The Buy Side (17 page)

“Ninety-three hundred a month,” he says, looking down at his sheet of paper.

“Okay, I’ll take it.”

We move in a week later. But it’s not as if we carry box springs and mattresses up flights of stairs, especially after I break a cheap mirror trying to remove it from my wall. We hire professional movers. And from the Sixty-Seventh Street apartment they bring my almost new, custom-made, twenty-foot sectional velvet couch and my fifty-inch console television. I buy stuff in Super Bowl—party measurements. In the new apartment, my bedroom is enormous. I have a Charles P. Rogers iron sleigh bed that I position in the middle of my bedroom at an angle. Someone once told me that positioning your bed this way is rebellious, a fuck-you to interior decorators. That might be so, but I could have two beds at an angle and the room would still look empty. My new walk-in closet is bigger than the bedroom in my first apartment in New York. The third floor is empty too. And the roof deck also needs furniture. When I decided to take the apartment—I was willing to pay most of the rent—I hadn’t actually thought much about furnishing it. Leaving aside the money it’s going to cost, filling the apartment is going to take some energy.

But like a good team, the next day we come up with a plan. We’ll begin by acquiring the essentials. Jason and Tridge, an old roommate who flew in from Ohio, take my cash and go to look for a pool table.
Ethan takes my credit card and leaves to go to J&R, a music and appliance store, to buy speakers, wires, and portable telephones. My old roommate Johnny Hong Kong, who’d moved back to Colorado, flies in to see the new apartment and lend a hand. He and I stay behind and wait for the cable guy to come. After the three boxes are installed and the cable guy leaves, I turn on the set in the living room to see if it’s hooked up properly. The movie
Zoolander
with Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson is on. I love this movie. It’s even better when I’m high. I tell Johnny where I’ve hidden my stash and we light up a bowl. Now, in the movie, Owen Wilson, who plays a rival to Ben Stiller’s supermodel character, has an apartment with a “soil room.” Essentially, it’s a room filled with dirt. This is a terrific idea, I decide. I’ve come to this conclusion, of course, after several bowls of some very, very good pot.

“We need a soil room,” I say to Johnny, whose face is plastered with a Mary Jane smile.

“Yes,” he says, nodding. “We do.” And so, red-eyed and giggly, we head out the door in search of one.

ABC Carpet, unfortunately, doesn’t sell soil. But it has just about everything else. Walking into the store on Broadway is like walking into a Rockefeller garage sale or the plunder-filled hull of a pirate ship. It’s not cheap. High or not, I would have never gone here before working on the buy side. But it is a trippy place nonetheless.

This day, the store is packed with customers. I bounce off of shoppers like a floating plastic carnival duck. Suddenly, the din that surrounds me seems to mute and I become laser focused. In front of me stands something called an Indian daybed. It has a beautifully hand-carved canopy with four wooden posts that stand seven feet tall. The sides are white Egyptian cotton see-through drapes. In the middle hangs an antique iron chandelier with tiny red cylinders and jewels
hanging from it. I tug at Johnny’s shirt without taking my eyes off the bed. I step closer.

“This is it,” I say.

“What about the dirt?” Johnny asks.

“It’s perfect for the living room,” I say.

Johnny looks at the price tag and whistles. I flag down a salesperson on the floor. I’m wearing flip-flops and a T-shirt. My hair is unkempt and my eyes are red-rimmed. “I’d like to buy this,” I say to the man. He looks back at me suspiciously.

“Are you aware of the price?” he asks. I’m not really paying attention to him. Instead, I’m looking over at the cashier’s station, in front of which is an enormous line. It might be paranoia from the pot, but the line looks like a run on a bank—the faces are distorted in anger and frustration.

“Look,” I say to the man as I hand him my American Express card. “I really want this bed thingie.” The salesman glances down at the credit card and back up at me. His expression says he doesn’t know what to expect next. “But I can’t wait in that line.” He completes the transaction in no time. Johnny and I practically run from the store. Twenty minutes later, we’re home smoking the rest of the pot and clicking the channels to find
Zoolander
again.

