10

Getting My Harvey
Ball Bearings

A spot in the bullpen is earned, not given. As you may recall, MDs occupy the windowed offices, which lie on the perimeter of the square floor. On the interior are the cubicles, where everyone from directors to analysts sit, save for one group—senior analysts, comprised of second- and third-year analysts. This group sits in the bullpen, a rectangular, windowless enclave situated directly in the middle of the floor, ten steps from my cube.

I tread carefully into the bullpen around 11:00 p.m.—might as well be 11:00 a.m. in here. Without a hint of natural light, there’s a casino quality to the space. An assortment of sounds, both human and computerized, churns incessantly. Rational behavior is a long-lost thought.

Joel’s broad shoulders and large head block most of what’s on his dimmed dual monitors. With his cube situated so that his back is facing the bullpen entrance and thus visible to all passersby, Joel is clearly one of the newcomers to the senior analyst crew.

“Billy boy, what’s up?” he says. I’m still at least five steps from him as I enter, and he’s facing directly away from me at his desk.

“You got eyes in the back of your head?” I ask. Joel reaches out his right arm and taps an adjustable mirror he’s set up on one of the walls of his cube.

“Associates in mirror are closer than they appear,” he says before doing a 180-degree spin in his chair and greeting me with a wide grin. “Put this baby up the day I moved in. Gimme two minutes—just gotta finish something quick and send to an MD.”

Of the twelve cubes in the bullpen, all but two are occupied. Most of the ten occupants wear large headphones and are in work mode. I’m completely ignored as I slowly circle the ’pen, and that’s fine by me.

The walls of the bullpen are covered in an array of items—from old New York Times and Wall Street Journal clippings, slightly browned by age and lack of sunlight, to photoshopped pictures of analysts’ (both past and present) heads on characters from The Wolf of Wall Street to Pokémon, to old emails with highlighted sections (e.g. “WTF??? makes no sense. Figure it out. Need ASAP”). On the wall next to one analyst hangs a sign, “Ø hours without an Excel issue,” with the “Ø” written in black permanent marker on a Post-it. Above another analyst’s cube is an official looking sheet titled, “The Ten Commandments of Excel.” Across the back wall of the bullpen, separated by a flat-screen television that perpetually broadcasts CNBC on mute, hang two banners—one is a dark blue “Deutsche Bank PGA Tour Championship 10th Anniversary” banner, the likes of which you’d find in a college dorm room. The other is a large white sign with massive handwritten block letters—“NOT MUCH HAS CHANGED. JUST A LOT MORE WORK.” Below the banners on the back wall is a mantle with countless discarded deal-toys, many of which, upon closer inspection, have been collecting dust since the ’90s.

In the middle of the bullpen is a large island counter. Filing cabinets line each side, and on top are two large printers and a donut box with one donut remaining. On one side of the printers is a small Christmas tree, and on the other side is a menorah. Both the lights on the tree and the menorah are lit, which for some reason, even though it’s early September, doesn’t feel odd here.

Many cubes in the bullpen proudly display a pennant of their current occupant’s alma mater, as well as some pictures of siblings and parents. These knickknacks provide reassurance that a world outside the bullpen exists, even if these senior analysts are no longer part of it.

There’s a corner of one wall with pictures of former analysts.

“He was a beast,” says Ted as he approaches and taps a picture of an Asian kid in a trench coat, under which someone has written “The Assassin.” “Never saw him take that coat off in the two years he was here. Barely ever heard him talk, but the shit he could do in Excel and PowerPoint.…” Ted shakes his head in awe.

“How ’bout this guy?” I ask, pointing to a picture of another Asian kid with acne, under which someone has written “The False Prophet.”

“Had all the makings of a good analyst but couldn’t cut it,” says Ted.

“Yo,” says Joel, poking his head above his cube and summoning me toward him. It’s then that I notice the slew of shirtsleeves (from the elbow to the cuff) pinned to the wall, high above everything else. Two full rows of shirtsleeves in a variety of colors and patterns line the entire interior of the bullpen wall.

“What’s the story with the sleeves?” I ask, approaching Joel’s desk as I roll an extra chair alongside me and situate myself behind Joel.

“Eventually happens after a while. I have three sleeves up there.” Joel tilts his head up and points to the right. “That blue-and-white striped one, the light pink one, and the yellow.”

“Kinda like a rite of passage thing,” I say wondering how a company stays in business manufacturing dress shirts the color of Grey Poupon.

“I guess, yeah. My mom tried to sew in little pieces of fabric to reinforce the elbows.”

