Wall Street Wiseguys

Not for nuthin’ but this stugots had it comin’. If you are gonna treat your subordinates like fuckin’ dogshit, maybe one of them might push back a little. You know what I mean or no? A few minutes earlier, I was doing something very uncharacteristic and taking a selfie for my dating profile. I was that hard up. It was either that or I could start paying for it. After all, I was an accountant. We had the dubious distinction of being over-represented in the percentage of our ignoble profession to become CEO and the percentage that were still virgins at the age of forty. I wasn’t in either category. But take your pick as to which is more impressive.

They always said I had no balls. And I was starting to think that is what it would say on my tombstone when an incident unfolded that would change everything.

As luck would have it, I photobombed Patrick in the midst of giving his secretary Mia an inappropriate kiss on the cheek while creepily massaging her shoulders, his hands on her collarbones, edging down the contour of her V-neck blouse. Somehow Mia didn’t seem to mind. This was clue number one that she was probably meshugana. If you know what I mean. Even if it wasn’t bothering her, it was giving me agita. Ick! I walked away for a moment like I got a call and then snapped the fucking selfie heard around the mother-fucking-world.

As soon as I looked at the pic on my iPhone, I knew I had the jerkoff dead to rights. The pic was a gem. Every accountant knows how expensive divorce can be. Especially if his wife found out he was playing hide the salami with his goomah from the office.

It was the usual Friday Happy Hour at Finch’s Lounge at the Renaissance Inn. The place was in Lyndhurst, NJ. Our usual spot. It was literally built on top of a trash heap, right down the road from an actual trash museum. Some real deal dirty Jersey shit. Technically the museum was called the “Hackensack Meadowlands Environment Center.” But we all knew what’s what.

Finch’s though. The place was nice. I’m not gonna lie. Low lighting. An intimate bar with a white marble bar counter that matched the tabletops. Candles and sparkling glassware. The bartender, Vickie, was always generous with the pour. It was a class act, that place. What went on there on Fridays was another story.

Patrick strutted back from the bathroom like he owned half of New York City. This pretentious prick was mid-fifties but lanky and put together, dressed like a prep school professor at an English boarding school. Add to that a fake tan, dyed hair with not a hint of gray, and designer shades after dark, and you’ve got a regular mameluke. A real piece of human garbage. The rumor mill around the office was churning. Single women were warned about Patrick by the den mothers of the office. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out this guy was taking all comers.

Patrick sat down with pupils the size of China and a runny nose. Sniffing conspicuously. And he paraded around like this in front of me, Mia, Sophie, Erik, Indira, and Brad. Practically the entire advisory department of Ledger & Barron Accountancy LP. We all worked for the prick, so we had to play along and shine ass like a bunch of jerkoffs.

Patrick wore a big shit-eating grin that seemed painted on and said, “Another round?” Like we had a fucking choice.

Sophie was a little guidette sex monster with an Italian bob hairstyle, big eyes, dark features, a husky voice, and busty and curvy in all the right places. We called her “the Greek.”

“What are you doing you filthy animal? Don’t you know it’s a school night?” Sophie asked. Like the Greek was going to pass up free drinks. That’s a joke.

Mia giggled and chimed in, “Twist my arm.”

Our usual bartender, Vickie, was a young Asian woman with a Russian accent who claimed to be from Uzbekistan (don’t ask). She had a real “What happens at Renaissance, stays at Renaissance” vibe. And she seemed to have selective amnesia over what went on Friday nights—but yet somehow had a perfect recall for the drink you ordered six months ago. Explain that one to me, would ya? Anyway, Vickie sauntered over and said, “Run it back?”

“Sure thing. And bring us a round of tequila shots—let’s do Cas Amigos,” Patrick said. Cas-fucking-Amigos. What a disgrace.

“Woah, brokoloko, slow down. Will you? You tryin’ to get us drunk or what?” the Greek said with a wry smile and pursed lips, her hand out reaching for that shot.