“We never got the dirt,” Johnny says.

“I know, man, I really wanted the dirt too,” I say.

Over the next few weeks, I spend money like I’m getting divorced and my soon-to-be ex-wife’s lawyer hasn’t had my assets frozen yet. I purchase twenty thousand dollars’ worth of artwork and photographs, including a few from Mixed Greens, a gallery specializing in mid-career artists. I buy a gigantic photo of a fish called
Bi-polar
, and a huge, out-of-focus photograph of James Dean; I buy floor lighting and tiny multicolored spotlights that shoot from the floor to the ceiling, a
thousand-dollar shag carpet, and a three-thousand-dollar frosted glass bar with four stools. I buy a couple of TVs, assorted chairs and lamps, and a surround-sound system for the living room. I buy an original Ms. Pac Man video game. Each day, the triplex fills a little more until it looks like a cross between a lair and a nightclub.
The spoils of the buy side
, I say to myself one day as I lie on the couch. And, yes, it’s only as substantive as a single thirty-two-year-old guy’s fantasy could be. But it’s a fantasy come true, and a long way from Kennebunk.

Once we’re settled from the move, I decide to call Lily. For my date, I wear my favorite jeans that are perfectly frayed and faded, and a baby blue short-sleeved shirt with a name patch that says “Trenton” on one side and “Chrysler/​Dodge/​Plymouth” on the other. I look in the mirror for a quick assessment of the outfit. Not bad, I think. If the whole Wall Street thing falls through I see a future for myself in oil changes. I’m meeting Lily at Dos Caminos, a Mexican restaurant in Soho. It’s just a short walk from the new apartment.

She sits at the bar wearing a cream-colored tunic that hangs from her shoulders by spaghetti straps. When she stands to hug me I realize how petite she is. Her golden-brown skin is soft. The hostess leads us to an outside table. I follow behind Lily and notice the way her tunic sways with her walk. We munch on chips and salsa while we wait for our margaritas. During our last phone conversation, she talked about her son and I immediately ask about him. He’s seven, she says; he loves sports and really loves his dad. There’s the slightest hesitation to her words, which leads me to believe that there’s some bitterness between her and her ex. Lily lives on Long Island and commutes at night to the club. Geography and single motherhood aside, I find myself very attracted to her. Though unquestionably beautiful, she possesses something else that tugs at me. Over margaritas, she asks what I do for a living. The question catches me off-guard. I was sure she knew
I worked on Wall Street. When I tell her, she’s surprised. “You don’t come off that way,” she says. I think she means it as a compliment. She has a bartender’s-eye view of Wall Street. All she sees is guys in ties on the cocaine-fueled prowl. “I mean, you’re not at all like your friend Randy.”

Later, I ask for the check. The waitress tells me it’s already been taken care of. I run through a mental checklist of people who might have picked it up. It certainly wasn’t Melinda or Rich from the desk. Though they know about Lily, they didn’t know I was taking her out tonight. Anyway, my relationship with them is much more of the locker room variety. Once, when Rich was out of the office for a couple of days, I told everyone who called for him that he was home with his sick cats, Mr. Buy and Mr. Sell. When Melinda picks up one of my calls and I’m off the desk, she often tells the caller, especially when it’s a girl, that I’m having an episode of my chronic diarrhea. She learned that trick from me. It would be much more likely for either of them to send a clown with balloons than pick up the check. I don’t think it’s Randy—he’s hosting at the White House and has just texted me, asking if Lily knows how to drive stick. There’s only one other person who knows where I am and who I’m with. I’m really underestimating Turbo.

When we get to the sidewalk, I rush to establish position on the outside. I was told that when a man walks with a woman he should be closer to the cars in the street in case a vehicle loses control and takes out a few pedestrians—I
think
that’s the reason. Lily allows me to claim my spot as we head down West Broadway. The shops and businesses are still open. It’s a charming few blocks before you get to Canal Street. I reach down for her hand. It’s small and soft. She looks up at me and smiles, and then quickly looks forward again. When we get to Canal Street, I ask if she wants to see my new apartment. In my
head, I can hear Melinda calling it the “cockpit.” With a tiny shake of her head, she declines. “I have a babysitter,” she says with a small smile, behind which lies an inner meaning that I can’t quite make out. I lean in and give her a gentle kiss on the cheek.

