evenings out during our weeks of training were filled with baseball games, dinners at the Palm and Sparks, and
nights out at dance clubs and, finally, strip bars. Most of it was paid for by our beloved firm. We were living large. The
days were filled with lots of catnaps and free lunches. The firm was keeping us in an inebriated state so that we wouldn’t
realize what the hell we were getting ourselves into. If we had, we might have left immediately. But we were loving every
minute of it. Abunch of twenty-six-year-old self-important business school grads wearing our best suits and ties and being told that we would
be the next big shots on Wall Street. This was where Rolfe and I rekindled our friendship, sitting at the Crane Club drinking
Jack Daniel’s on the rocks and discussing how we were going to be managing directors in five short years. We felt BIG. We
followed up our Crane Club fun with a visit to what would become one of our favorite hangouts, Shenanigans—a second-rate strip
club right around the corner from DLJ’s offices.
As the night wore on, the drinks all began running into one another. We had no idea how much we—i.e., the firm—owed on our
bar bill. As the bill racked up, though, something extraordinary began to happen. The alcohol actually cleared our brains
of all the clutter and set our thoughts straight.
“Hey, Rolfe,” I shouted over the booming Shenanigans dance music. “You know, you were right, that second-year associate was
pretty bitter. Do you think he hates what he’s doing?”
“Yeah, maybe. Maybe his life really sucks. Maybe he was told that he would work for the good people, but then when he finally
got to DLJ things changed.”
“Shit. That wouldn’t be so good. He did look pretty tired, not to mention angry and about forty years old, didn’t he?”
“He sure did, Troobie. He sure did. Man, that’s fucked up. Do you think that’ll happen to us?”
It was like we were finally sober for the first time since we’d set foot inside DLJ as summer associates over a year before.
The alcohol had sent a bolt of lightning through the gray matter, and we were realizing that we weren’tgoing to be treated like gold, and that we were going to have to pay some mighty painful dues. Dues that most of the senior
guys had paid but that nonetheless were agonizing. If they had to do it, then so would we. Those were the rules. Maybe it
was due to our drunken stupor, but it sure felt like we had been sold a bill of goods. We began to realize that we were in
for a long, painful experience.
Then one of our favorite dancers, Angel, finished up on the main stage and headed our way to resume table dancing for us.
“What? I can’t hear you, man. The music’s too loud. I’ve got the next round. You want another scotch and water?”
“Yeah, make it a double.”
The night went black. The next day Rolfe and I conveniently forgot the revelations we had come to the previous night. We were
back in training class going for the gusto, and taking our place at the back of the queue.
The Food Chain
The higher a monkey climbs,
the more you see of his ass
.
— General Joseph Stilwell
W ithin an investment bank there is a strict hierarchy. It’s a pyramid, with each level of the pyramid resting on the shoulders
of the level below. The further down you travel into the pyramid, the more primitive the species of banker becomes. Remember
who built the great pyramids of Egypt? That’s right, it was a bunch of sunburned slaves in loincloths.
The senior managing directors are at the pinnacle of the investment banking pyramid. They’re the guys on the front line. They
source business. They scour the world looking for ways to make fees for the investment bank. They approach companies in order
to sell them on doing an IPO or raising money through a bond underwriting. They ask companies to buy other companies or to
sell themselves. Every managing director’s
nights out at dance clubs and, finally, strip bars. Most of it was paid for by our beloved firm. We were living large. The
days were filled with lots of catnaps and free lunches. The firm was keeping us in an inebriated state so that we wouldn’t
realize what the hell we were getting ourselves into. If we had, we might have left immediately. But we were loving every
minute of it. Abunch of twenty-six-year-old self-important business school grads wearing our best suits and ties and being told that we would
be the next big shots on Wall Street. This was where Rolfe and I rekindled our friendship, sitting at the Crane Club drinking
Jack Daniel’s on the rocks and discussing how we were going to be managing directors in five short years. We felt BIG. We
followed up our Crane Club fun with a visit to what would become one of our favorite hangouts, Shenanigans—a second-rate strip
club right around the corner from DLJ’s offices.
As the night wore on, the drinks all began running into one another. We had no idea how much we—i.e., the firm—owed on our
bar bill. As the bill racked up, though, something extraordinary began to happen. The alcohol actually cleared our brains
of all the clutter and set our thoughts straight.
“Hey, Rolfe,” I shouted over the booming Shenanigans dance music. “You know, you were right, that second-year associate was
pretty bitter. Do you think he hates what he’s doing?”
“Yeah, maybe. Maybe his life really sucks. Maybe he was told that he would work for the good people, but then when he finally
got to DLJ things changed.”
“Shit. That wouldn’t be so good. He did look pretty tired, not to mention angry and about forty years old, didn’t he?”
“He sure did, Troobie. He sure did. Man, that’s fucked up. Do you think that’ll happen to us?”
It was like we were finally sober for the first time since we’d set foot inside DLJ as summer associates over a year before.
The alcohol had sent a bolt of lightning through the gray matter, and we were realizing that we weren’tgoing to be treated like gold, and that we were going to have to pay some mighty painful dues. Dues that most of the senior
guys had paid but that nonetheless were agonizing. If they had to do it, then so would we. Those were the rules. Maybe it
was due to our drunken stupor, but it sure felt like we had been sold a bill of goods. We began to realize that we were in
for a long, painful experience.
Then one of our favorite dancers, Angel, finished up on the main stage and headed our way to resume table dancing for us.
“What? I can’t hear you, man. The music’s too loud. I’ve got the next round. You want another scotch and water?”
“Yeah, make it a double.”
The night went black. The next day Rolfe and I conveniently forgot the revelations we had come to the previous night. We were
back in training class going for the gusto, and taking our place at the back of the queue.
The Food Chain
The higher a monkey climbs,
the more you see of his ass
.
— General Joseph Stilwell
W ithin an investment bank there is a strict hierarchy. It’s a pyramid, with each level of the pyramid resting on the shoulders
of the level below. The further down you travel into the pyramid, the more primitive the species of banker becomes. Remember
who built the great pyramids of Egypt? That’s right, it was a bunch of sunburned slaves in loincloths.
The senior managing directors are at the pinnacle of the investment banking pyramid. They’re the guys on the front line. They
source business. They scour the world looking for ways to make fees for the investment bank. They approach companies in order
to sell them on doing an IPO or raising money through a bond underwriting. They ask companies to buy other companies or to
sell themselves. Every managing director’s
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