A few minutes later, Patrick excused himself “to go take a call.” On the way out he grabbed Vickie, who dutifully brought the check receipt—charged to Room 1131. Like I said, we were a group of accountants. Good at details. This wasn’t a subtle clue. Mia just so happened to disappear at the same time. Also, not subtle.

With Patrick gone, everyone said their goodbyes. Erik almost immediately excused himself. Indira took her chair from the other table and scooched in next to me. I moved away as if making some space for her.

Let’s be honest. Indira’s eyesight wasn’t so good. Her frames had lenses as thick as the portholes on a cruise ship. The word around the office was that she had a thing for me. This one was out of her head. Further evidence that either her eyesight had worsened even more or there was some undiagnosed diminished capacity type of thing going on. I mean, I was balding, with rim-framed glasses, and a portly demeanor. But at least I was tall. At 5’10,” I could credibly claim to be 6’ and no one would call me out on it. Basically, I’m George Costanza on stilts. Not to mention my other endearing traits—the covert narcissism, crippling social anxiety, and defeatist mentality—which were oh, so endearing with women. Add to that the snoring brought on by sleep apnea. The moodiness. Paranoia. Basically, I was the total package.

Brad, being our resident kiss-ass was still billing hours to a client, typing furiously on his smartphone. Like any of us were impressed. Thank God, he grabbed Indira and corralled her into a work emergency that required a trip back to the office and got her out of my hair.

This left me alone with the Greek. My secretary. Who I spent like three hours a day talking to and assigning work to, but always walked on eggshells around, even though I was secretly in love. It would have been inappropriate for me to admit that all I wanted to do was smash. But hey. My poker face was about as subtle as a sledgehammer. So, I think she knew what’s what.

She gazed at me.

“Can I tell you something?” she said.

“About that bozo moron jabroni chooch mook meatball?”

She giggled. “Buy me another drink first?”

I called Vickie over and said, “Can you get a drink for the lady?”

“What do you want?” Vickie asked.

“I’ll take an Apple Martini,” she said. “For the lady.” More giggles. Giggles were good, I thought. Or so I’d been told.

“How much is that?” I asked.

“Twenty-eight dollars,” Vickie said. Because, of course, it’s twenty-eight fucking dollars. “We good?”

“Yeah, yeah, terrific,” I said. “And get me a Johnnie Walker Blue on the rocks while you’re at it.”

“Opa! Big spender,” the Greek said.

“So, you were saying?”

“This is nice.” She tapped her foot and played with her hair. She tilted her head and raised her chin, revealing the line of her neck. “You finally got around to buying me a drink. About fucking time.”

I ended up driving the Greek home a few minutes later. I awkwardly tried to give her a kiss when she was getting out. It didn’t go well. She put a hand on my face and said, “What are you doing you malaka?”

“I’m sorry… I just thought…”

“It’s okay. I just wasn’t expecting it. Thanks for the drink,” she said.

Then I was home, watching the Yankees, and smoking-up from my bowl, which succeeded in knocking me unconscious before the 7th Inning Stretch, so I could hopefully forget this whole horrid evening.

I fell asleep thinking of the Greek.

* * *

Needless to say, the next morning was not very productive. But you could hide behind spreadsheets and act busy, and no one really knew the difference. The saving grace of accountancy. Mind-numbingly dull. But easy to do on autopilot. Or to fake. Like I said. No one knew the difference.

The entire firm alternated between the lunch shift and the after-work shift at Alpha Sport Club down the road from the office and next to an exotic car detailing shop called “Don’s Detailing and Exotic Cars.” Like I said. This is Lyndhurst, New Jersey.

The ladies took spin classes. The men mostly alternated between walking the treadmills and dawdling on the nautilus machines. But Patrick ruled the Racquetball Courts which were right out of a bad 80’s movie, complete with those shrill echoes and squeaky sneaker skids. And Wednesdays were our standing lunch date. Goody for me.

“If you want to make it in this business, you know what you need?” Patrick said, serving with his foot past the short line.

