“We start in K-town, then work our way south,” says a senior analyst to another in the bullpen as they stare at a map on one of their computers, their fingers tapping various parts of the screen. “I figure we’ll be six beers deep by the time we get to Village Tavern if we do this right.”
“We’re off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz,” sings Joel quietly as he adjusts his tie and wipes lint off his blazer’s lapel.
“What time you talking to him?” I ask Joel.
“Supposed to be one-thirty p.m. but think they’re running behind.”
“My buddy at BAML said low-end this year was $30k,” says an analyst from his cube.
“My roommate—does TMT at Goldman—said their median was $85k,” says another.
“Bullshit,” retorts a third analyst. “What year?”
“Heard mean at Evercore for third-years was six figures,” says another analyst.
For the first time since I started work, every analyst in the bullpen is in a suit and tie, with a clean-shaven face.
While the chatter in the bullpen revolves around bonus figures across Wall Street, Leighton sits in his cube, a miniature screwdriver in his right hand as he works on his keyboard like a high-end mechanic. Seemingly either immune or uninterested in the bonus-day buzz, Leighton carefully removes one of the SHIFT keys, partially revealing the underbelly of his supercharged keyboard. Then, with a heart surgeon’s touch, he inserts the screwdriver and twists slowly.
“What’s shaking, man?” I say.
“Just some maintenance work,” says Leighton. “By the way, I’m impressed how you were making those pages the other day for practice. Those repetitions are what will separate your work product from peers.”
“Thanks. Impressed you were able to find that bust I planted on the page,” I say. “How’s the keyboard looking these days?”
Leighton sighs. “N-key rollover obviously a plus, cascading keycap design decreases finger fatigue, and of course the blue switches are superior to red, but there are no doubt questions about durability. Marketing material claims fifty-million-key lifespan, but I don’t buy it.” Leighton looks over his shoulder at me. “And quite frankly, it’s concerning. Durability is paramount.” I nod as he pops open a passion-fruit-flavored LaCroix sparkling water. “Want one?” he asks, handing me a can.
“Thanks.”
I watch as Leighton returns his attention to his keyboard. It reminds me of the care I took when preparing my hockey sticks prior to a game. It was about getting each detail exactly right: the overlap of each wrap of white tape on my blade; the number of loops, each perfectly in line, on the handle to create the butt end; the candy-cane tape job I did on the shaft because I saw my favorite player do it; sand-papering the shaft where my bottom hand held the stick. Leighton is one of the few people at the bank who seems to enjoy the process, rather than viewing the job as a means to an end.
“Goddammit, Joel!” shouts Leighton as a foam bullet ricochets off the back of his head. I turn around and see Joel smiling, an enormous Nerf gun in his right hand.
“I’ll put the Nerf N-Strike Elite Strongman Blaster toe-to-toe against your keyboard any day of the week,” says Joel. “You love blue-switch keyboards, Leighton.” Leighton’s mouth opens momentarily, but he restrains himself and instead puts on his headphones and returns to his screwdriver and keyboard.
Moments later, an analyst returns to the bullpen wearing one of those restrained smiles where you know he wants you to know he’s excited but doesn’t want to make a scene about it, though in so doing, he shines a light on how happy he is.
“How’d it go?” asks Joel, giving in to the bait.
“Uh, yeah. Not bad,” says the analyst nodding his head. “Pretty go— …Not bad, I’d say. You’re up, Joel,” he says returning to his cube and loosening his tie in the process.
Joel stands and fidgets in his suit jacket before exhaling deeply. “Go time,” he says. “I trust you’ll keep things in order while I’m gone.” He hands me the Nerf gun before exiting the bullpen.
The second- and third-year analysts and associates have their one-on-one meetings first. Then the first-year junior bankers have their bonus meetings. But there isn’t much anticipation for us first-years—we receive stub bonuses, a standard practice across Wall Street, given we haven’t worked a full year yet. My meeting lasts under five minutes. I sit across from a guy in his late forties who I’ve never met before; he calls me “William” a bunch of times, then he tells me the bank is invested in my personal development. Then I leave.
By early afternoon, a group of senior analysts heads to K-town to start their bonus-day celebration, which will most likely end in a long line somewhere in the Meatpacking District.
“Hey, Bill,” says a lanky first year analyst as he passes my cube. “A bunch of us are heading over to O’Leary’s—probably grab a couple IPAs and watch the Fed meeting on TV. You should come. We got a pool going on whether they hike rates and by how many bps. Pretty decent-sized pot thus far.”
“Gotta couple things to finish up,” I say. “Maybe I’ll swing by when I’m done.”
“Sound pretty dovish on drinks, Chairman Keenan,” says Ted after the analyst is out of earshot.
