February 2012

The Bitter Investment Banker Email

8:50 Oh god. Glaring error on page 17 of the pitch book. Forgot to convert Canadian dollars into U.S. classic analyst f*ck-up. I ve also got to pee. Pee real bad. Client has his eyes half-closed; he s not even paying attention. The Sycophant, my VP, sits across from me. Client says something. The Sycophant responds, Oh yes, that s spot on, you really hammered that point across perfectly. Client says something else. The Sycophant says, That s brilliant, a truly remarkable observation. Even Client cringes. Page 16 of the book. One page away from the Client s eyes snapping open, suddenly acutely aware of things, a loud and brusque, What the hell is this The Sycophant reduced to a weeping mess, groveling at his feet. At least it might distract me from my bladder.

2:30 Lunch with the Defeated One. We have this new policy of going outside for two, at most three minutes, to enjoy the spring weather before bringing the same congealed General Tao chicken up to our desks. A young couple clean and preppy enough to be in one of those Gap commercials, the annoying one where everybody s snapping their fingers, stroll by grinning away like Cheshire cats. It s frickin Tuesday, the Defeated One grimaces. He s boring a pencil into his wrist. We re not even alive, the Defeated One mutters. I ve heard this rant before; indeed, have heard a daily variant of this rant since we started working together: I could be dead and nobody would give a damn, one of those old pricks who passes off in his trailer and the rotting corpse isn t found for months afterward. Or: I am nothing more than an accumulation of spreadsheets. Really, my neurons are nothing more than linked cells. Shit, I feel a circular reference coming on. It s one of those jokes that only an investment banker could appreciate but still it s not very funny. Chuckle as a reflex. He s managed to draw blood with the pencil. Aren t you worried about lead poisoning If I should be so lucky. Besides, it s not lead, it s graphite. What about graphite poisoning Let s go back inside. The Defeated One stares at the receding backs of the Gap-commercial-clean couple, nods solemnly, and follows me to the elevators.

5:15 Log on to a site storing novels that are too old for copyright restrictions to apply. They re all in plain text without graphics so the screen is perfectly inconspicuous. Read the first chapter of Siddhartha. Follow your destiny, Siddhartha learns, go scavenge around a forest in India for Enlightenment! I m going to do it. I really am. Not the India part, that s too far away, but I m going to shut down my computer, put the new Air CD in my pocket, give a half-salute to the Star and the Defeated One, push the elevator button for the last time, that little screen teaching me a word I m never going to use, step out into the cool breeze and smile up at the sky. I see the Sycophant s reflection in my monitor and close the browser. What s the number Uhm, six. It s supposed to seven. Yes, I guess so. Why isn t it seven I don t know. Keep on at it until its seven. Sure thing. Note to self: no more reading Siddhartha at the office.

9:30 Argue with the Defeated One over the music selection. His taste was somehow stunted after junior high. He s still listening to Phish and the Tragically Hip and all those other bands that everybody else makes fun of in a bittersweet nostalgic way because though they ve officially entered the realm of the has-been, it was still the music that rocked our formative adolescent years, the soundtrack to that first mushroom trip in the bar that served liquor to well developed fourteen year olds. I put on Broken Social Scene. He s boring a pencil into his wrist. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs. The Defeated One writhes on the floor, pulling at his receding hairline.

In the words of Lenin… must, crush, capitalism.

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