Ghosts of Manhattan: A Novel(6)

I have two days of interviews set and I’m planning to sleep on the couch of a Cornell friend who’s a first year at Bear.

The interviews themselves are a joke. I’ve never had a job or done much of anything worth interviewing about. I sit with four different traders each day for two days and I don’t think they care anything about what I’ve done before. I was told ahead of time that the main test I need to pass is whether I’m a guy they could sit next to on a long plane ride without wanting to put a bullet in their head at the end of the flight. I’m at Cornell, so they assume I’m smart enough. I play lacrosse, so they assume I’m a good guy. As long as I don’t walk in there like a cocky punk but show I’m humble and willing to pay my dues, it should be fine.

The interviews are breezing by and all about the same. They ask about what classes I’m taking, how the lacrosse team is doing, and some useless stock interview questions like what’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, what’s my greatest strength, greatest weakness.

For the last interview of the second day, they take me to an office on a floor I haven’t been to before. The office is small and a mess with papers and magazines. The desk and chairs look like cheap discount office furniture and they point me to an uncomfortable-looking chair in front of a desk with nobody behind it, then close the door.

I sit in the chair and the room is so quiet I can hear the second hand of the clock on the wall. I’m happy I’m almost through this process and looking forward to getting back in my Explorer to listen to music on the drive back to school. Ten minutes pass and I’m getting restless but want to look cool, so I pick up a magazine and flip pages. It’s Fortune or Forbes and I’m not reading anything more than the captions under photographs. Twenty more minutes pass and I’ve flipped through the magazine twice. I could get another but I’m not reading anyway.

Another half hour passes. I’ve recrossed my legs in every possible way to distribute the soreness. I decide to stand for a bit and look at pictures on the wall. As soon as I’m up, the office door opens and a voice says, “Sit down.”

I turn to see a massive guy in a suit filling the door frame. Someone had pointed him out to me the day before on the trading floor. The guy had been a tight end for Penn State and joined Bear after one year as a scrub in the NFL for the Redskins about ten years ago. He’s six foot seven, two hundred and eighty pounds. I take a seat. He walks past me and he reeks of whiskey.

He drops into the chair, which looks outmatched, and I imagine it to be anxious about how long it can support him. He eyes me in a suspicious way but he looks too stupid to be thinking anything other than whether he’s doing a good job of looking suspicious.

“You want to come work for Bear?”

“I do.” This seems like the obvious answer but it also occurs to me I haven’t asked myself the question before, nor has anyone else. Maybe he’s brighter than I have given him credit for being.

He finds something amusing in my answer and he smiles and leans back in the chair, which responds with an audible panic. “That a fact.”

This doesn’t have the tone of a question but I nod anyway.

“I’ve seen your type before. Plenty of times.” He shifts again, swinging a leg around the side and banging a foot on top of the desk. I’ve never seen a shoe like this before. It looks like a kayak wrapped in black leather and flopped across the desktop. Stores probably don’t bother to carry shoes this size. I think of the giant bottles of wine the size of a child that aren’t really available but are in nice restaurants just for show. He seems aware of the effect his circus-like shoe can have on people, imagining their necks underneath it.

“I don’t know what you mean.” I hope my voice sounds even. I think it does. I’m still more amused than nervous.

His smile gets a little bigger. He keeps his foot where it is, reaches into a desk drawer, and comes out with a full liter bottle of Jack Daniels and a short rocks glass. He doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to me anymore. He pours a little bit and drinks it down, then repeats this. He pours a third and puts it down on the desk, holding it in place with his sausage fingers.

I think about getting up and leaving, but his eyes come back to me and it seems like he wants to talk again. I wait for him.

“And what if I don’t want you to work for Bear?” He seems to be getting crazier by the second.

“Then you’ll tell someone I was a bad interview.”

His shoe comes down faster than I thought possible. The leverage brings his body forward and his hand launches the whiskey at me. It hits me flush in the chest and the vapors of alcohol are in my nostrils. I haven’t moved an inch out of stunned disbelief, and we’re just staring at each other.

“You want to take a shot at me?” I think he wants to hear a yes.

“Maybe I’ll wait until you finish the rest of that bottle.”

He pours more whiskey in the glass. I stand to leave before I’m drenched.

“Nick, hang on a second.” He stands with the glass and comes around to me. He looks happy and less crazy than a moment before. He seems even taller standing right next to me. He rests a paw on my shoulder but it doesn’t seem threatening anymore.

“We’re just having some fun. I like to see how guys do in situations under pressure. You did good. Most guys really crap themselves.”