“This her?” I say pointing to a picture of Joel in his football gear with his arms draped around a small lady he dwarfs.

Joel smiles. “That’s her.”

“Your house? Pretty unreal,” I say now looking at the picture of a majestic mansion you’d see on the cover of a Sotheby’s catalog.

“Don’t have any of those in Bayonne, Jersey,” he says. “That’s the house I’m going to buy her though.”

“Nice. You were a lineman I assume?”

“Right tackle.”

“So not the blindside?”

“Actually, yeah. Our QB was a lefty.”

“Can’t imagine playing a sport in college and doing all the banking, recruiting, and internship shit junior year. Was hard enough for me in business school, and I didn’t even play a sport anymore.”

“I had it all planned out when I was a kid—was gonna play in the NFL, be a lawyer during the off-season, then retire as the President of the United States. Fall back plan was banking, so had to make it work.”

Joel opens one of his drawers and hands me a laminated sheet of paper titled, “Does Athletic Participation Impact Academic Performance? Senior Economics Thesis of Joel Janowski.”

“This is just the summary page,” he says.

I look in amazement at the page, formatted as meticulously as the banking books I’ve seen, and peppered with colorful pie charts, regression analyses, binomial theorems, and other formulas containing symbols like ß and the other weird looking “y” that’s Greek. “I could email you the whole presentation if you want,” he says.

“I’d like that,” I say. “So is there anything I can do to help out with the book? Ted said you guys had made some good headway.”

“Let’s see,” says Joel, scanning the PowerPoint pages of the latest draft of the Weston pitch book. “How ’bout you put in the Harvey balls15 on page three, then maybe give the sum-of-the-parts page a try. Those two pages are good to help you practice formatting stuff in PPT, creating waterfall charts, and also doing SOTP analysis. I’ll send you an old book to show you how the SOTP page should look—each segment has a different multiple. You can find the segment EBITDAs in the company presentations. Show the build up to TEV, then subtract net debt to get to implied-equity value.”

I return to my desk with my marching orders. It takes me forty-five minutes to get the two rows of Harvey balls formatted properly, both in alignment and size.

 

John Bukowski: Yo, you still here?

William Keenan: Yeah, you?

John Bukowski: Obviously, idiot. How would I have just messaged you?

William Keenan: Coulda used that Ras thing and logged in from home

John Bukowski: If I hear someone use the word “jammin” again, I’m gonna quit

William Keenan: J

William Keenan: A

William Keenan: M

John Bukowski: Swing by my desk

William Keenan: M

William Keenan: I

William Keenan: N

“Jammin’, I wanna jam it with you. We’re jammin’, jammin’,” I sing as I approach Jack’s cube on the other side of the floor.

“Any clue what the difference between FY+1 and NTM is?” Jack asks. I shake my head. He exhales then leans back in his chair. “You have any idea what you’re doing?” A stream of panic flashes across his eyes.

“Like thirty percent understanding.”

“What they have you staffed on?”

“M&A pitch. You?”

“Financing for a utility. We had a sit-down earlier today for an hour,” says Jack.

“How’d it go?”

“Barely understood a word. Only thing that was obvious is that someone has a shit-ton of work to do, and it’s probably me,” he says. “What’s the company you’re pitching do?”

“Think they do like five hundred million in revenue a year,” I say. “Ten percent EBITDA margins.”

“I mean what do they actually do?” he says.

“End markets are in specialty silicas, laminates, and engineered plastics, which have pretty high market-growth rates, if you apply random percentages to specific regions.” I say.

“You don’t know what they do,” he says.

“Has something to do with why tires are black.”

“Man, I’m glad I have you around—makes me feel so much better about myself. You’re dismissed,” says Jack.

“What was that?” I say, looking at the ceiling.

“A/C must shut down at midnight.”

“No wonder I’m so hungry.”

I order dinner from Hwa Yuan Szechuan since I’ll be looking for hope everywhere tonight, including inside a fortune cookie.

* * *

“What in the hell is this?” says Ethan, holding up the sheet of paper like it’s a baggie of dog shit. With Gareth away at a client meeting and Ted informing us this morning that he’ll be out for the next week with a family emergency, Joel and I sit alone across from Ethan in his office.

“Latest draft of the Weston book,” says Joel, who emailed the deck the night before, around 1:00 a.m. Ethan eyes it with skepticism. “Why’s there shit on both sides of the page?”

“Sorry,” I say. “Think the default setting on my printer is set to double-sided.”

“Go print another copy—single-sided, in color.”

Four minutes later, I return with a new baggie of dog shit.

