The Promise of a Pencil: How an Ordinary Person Can Create Extraordinary Change (8 page)

My experience with Joel sparked a new curiosity within me. As I traveled on twelve-hour overnight buses through Peru, Bolivia, Ecuador, Colombia, Argentina, Chile, and several other countries during the next three months of backpacking, the pencils I handed to children allowed me to ask their parents what they would want most in the world if they could have anything as well. Though I expected to hear “less corrupt government,” “new roads,” or “a better job,” I was met with the same answer nearly every time: “An education for my child.” It was the same dream Joel had doggedly pursued and the same one Apu had before him.

At the greatest levels of affluence, and the deepest levels of poverty, parents share the same desire for their children to have a better future. The willingness to sacrifice their own well-being for the betterment of their children is the common thread I witnessed across mothers and fathers from vastly different cultures. And yet, the playing field remains completely uneven.

During those four months in Central and South America, I thought often about Joel. Each night, as I tossed and turned in search of sleep, I wondered if he was sitting up in his bed listening to those cassette tapes. He showed me the essence of leadership by forging into the unknown so that others could follow. He taught me to approach each new person I met with the dignity he or she deserves. And he proved once and for all that Will Ferrell is funny in every single language.

On our last morning together I promised Joel and his father that I would return one day. Perhaps I could start something in the future that would support their region in Guatemala. I explained to them that at the end of my journey throughout Latin America, New York City awaited. I’d trade backpacks and buses for skyscrapers and subway rides.

The city that never sleeps was about to add one more nightwalker to its masses.

B
ain & Company, the consulting firm that had just offered me a dream job and FedExed a contract that I had yet to sign, flew me and more than twenty other prospects to New York City, put us up in fancy hotels, and invited us to an opulent weekend of extravagant events to learn more about the company and ideally commit to working there. The capstone affair was on Saturday night, a private dinner at BLT Fish, one of the hottest restaurants in the Meatpacking District. I traded my T-shirt and shorts for a dress shirt and slacks and congregated with other prospects on the top floor, where we gathered to accept our job offers in front of the company’s most esteemed partners.

The scene looked much like you’d imagine Wall Street did in the 1980s, with top-shelf liquor and flowing champagne. Periodically throughout the meal, the head of recruitment stood up and honored the individuals who had already committed to Bain.

“From Harvard, congratulations to Steven Thompson. From Princeton, a warm welcome to Maria Akadia,” she shouted as she handed out bottles of champagne to each new official employee. “Anyone else want to commit?”

Well-dressed soon-to-be college graduates rose out of their seats, declaring, “I’ll commit!” More champagne bottles popped, and everyone in the room cheered. The Bain employees at my table watched me closely as the other prospects rose from their seats, one after another.

I had decided that I would pick Bain over my other offers, but like most of the people there, I waited for the ceremonial dinner to make it official. Toward the end, I stood up to announce that I would join as well. Cheers went up from across the room, and a flute of golden champagne was placed in my hand. The whole scene felt foreign, but it felt good.

In the months leading up to this dinner, I had been operating on a tight budget, which had me staying in youth hostels abroad and eating a diet of ramen noodles. But tonight I was enjoying a fantastic steak I didn’t have to pay for. It was the best food I’d had in months.

I was sitting to the right of Bain NY’s youngest female partner, and I noticed that although she ordered the filet mignon, she didn’t touch it; she only ate the vegetables. I had finished mine within five minutes, but her perfect steak remained untouched. Perhaps the alcohol emboldened me to get a little too comfortable, but when she waved her hand for the server to clear her plate and went back to her conversation with the person on her left, I discreetly stabbed her steak with my fork and placed it on my plate.

Yes, it was an idiot move. And apparently I wasn’t discreet at all.

“Did you just take my steak?” she asked, turning to face me.

The entire table—partners and prospective colleagues—looked
at me. Someone else echoed incredulously, “Seriously? Did you just take her steak?”

My face filled with prickly heat. I could feel myself turning bright red. “I’m sorry,” I stammered. I definitely shouldn’t have had that last glass of champagne. Or the one before it. “I’ve been backpacking for so long and this is just too good to let it go to waste. I don’t know what I was thinking, but that was totally inappropriate. I’m so sorry.”

“Well, now you have to eat it,” said the partner across the table, smiling. For the next several minutes, everyone’s eyes remained fixed on me as I polished off my second steak of the evening. It was as delicious as the first, but I felt the dissonance between backpacking culture and corporate privilege with each bite. One thing was clear: if I was going to do well at this company, I needed to change more than just my clothes.

*  *  *

I was ecstatic to land the Bain offer, but accepting it had not been an easy decision. The best firms decide on candidates during the same few weeks each fall, and I’d been through interviews with five investment banks, five consulting firms, and one private equity shop during two frantic, rapid-fire weeks.

At my Goldman Sachs interview they asked questions designed to rattle me. “What’s the sum of all the numbers between one and one hundred?” they asked on a whim (answer: 5,050). Blackstone Private Equity had eight different employees put me through the wringer, requesting that I build balance sheets and financial models from scratch. When I thought I’d crushed my interviews at a boutique consulting firm that I’d viewed as my “safety” job, they called to tell me that I didn’t impress them whatsoever.

I began to understand clearly that I could never make assumptions
about how others perceive me. Each day several doors closed, and others opened, some more promising than others. First rounds became second rounds, which became final rounds, but nothing was guaranteed until I had an offer in hand.

