went on a couple of secret interviews.
I didn’t know then that the dreadful burrow of rejection was not inhabited equally by all recruits. Not unlike many others in the industry, my branch manager had his pets, predominantly waspy young men, on whom he lavished rich accounts and numerous opportunities. They were unashamedly aided and thus succeeded rapidly, building substantial client books out of thin air and turning into prosperous advisors. I recall attending office meetings and naively listening to male brokers vaunting their meteoric rise at the top even as they admitted, in moments of unguarded candor, how it “helped to have friends in high places to feed them” when they needed it. All were alpha males, members of an exclusive club created by the branch manager, who treated them to three-martini lunches and golf outings.
As well-publicized class-action gender discrimination lawsuits later revealed, it turned out I had joined one of the firm’s most chauvinistic branches, managed by a man who felt no remorse over ignoring his flailing female consultants and hired them only because he was under great pressure to do so. I had been warned about the notoriously male-dominated Wall Street but I had no idea what that meant until then.
Fortunately, I soon became acquainted with a handful of successful women consultants who told me how they had surmounted the inequity and prejudice, and I persuaded myself that if, in spite of the odds, they’d been able to make it big in the industry, so could I. I was far from imagining the price I would have to pay eventually to be in that league, even so briefly. Still, I knew from earlier experiences that I could be a terrific salesperson, and so my natural ambition and competitiveness kicked in, I hung on, toughed it up, and within five years I had gathered over a hundred million dollars of clients’ assets, and almost double that amount in the following three years.
I do, however, need to acknowledge one person for mentoring and guiding me at a critical moment of my career. At the time of my hiring, Linda Bartelli, who up until then had managed Merrill Lynch’s flagship office at the firm’s World Financial Center headquarters, was named New York City district director. Her office was located in the same Fifth Avenue building as mine, a few floors up. As I became more proficient in my job and started to hit my marks, I showed up on her radar screen, and my career as a rookie consultant finally took off—not because of free accounts and special dealings, but because of her steadfast encouragement and personal recognition of my efforts.
Linda was one of an unconventional breed of female managers who took Wall Street by storms. A tall woman with a big voice and thunderous laughter, an uncommon sense of humor, boundless energy, and an imposing yet down-to-earth presence, she at once charmed and conquered. Physically, she was a sight to behold. A cloud of short blond hair with wavy bangs covering her forehead and framing her blue eyes, gold hoops adorning her ears, a sunny white smile that could lighten up any gloomy day—she stood out in her bright suits as a flash of dazzling yellow, orange, red, or green in a sea of dark suits.
The first time I laid eyes on her, my notion of appropriate dress and style was tested. I thought the woman was too much—too flashy, too ostentatious, too crazy, and then she gave me a taste of her warmth and people-management skills, and I fell in love with her. I only wanted her praise, wished to please her, craved her appreciation. The more she acknowledged my accomplishments, the better I performed.
Her advice was rather straightforward: “Work hard and be focused on your goals. Continually help yourself grow and get better. Maintain a high level of personal integrity, always do what’s right, and care about your clients and the people you work with.” This was more than an aphorism; she backed up her words with concurring deeds, personal phone calls, congratulatory notes, verbal encouragements, invitations to special events, and otherwise made sure you knew that you counted—no matter how small a producer you were—and that she was there for you, should you need a sound piece of advice or simply a kind ear.
To grow my production, I had begun targeting my prospecting efforts on the business community in Manhattan and Northern New Jersey and met with some success when Linda invited me, along with a group of other promising consultants, for a two-night-and-two-day meeting with Merrill Lynch Business Financial Services (BFS) officers in Chicago. During our second night in the windy
city, we were treated to a great dinner at a well-known steakhouse and then offered a drink in a nearby blues venue. The rest of the team chose to party on a little longer; Linda and I had decided to call it a night.
“This was a wonderful evening, Linda,” I said emerging in the cold blustery air. “Thank you. I feel lucky to be part of this trip.”