“Can I call you again?” I ask.

“I’d like that,” she says.

BY OCTOBER
2002, the market is coming back from 9/11 and the summer lows that followed. Though we didn’t expect to bust out of the gate, Argus has been struggling this last year just to stay even. Only in looking back can one see just how seminally dysfunctional 2002 was on Wall Street. It was the year that Tyco’s Dennis Kozlowski, Enron’s Andrew Fastow, and ImClone’s Sam Waksal formed a Mount Rushmore of greed and underhanded dealing. It was also back then that a New York State attorney general had the temerity to believe that a stock analyst’s rating should reflect what the analyst actually believed. Of course, that was before said attorney general became “Client 9” with midcalf socks. But as I’m living it, 2002 doesn’t seem as much scandalous as challenging. The heady gyrations of the pre-9/11 market are a distant memory. Every day is a struggle, as if we’re fighting an inexorable force.

By now, I’ve been a head trader at Argus Partners for almost a
year and a half. Though my off-the-cuff remark to the Goldman MBAs at the Chelsea restaurant might have been decidedly un–Ivy League, there was more truth in it than anything they received from their famous-author faculty. In some ways, my tenure as trader has let me understand Gary Rosenbach more. Maybe it’s the pressure, or the amounts of money we deal with, but traders do some crazy shit, especially when it comes to people who want our business. I made a promise to myself that I’d never use my position in the mean-spirited way Gary did. And yet, for a laugh, I have no problem using my status at Argus to make people dance a little.

Once, during my Argus days, Brad, my sales trader from Lehman, calls. There are a dozen or more guys like Brad who’ll do anything for commissions. I’ve been out with Brad numerous times, for dinner and at clubs. I like him. He’s a couple of years younger than me and holds a junior position on Lehman’s trading desk. Actually, I see some of the old me in him: he’s a little overwhelmed and people like to pick on him. Brad is a good sport about it. He went to Syracuse University and comes from Jersey. Now he’s on the phone, begging for orders. But before he gets to business he rehashes a recent night out.

“You’re like the Joan Rivers of Wall Street,” he says. “You know everyone.”

I act like I’m offended, but I’m really not. I like that people know me. I hang the phone up.
Click
. He calls right back. “I think we were disconnected,” he says. Nope.
Click
. This happens three times in a row. Finally on the fourth, I let him speak. “You’re really mad at me for that?” he asks.

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“Aw, Turney … please. Let me trade with you.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But first you have to get back in my good graces.”

“Anything,” he says.

“Okay, I want you to climb up on your desk and sing ‘Milkshake.’ ”

“Come on,” he pleads.

“You heard me: up on your desk and leave the phone open so I can hear.” First comes the shuffling of paper and the squeak of his heels. And then I hear the rap hit coming out of his mouth, off-key and with something less than full gusto: “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard …” In my mind’s eye, I can see him on top of the desk as the crowded Lehman trading floor stops to watch and throw balls of paper at him. I call over to Melinda and tell her to pick up the Lehman line. We’re both laughing. When Brad gets back on the phone, I tell him to buy me 69,000 shares of BBH.

It didn’t happen overnight, my transformation into mischief-maker head trader. Like all my other jobs on Wall Street, this first year and a half has been a learning process. At first I thought becoming the head trader at Argus would be a smooth transition. I just wanted to continue to build on what I learned at Galleon, which was considerable. The shady stuff aside, Raj’s ship was crewed by some of the best talent on the Street: Dave and Gary. I knew from them that a big part of being a successful trader was just showing up every day, being ready to work, limiting mistakes, and keeping the information—coming in and going out—flowing. But at Argus I learned there were new mistakes to make. I also learned that making mistakes is the best way to learn.