“Alright,” says Ethan grabbing a red pen and leaning forward to inspect the deck. “Fine,” he says flipping through the first couple pages. “Generally okay with this.” He holds the pen in his right hand, centimeters from the paper, seemingly eager to make his marks. “Kill this shit,” he says striking a large red line across one of the “market outlook” pages. “Broadly okay with that.” He flips back to the first page of the section. “You know what, just kill the whole fuckin’ section.” He flips to the next section, where most of the new-page creates are. “Okay,” he says, his right hand now bouncing slightly so the tip of the pen barely touches the page before recoiling into a ready position. Then he makes a huge circle. “Why are we using ’16 multiples? It’s September. Use ’17…Ecolab EBITDA growth looks too low—make sure it’s pro forma for that ingredients acquisition they just did…add a key message here,” he says before mumbling something inaudible and scribbling something illegible.

“Got it,” says Joel, making a note in his notebook as he cranes his neck trying to catch a glimpse of Ethan’s page.

“Just listen, Joel,” says Ethan. “I’m writing the shit down for you. Focus on listening.”

“Sorry,” says Joel.

Ethan flips to the SOTP page, the one page in the deck I did. He stares at it for a few seconds but doesn’t make any marks. Instead, he looks up, first at Joel, then me. “Who did this page?” Before I can say anything, he’s off. “Because I want to know how the fuck does it make sense to pitch divesting the life-sciences division when we’re saying they trade two turns higher than the other three segments?” Ethan shakes his head, sporting a menacing smile. “Let’s start with some logic. Last time I checked, companies sell their dog-shit assets that weigh down their multiple. But this page,” he continues, tapping it with his pen, “tells me the dog shit is trading at eleven times, and if they sell it, the RemainCo will trade at a discount to its current multiple.” He leans back, spinning the silver wedding band on his finger. “Hey, maybe I’m fuckin’ wrong, right? I don’t know everything. Maybe I’m the one who doesn’t know what the fuck I’m doing. You tell me.”

The room falls silent.

“Who did this page? You can tell me. Blame it on Ted—he’s not here.”

My mouth is dry, but the back of my undershirt is soaked with sweat. I exhale slowly, summoning the courage to admit it’s my work.

“I made the page,” says Joel.

Ethan smiles. “You’ve been here two years, Joel. I know you love futzing with the goddamn colors, but you ever consider thinking shit through when you’re done making the bars different shades of magenta?”

“My mistake, Ethan. Won’t happen again,” says Joel.

“I’m not going through the rest of the book. I leave Friday for DC. Won’t be looking at shit until after the ’Skins game Sunday, so I don’t care when you email me a new draft, but make sure the numbers are right and shit makes sense.” An electronic ding from his computer gets his attention. “I gotta get on a call.”

Joel and I stand. Ethan flicks the few pages he marked up across the table, and Joel slides them into his notebook. “Ethan, as far as work streams, I’m still working on the CRM for Ingredion. Between this deck and that memo, do you have a preference which I should prioritize?” asks Joel.

“Both,” says Ethan as he dials his phone.

“Will do. Open or shut?” says Joel as we leave the office.

“Closed.”

Joel and I walk back to the bullpen. “You didn’t have to take the—” I begin.

“I should’ve done a better job checking,” says the twenty-three-year-old analyst. “You’ll have the chance to pay it forward down the road.”

“Thanks,” I say trying to find any other words to convey how grateful I am but coming up empty.

“Let’s just hope Redskins win,” says Joel. “For now, why don’t you work in the master and take Ethan’s comments for the market outlook pages, and I’ll open a rider and look into the SOTP page.”

Seconds after returning to my desk, Phuc, the diminutive Vietnamese associate in my class, appears and rests his elbows on the top of my cube. “Jammin’ on anything live?” he asks.

“M&A pitch,” I say as I pull up the latest PowerPoint.

“Dang. That sucks. Pitches are pretty easy, but still,” says Phuc.

Trying to decipher Ethan’s latest comments without Gareth proves impossible.

“I got staffed on a sell-side today. Should start ramping up soon,” continues Phuc. “Think you’ll get anything live?”

“No idea,” I say as I rotate one of Ethan’s pages slowly, trying to figure out what he’s written.

“No need to get all mad about it.”

My phone rings. I shoo Phuc away as I slap on my headset.

“Hello?” I say, eyeing the caller ID number I don’t recognize.

“Am I speaking with Mister William Keenan?”

“You are. Who’s this?”

“Hi Mister Keenan. My name is Philip, and I’m contacting you on behalf of your dedicated American Express corporate-card team. How are you doing today?”

