business.”
Vitzi’s face reddened. He jabbed at David with a thick finger.
“No, I mean the badge. You think that’s funny?”
David glanced down at his own lapel. He had affixed the trading badge right in the center, where he’d seen the traders wearing theirs. He then looked over at Vitzi’s badge, which had the kid’s nickname in big block letters: VITZI.
He shrugged. “Mr. Giovanni told me to choose a nickname, because that’s what you meatheads do down here. So I chose myself a nickname.”
Vitzi sputtered, trying to find words. David glanced down at his own trading badge again. The single word stared up at him: DAGO.
“You know what that fucking means?” Vitzi half-shouted.
David knew exactly what it meant. In fact, David had debated with himself for a full hour whether he should go with “Dago” or the equally derogatory “Guinea.” He had settled on Dago because it just felt better rolling off the tongue.
“Look, man, of course I know what it means. This is a badge of honor to me. I’m a poor kid from Brooklyn with a dago mom and a dago dad, and I’m a proud goddamn dago too. So you can take it or leave it, I really don’t give a fuck.”
David could feel the tension rise around him as his little section of the trading floor suddenly went dead silent. He wondered if he had gone too far. Well, fuck it, he thought to himself. They weren’t going to remember him as the guy whose hospital room was filled with enemas after his appendix burst during a board meeting. They were going to remember him as the guy who demanded respect right from the beginning. Either that, or the guy who got his ass kicked all over the trading floor by a Neanderthal in a red-and-orange-striped jacket.
Vitzi glared at him for a good five seconds. Then, finally, something crazy happened. He grinned and reached forward with one of those lamb shanks and gave David a big paisan handshake.
“You’re all right, buddy. I nearly knocked your fuckin’ head off, but you’re all right.”
David’s heart was pounding as he accepted the handshake,then separated himself from the thuggish trader. He shook a couple more hands, then quickly headed off the trading floor. As he reached the elevator that led up the spine of the building to the higher, more civilized floors, he detached the offending badge and shoved it deep into his back pocket. He doubted he’d ever have to wear it to work again.
T EN MINUTES LATER, he was still breathing hard as he took a seat on the massive antique leather couch that took up most of the back wall of Giovanni’s corner office. There was a cup of coffee on the glass table by his knees, next to a plate of pastries that seemed vaguely familiar, pricking at memories from his childhood excursions to the old-world Italian markets where his mother had done most of her shopping.
Giovanni pointed at the plate from behind his huge wooden desk on the other side of the long rectangular room, but David shook his head. Giovanni shrugged, going back to his phone call. He had been on the line when Harriet first ushered David into his office and hadn’t come up for air since. David was glad to have the free time to admire Giovanni’s office, which was decorated nearly floor to ceiling with one of the best collections of New York sports memorabilia David had ever seen outside of a museum.
The largest portion of the collection was housed in a glass shelving unit that spanned the length of the office’s enormous picture windows. David counted at least a dozen baseballs signed by various Yankee rosters, most notably one signed by the entire 1958 World Series team and another signed by the 1996 winning team. There were two Darryl Strawberry jerseys and three mitts signed by Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio himself. There were also basketballs signed by various incarnations of the Knicks, hockey sticks and pucks from a Rangers fan’s wet dream, and photos galore of Giovanni with various stars from at least three
Vitzi’s face reddened. He jabbed at David with a thick finger.
“No, I mean the badge. You think that’s funny?”
David glanced down at his own lapel. He had affixed the trading badge right in the center, where he’d seen the traders wearing theirs. He then looked over at Vitzi’s badge, which had the kid’s nickname in big block letters: VITZI.
He shrugged. “Mr. Giovanni told me to choose a nickname, because that’s what you meatheads do down here. So I chose myself a nickname.”
Vitzi sputtered, trying to find words. David glanced down at his own trading badge again. The single word stared up at him: DAGO.
“You know what that fucking means?” Vitzi half-shouted.
David knew exactly what it meant. In fact, David had debated with himself for a full hour whether he should go with “Dago” or the equally derogatory “Guinea.” He had settled on Dago because it just felt better rolling off the tongue.
“Look, man, of course I know what it means. This is a badge of honor to me. I’m a poor kid from Brooklyn with a dago mom and a dago dad, and I’m a proud goddamn dago too. So you can take it or leave it, I really don’t give a fuck.”
David could feel the tension rise around him as his little section of the trading floor suddenly went dead silent. He wondered if he had gone too far. Well, fuck it, he thought to himself. They weren’t going to remember him as the guy whose hospital room was filled with enemas after his appendix burst during a board meeting. They were going to remember him as the guy who demanded respect right from the beginning. Either that, or the guy who got his ass kicked all over the trading floor by a Neanderthal in a red-and-orange-striped jacket.
Vitzi glared at him for a good five seconds. Then, finally, something crazy happened. He grinned and reached forward with one of those lamb shanks and gave David a big paisan handshake.
“You’re all right, buddy. I nearly knocked your fuckin’ head off, but you’re all right.”
David’s heart was pounding as he accepted the handshake,then separated himself from the thuggish trader. He shook a couple more hands, then quickly headed off the trading floor. As he reached the elevator that led up the spine of the building to the higher, more civilized floors, he detached the offending badge and shoved it deep into his back pocket. He doubted he’d ever have to wear it to work again.
T EN MINUTES LATER, he was still breathing hard as he took a seat on the massive antique leather couch that took up most of the back wall of Giovanni’s corner office. There was a cup of coffee on the glass table by his knees, next to a plate of pastries that seemed vaguely familiar, pricking at memories from his childhood excursions to the old-world Italian markets where his mother had done most of her shopping.
Giovanni pointed at the plate from behind his huge wooden desk on the other side of the long rectangular room, but David shook his head. Giovanni shrugged, going back to his phone call. He had been on the line when Harriet first ushered David into his office and hadn’t come up for air since. David was glad to have the free time to admire Giovanni’s office, which was decorated nearly floor to ceiling with one of the best collections of New York sports memorabilia David had ever seen outside of a museum.
The largest portion of the collection was housed in a glass shelving unit that spanned the length of the office’s enormous picture windows. David counted at least a dozen baseballs signed by various Yankee rosters, most notably one signed by the entire 1958 World Series team and another signed by the 1996 winning team. There were two Darryl Strawberry jerseys and three mitts signed by Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio himself. There were also basketballs signed by various incarnations of the Knicks, hockey sticks and pucks from a Rangers fan’s wet dream, and photos galore of Giovanni with various stars from at least three
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