“It has nothing to do with luck, Faith,” she replied with her trademark smile as we reached Magnificent Mile and walked in the direction of our hotel. “You have exactly the personality you need to become a successful broker.”
“Thank you all the same. You always know how to boost my morale.”
“I mean it, Faith. You’re smart and articulate, and it’s obvious you care, but you’re also charismatic and optimistic. And a positive attitude is key in our business. I’ve worked with many people over the years. I’ve come to recognize greatness,” she added without missing a beat. “It’s gonna require hard work and perseverance, no doubt, but you’re going to succeed beyond your greatest expectations, I’m sure of it!” She pulled her cashmere scarf over her nose and gave me an expressive glance.
Her words triggered a whirl of excitement inside me.
“Wow. That’s really good to hear from someone like you. You have no idea how much your support means to me. I have tremendous respect for you, as you can imagine. You’re the best manager I could ever hope for.”
I stopped talking and pressed my coat collar against my ears to fend off the penetrating wind that was gushing down the deserted avenue. “It got so cold!” I frowned, shivering to my bones.
“Yeah, let’s hurry up before we freeze here,” Linda mumbled in her scarf. “I’m not sure it was such a good idea to walk back to the hotel instead of waiting for a cab…You can tell it’s not Manhattan-taxis are awfully scarce at this time of night.”
A couple of years later, for family reasons and to my great chagrin, Linda decided to move to Florida and relinquish her New York City district directorship.
It was around then that Ralph Giordano assumed the management of my branch. An elegant and mild-mannered man, he immediately set out to overhaul the culture of the office and worked to make it the best in the district, in direct competition with the World Financial Center branch. An ambitious and hands-on kind of man, he picked up where Linda had left off, encouraging and backing all financial consultants, small and big producers alike. Under his watchful eye, my revenues to the firm rapidly mounted, far exceeding the hurdles that had once eluded me. Soon after his promotion, he moved the whole branch to bigger, more imposing, quarters occupying almost two floors of the Citigroup building.
I enjoyed working with him even as he kept daring me to reach higher. If, within a year, I grew my numbers further than I’d projected in my annual plan, he would reward me by moving me to a better office—a larger, more beautiful space with East River views and a conference table. I have always been a sucker for challenges, often following my egotistical impulses to the detriment of my better judgment, so I aimed to please. I worked relentlessly on my revenues and climbed the corporate title ladder smoothly and seemingly effortlessly. I became a senior financial consultant and vice president and made an income of close to a quarter million dollars a year at the height of my career. I was one of Ralph’s darlings and the envy of my colleagues. In those swinging Nineties, I was at the top of my game.
It was around that time, my mother came to pay me a visit.
My assistant poked her head in the doorway, her long jet-black locks cascading down her shoulders, and announced merrily: “Faith, your appointment is here.”
I gave her a puzzled look. “Which appointment are you talking about, Leslie? I don’t have anything scheduled.”
She broke in a big smile, moved aside, and showed my mother in.
“Oh Mom, what a nice surprise!”
I jumped on my feet and planted a kiss on both her cheeks. Despite several invitations, this was her first visit to my new Citicorp Tower location.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Leslie asked her sweetly.
My mother looked striking and cheerful. She had makeup on, and her hair was done in the style that she favored and suited her most-pulled back in the front by a black headband and let loose in the back.
“Just a glass of water, please,” she replied.
“You’re sure you don’t want a coffee? We have an espresso machine here, and Leslie can make you a coffee just the way you like it, black and strong,” I said.
“Okay, then, a black coffee and a glass of water,” Mom told Leslie, still standing there looking at the two of us.
“You look so much like your mom, Faith,” she grinned.
“Yes, I know.” I giggled, put my arm around Mom’s shoulders and gave her a little squeeze. “So, what do you think?” I asked. “Do you like my office?” I tilted my head, peering at her from the side.
“First, let me show you the view from here.”
I walked her to the vast bay window and swept the air with my hand, pointing to the glistening river under the crisp, sunny sky and the boroughs beyond.