“Fine,” I say.

“Glad to hear. I see in your records there’s an outstanding balance on your card, and I’d like to help you resolve it to avoid any further late fees.”

“Yeah, I got a call about this not long ago. I literally just got my AmEx card the other day and haven’t used it once. I think you have the wrong person,” I say.

“Mister Keenan, I do apologize. Let me contact my supervisor and see if we can resolve it on our end. Can I ask you one final question?”

“Sure.”

“Can I request that you wear a big smile for the rest of the day, Mister Keenan?”

* * *

“That brings up fourth and long with twelve seconds remaining in this seesaw game here at FedEx Field. Redskins need twenty-two yards to get into field goal range to give Dustin Hopkins a chance to kick a game-winner. Once again, their fate is in the hands of franchise quarterback Kirk Cousins, who’s had a career day despite a below-average showing from his supporting cast.” I turn the volume up on my television, lean forward in my couch, and clasp my hands together as the Redskins break from their huddle and line up in a shotgun formation with five receivers.

“Cousins drops back….” says the announcer.

“What the fuck are the receivers doing?” I yell at the television. “Why would you run into double coverage?”

“Since when did you give a fuck about football?” asks my roommate as he emerges from his bedroom after a lengthy session of Call of Duty on campaign mode.

“Starting last week,” I say, now standing a few feet from the television with my hands clasped behind my neck. “Fuckin’ get rid of it. Heave the thing down field, idiot!”

“…Cousins…sacked again…for the sixth time!” says the announcer. “This Redskins offensive line with a dreadful ending to an already awful afternoon they’ve had defending a faster, more powerful Philadelphia Eagles rush defense. The Redskins turn the ball over on downs and that should do it. Week one in the books here in Landover, Maryland.”

I lean back, sinking into the couch.

“A bunch of guys are meeting at some bullshit bar in the Village. You wanna come?” asks my roommate.

My BlackBerry dings. “Expect comments,” reads the subject of an email from Ethan. Nothing in the body of the email.

“Think I gotta stick around here for a while, but I’ll text you if I can meet up later,” I say.

At 10:37 p.m., just over three hours after Kirk Cousins was sacked for the sixth and final time that day, my BlackBerry buzzes as I sit on the same couch, having barely moved. I open up the email from Ethan: “Error 317: message download failed—content too large.”

I’m on the forty-fourth floor fifteen minutes later. The lights in all the MD offices are off, and while the rest of the floor is relatively quiet, the bullpen is jumping.

After printing out two copies of Ethan’s comments (seven pages, double-sided, single-spaced), I pull up a chair behind Joel, who’s scarfing down a chicken-parm sub.

“Here.” Joel, a large red Gatorade stain above his top lip, turns and hands me a plastic bag with another steaming hot chicken-parm sub. “Delivery guy at Potbelly is my boy—always gives me an extra on Sundays.” I accept the sub as I hand him Ethan’s latest comments.

“Almost seems like he changed around the entire book,” I say. “That normal? Changing a ton of shit the night before a meeting?”

“Yeah,” says Joel. He opens up the Excel backup and latest draft of the PowerPoint presentation. “Oh! 11:11,” he says pointing at the date and time in the lower right corner of his right computer monitor. “Make a wish.”

He already answered mine.

* * *

The first final version (WestonDM_vF) has a formatting bust we detect when scrolling through the PDF. The next final version (WestonDM_vFF) has a P/E multiple on page six that doesn’t tie with the multiple on page twenty-four. The actual final version (WestonDM_vFFF) of the book is sent to print at DB’s in-house reprographics team at 2:35 a.m.

“Is it usually this bad just for a pitch?” I ask.

“Just be thankful the meeting is in Midtown,” says Joel.

“Why’s that?”

“It can get a lot worse if the MD has to fly or take a train to the meeting. Gives him time to go through the book. Can take heavy fire via email or on the phone if that’s the case.”

“But even after the deck is printed…day of the meeting?”

“One time I had an MD tell me to change an assumption for a firepower page like twenty minutes before his meeting. I emailed him the updated page, and he printed it at the client’s office.”

A new email pops into Joel’s inbox. Industrials isn’t the only banking group scrambling to turn comments and print books this Sunday. Repro informs us the wait will be about two hours. Joel ensures me he can stay up, flip the books once printed to be certain there are no other issues, then courier them to Ethan’s house on the Upper West Side.

Fuckin’ Redskins.

When I stumble into the office Monday morning just after 9:30 a.m., the first thing I hear as I walk down the hall to my cube is Joel’s laugh from the bullpen.