“Don’t get paid enough for that,” I say. “So what happens when Leighton quits?”
“One of two things,” says Ted. “Either a glass case drops from the ceiling and his cube becomes an exhibit in the Wall Street hall of fame…or theory two is everything is packaged up—keyboard, monitor, computer, the whole shebang—and sent to a research facility in Switzerland.”
“I mean to the group—what happens to the group when all these senior analysts quit?”
“Gonna be trouble for us until the first-years get up the curve. But that’s the nature of the beast. They did their two, three years here,” says Ted like it’s some sort of prison sentence.
* * *
By the end of the day, three analysts from the bullpen inform the group they’re quitting. Two weeks later, another two analysts quit, including Joel. All are off to jobs on the buy-side, either at private equity firms or hedge funds. Their legacy lives on in the sleeves they leave behind and the email snippets they posted on the bullpen wall. On their last days, they each place their BlackBerry and DB badge on their desks.
Juniors typically field personal phone calls in the vacant conference rooms at each corner of the floor. The soundproof glass windows prevent those of us on the floor from hearing what’s being discussed on the calls, but you don’t need to hear anything to know the nature of the discussion. It’s the calls in which analysts’ backs are facing the floor that are a dead giveaway it’s a recruiting call.
By April, of the ten senior analysts who were in the bullpen when I started, only four remain, including Betty and Leighton. Most goodbye emails (subject line: goodbye and farewell) eulogize the individual’s time at the bank where “lifelong friendships” were created and “invaluable mentorship” took place and conclude with wishes to stay in touch. Then they send a calendar invite for “celebratory drinks.” Also, they CC their own Gmail account. One such goodbye email comes from a third-year analyst who makes the rounds one Friday afternoon, fighting off tears.
“Thank you so much, Bill. Today’s my last day at the bank, but I had a great time working with you,” she says. Never mind that I don’t know her name, and I’ve never worked with her, though I hear she’s good.
“I hope you’ll come down for a drink at the Bailey later,” she says. I nod, though we both know that won’t be happening.
A few weeks later, Betty informs a couple MDs of her intention to quit. After three years, she realizes she doesn’t want a career in banking. Her plan is to travel for six months and take time to figure out what she wants from her life.
“What’d they say,” I ask as she returns from a corner-office conversation.
“They told me it would be a huge mistake for me to quit. I would regret it immediately, and I need to rethink my decision.” She looks shook. Betty never sends her goodbye email. Instead, she stays at the bank. It’s not so much the stranglehold senior bankers have over analysts that sways her decision, but rather the way banks treat juniors: they lure you with fantasy and trap you with fear.23 Without exception, banks recruit students by selling them the dream: banking is the quickest way to gain access to boardrooms of the biggest companies in the world. The pay is unparalleled, and the exit opportunities are unrivalled. Think about that—they’re salesmen, and the best pitch they have is to sell you on leaving.
But once you’re in the machine, fear grounds you, like it has Betty. You’re a pariah if you leave—“Couldn’t handle the hours/pressure/lifestyle,” sneer your peers once you’re gone. Betty is promoted to an associate the following week and celebrates by leaving the office before midnight on two consecutive days.
Spring quickly turns to summer. Tree leaves and flowers bloom or do whatever nature shit happens this time of year, but as a banker, this shift in seasons is simply marked by fewer overcoats hanging outside cubicles and more natural light beaming through the MDs’ windows. I pass most days shooting the breeze with the 7s, writing strongly-worded emails to MAKS, hitting on the female FactSet girls who make price charts for me, and deciphering the hieroglyphics that senior bankers universally use in their markups.
But progress is made: for one, I successfully master the cadence bankers use to sound annoyed when giving an explanation to a really difficult question—helps avoid follow-up questions. And I pick up helpful euphemisms: when answering a client’s question to which I’m clueless, I say, “It is my understanding,” rather than “I think”—makes it sound like I processed the information but was misled by faulty information, rather than the alternative, which is I didn’t have any idea (the truth).
Then, one rainy Friday afternoon in June, Leighton makes the rounds in his galoshes, going cube by cube, informing everyone on the floor he’s resigning to take a job at a hedge fund. He distributes gifts to every person he’s worked with—to me, he gives a wireless mouse, with the caveat that I’ll promise to continue working on my keyboard shortcuts. It’s a deal.
Two days later, on a Sunday evening, I’m summoned to the office by that perpetually blinking red light to turn comments. The floor is unusually quiet. But when I finish up around 10:30 p.m., I hear a voice in the bullpen.
“Next thing I want to flag is cell AE 78,” says Leighton as I spot him in his cube wearing his headset, the lone person in the bullpen. “When you trace that cell, you’ll see the link to the pro-forma income statement. Are you following this? I won’t be here tomorrow to explain it again.”