“At home, I enjoy the mighty Hudson, and at work, the East River—the best of both worlds,” I said.
She looked on and then turned around to admire my office.
I had spent a great deal of effort and expense decorating it. Carefully chosen impressionist reproductions and prints hung on the walls; an Indian rug lay under the conference table and a smaller one in front of my desk. Directly under an ornate mirror, a console table contained a bouquet of flowers and a lamp. It looked quaint and elegant at the same time, a page out of a catalog. Not a day went by without a perfect stranger popping their head in to tell me what a beautiful office I had.
“I love how you decorated it and made it so stylish,” beamed Mom. I smiled with contentment.
“Okay, now I’m taking you around the rest of the branch. You know we occupy the entire forty-seventh floor as well as the forty-sixth,” I said, taking her by the arm.
I knew Mom was proud of me, and I felt like indulging her sense of pride even more. Her dream for me, for her, had come true, and she reveled in the moment. She looked around enthralled, shaking the hands of colleagues I introduced her to with delight, charming them with her alluring smile and friendliness, often asking with her disarming accent, “Do you speak French?” by way of excusing her poor English and as if she were about to engage in a lengthy conversation if they did.
When we came back in my office, she sat back in one of the large chairs facing my desk, sipped her coffee, and watched me answer a client’s call in silence, taking it all in quietly.
It was not hard to guess what was going through her head. The sacrificed teenager, married against her will at a tender age in a medieval time and place, was witnessing something she could not, in her wildest dreams, have ever imagined. The frightened little girl whose hand she once held to school, some three-and-a-half decades earlier had turned into a successful Wall Street advisor managing million-dollar portfolios and reaching the pinnacle of American society in a transformation that baffled her mind.
I ended my call and gazed at her, filled with emotion. Tears were welling up in her eyes, but she was smiling at me. She had finally won her battle with destiny. I got up, sat next to her, and reached for her hand in silence.
On the eve of the new Millennium, Merrill Lynch, like all of Wall Street, was shooting for the stars by taking full advantage of the new Financial Services Modernization Act, also known as the Gramm-Leach-Bliley Act (GLBA), that permitted commercial and investment banks to consolidate, in effect repealing the landmark Glass-Steagall Act of 1933, one of the central pillars of Roosevelt’s New Deal. Throughout the preceding years, the banking, investment, and insurance industries had joined forces and furiously lobbied the Clinton administration and Republican majority in Congress with the single-minded determination to relax the remaining Glass-Steagall restraints, already loosened by Reagan in the early 1980s. Ironically, legi
slation that had been put in place to protect American capitalism after the 1929 Wall Street Crash was abolished at exactly the time an unprecedented speculative bubble in the technology industry was sweeping through the global markets.
Merrill Lynch was getting ready for big mergers and record-breaking revenues, both through underwritings and acquisitions. Branch managers were directed to set the pace at every level, in every department, and encourage the craziest material dreams from their consultants—the more unimaginable the goals, the better. We were told to map out yearly written plans with the most ambitious material aspirations, from million-dollar homes to lavish secondary residences, luxury cars, private yachts, exclusive country club memberships—no vision was too big—and back them up with ever higher annual commission and revenue numbers.
More than ever before, consultants, thrust down the path of greed, found themselves trapped in the race for flagrant wealth, brazen spending, and audacious borrowing. A rat race of unparalleled proportions ensued. Meeting after meeting showed us the road to success and the way to get there. And to give us a taste of things to come, and fantasies to aim for, every year Merrill Lynch rewarded its best and brightest with fabulous club trips to five-star resorts in the United States and abroad.
In December 1996, Alan Greenspan, the Federal Reserve Chairman, spoke of “irrational exuberance” when referring to the “undue escalation of assets,” and sent the market into a spin. Three years later, that memory had all but vanished and the markets were again gorging on fast profits and obscene greediness. Some internet and computer stocks were selling at prices over a hundred times earnings; sometimes they had no earnings at all. It was all pure unadulterated speculation.
THE ROAD FROM MOROCCO Page 23