After I completed the interviews and returned home, I waited nervously to hear back from each company. I received a call from Bain (my top choice) the day before my birthday. After several white-knuckled minutes of small talk, they made an official job offer, and along with the contract, they sent a massive chocolate cake with the Bain logo and “Happy Birthday Adam” written in frosting on top. It was a terrific birthday present and I was thrilled, but I also received an offer from Lehman Brothers in its esteemed investment bank division.

Lehman was appealing since the pay as an investment banker was considerably higher, but the drawback was that it would require me to work like a dog. While the hours in consulting weren’t insubstantial—I was told I’d be in the office from 9:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m.—the hours in banking were more demanding, and all the first-year investment bankers I knew hated their jobs. At Lehman I would learn how to manage capital but at Bain I would learn how to manage the operations of a company. My plan was to take one of these jobs for a few years and then go to a hedge fund or private equity shop, where the real money was. Once I had a deep enough bank account, I could go off to start my dream nonprofit organization. But first I needed money and I needed experience, which meant I planned to work in finance for the next fifteen to twenty years.

I hoped that one of my mentors who ran a successful financial-management firm, George Stanton, could help me make the right decision.

“There actually will be times in life when you should choose
money over experience,” he said with a stern voice, “but make that choice when the margin is much bigger, when the margin is millions of dollars, not thousands. Although fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money to you right now, in the grand scheme of things, experience will be much more valuable in the long run.”

George’s advice rang in my ears that night at BLT Fish when I committed to Bain. I decided I would view my time at the company as a form of paid business school. They could work me as hard as they wanted, as long as I learned along the way. Compensation comes in many forms, and if you define your expectations up front, you’ll gain far more than just money from the jobs you take.

After several weeks of rigorous training, my first project was to help design the real estate growth strategy for a well-known retailer. I ended up working for the partner whose steak I stole. Fortunately, she laughed about it at our first meeting. “It was a bold move. Ridiculous, but bold too,” she teased.

The work at Bain was intriguing during the first few months because the learning curve was so steep. The training was intense and I was gaining new skills that I knew would be valuable throughout my career. Building financial models and impressive PowerPoint presentations was fun at the outset, but by the end of my first year I couldn’t look at Excel spreadsheets for twelve hours a day and not lose my mind—so I found other ways to make the environment more entertaining.

As a middle child I’d honed my skills as a prankster, and this became my calling at the company. I would fill the printer with pink paper, turn my coworkers’ cubicles into newspaper-covered forts, and constantly mess with my closest friend, Priya. I’d fill her gloves with paper clips, reverse everything on her desk to create a mirror image of how it was supposed to look, and place face lotion on her phone headset before calling her extension.

Although I genuinely liked the people I worked with, I lacked passion for the work itself. I couldn’t get excited about making credit-card companies more money by reevaluating their customer-acquisition process, investigating long-term disability insurance for insurance giants, and so forth. As an associate consultant, my job included taking notes in client meetings. In the first few months I diligently recorded the statements of the attendees, but soon I found myself nodding apathetically while writing personal journal entries in my spiral notebook. I scribbled,
I wish I was more interested in this work, but it’s just not for me. Find your passion, and you’ll find your strength.

Instead, I spent my first year in New York City drinking and chasing girls. I went out partying five to six nights per week, every single week. I’d often guzzle ten to fifteen drinks in a night, bouncing from bars to clubs until sunrise—whatever it took to get me to feel happy, free, and alive.

I began to detest putting on my consultant’s outfit of slacks and a tucked-in button-down. I felt as if I were wearing someone else’s uniform. When it came to my year-end review, I was told that my work was error-free and my contributions to the team were valued, but there was a major issue. I looked as if I didn’t care in client meetings.

I shrugged off the review and told them that I would try harder. But I knew it was a lie, just as they did.

*  *  *

A little more than a year into my job at Bain, in September 2008, Lehman Brothers declared bankruptcy. What would have happened if I’d gone right instead of left and chosen Lehman over Bain? The offer that appeared financially better ended up being far less secure. I realized how easily material things could be taken
away. I really began to evaluate what I was doing. I was partying nearly every night. When my doctor asked me how many drinks I consumed per week, I answered honestly, guessing about fifty. He looked up from his clipboard in shock. “Are you kidding? You’re going to kill yourself if you keep this up!”

I recognized that my liver couldn’t sustain my drinking habit much longer. Worse, when I evaluated my life, I didn’t like whom I had become. I was completely self-absorbed, only chasing things that benefited me personally. I hadn’t done anything truly nice for anyone else since I’d moved to New York. Although I lived in a beautiful apartment and had access to parties, girls, and everything I thought I desired, I felt empty and awful inside.

When I sat with my parents, I told them, “I want to work on things that I’m more passionate about.”

“You can’t. First you need real-world experience,” they said. I was on a safe path to financial security, and they didn’t want me off it.

“But I don’t feel like myself,” I complained.

“That’s what it means to do a job!” yelled my dad. “Grow up, and stop being such a baby.”

*  *  *

He was right. It was time to grow up. A few months before, one of the world’s leading nonprofit foundations became a pro bono client at Bain, and I politely emailed the manager running the case to ask if I could join her team. She didn’t select me, and probably with good reason. During the annual company meeting, it was announced in front of every partner and manager that I was voted “Most likely to be sleeping in the wellness room,” which everyone knew was the spot for a nap after a big night out. The award itself was a playful gag, but it was a wake-up call for me about the reputation I was building within the company.