“What? What do you need to make it in this business?” I asked, standing by the back wall, waiting for the ball which bounced high, and volleying. I was breathing hard, chest hammering, and coughing. I was pretty good at heckling the opposing team at Yankees Stadium—“Hey Rodon, looks like you won’t be going to the White House this year you fuckin’ bum!”—I was a heckling god, to be honest. But when it came to actual sports, not so much. And who the fuck plays racquet sports in this day and age. Anyway, we interrupt this impromptu cardiac event to bring you more sparkling wisdom from Patrick, who is auditioning presently for a remake of The Apprentice.

“You’ve got to crush the competition. Outsmart everyone. Even the client.” He was as original as a coke-dealer driving a souped-up Honda Civic with an enormous aftermarket spoiler and amplified straight piping. He smashed a backhand with gusto and skidded his sneakers dramatically on the waxed wooden court, re-positioning himself for the return.

“You know we’re accountants, right?” Patrick slammed the return, leaving me scrambling and off balance, lunging for the ball so hard I tripped and nearly went head-first into the side wall.

“Let me ask you something, Craig? Let’s say you’re creating a dashboard of Key Performance Indicators for a CFO, reporting back monthly, and the company is long cash. What are you going to tell the client? 13-5, by the way,” Patrick said as he won the point. “You better rally if you want to stay in this thing, by the way.” Boy, I would love to wipe that smug smirk off his weaselly face. He was starting to make me angry.

“I’d tell him the results. Review his options.”

“Listen pecker-brain. Win the advisory call. In every call, there’s a winner and a loser. You don’t just tell him the results. You ask buying questions. For services we offer. Do you want us to come up with a repo strategy for your excess cash or look at a share repurchase strategy? Let me work up a proposal. Let us handle that for you.” I served the ball and Patrick won the point with a vicious slice that went right by me. “14-5, by the way.”

“ABC. Always be selling, is that it?” I asked while serving. At this point, my face was turning red and I could actually feel itchy around the collar. It was either a physical sign I was ready to slug this gavone or over over-exertion bordering on a medical emergency.

“It’s us versus them, kid. There are winners and losers. And winners take what they want. That’s the game, by the way. Looks like I won again.”

“Hey, I’m going to hit the shower.” Then I stopped by the door of the court. “You know Patrick, there doesn’t always have to be a loser. Sometimes everybody can win.”

“Bullshit. It’s winners and losers, kid. Get your head out of your ass. The sooner you accept that win-win is code for wishful thinking, maybe you’ll finally prove yourself useful.”

“Right. I’ll get my head out of my ass.”

“By the way, we’ve got that bowling event Friday at Bowlero. You coming?”

“Can’t wait.”

I knew there was a reason that I saved that bottle of cyanide my buddy got me for a prank gift on my twenty-first birthday. That’s a joke, folks. I have no intentions of self-harm. Can’t you tell? After all, I took a job at Ledger & Barron. I’m all about wellness. You know what I mean?

Then this rat piece of garbage did it. He turned to me with a sophomoric grin and said, “You know Craig, I had big plans for you. But you’re never going to get anywhere in this business if you don’t grow a set of balls. I expect you to bring your A-game next week, huh.”

I looked away and cursed him under my breath. “I’ll show you what kind of cogliones I’ve got.”

That was when I decided to blackmail the prick.

* * *

“Strike!” Patrick announced.

I sat at the scoring console drinking my sorrows. Then the Greek tapped me on the shoulder.

She led me by the hand back by the lockers.

“So, you’ve got a thing for me or what?” the Greek said.

“After the other night, I just figured you weren’t interested,” I said.

“You’re thick. You know that. So, what, you make one move, and that’s it, you give it up? Patrick would have been on me like a fly on shit.”

“Wait, what, you find me attractive?”

“You’re kind of like John Stamos, but rounder, and bald. Good thing I like intelligent men. Besides I’ve kind of got a thing for big roly poly guys like you”

“Really.”

“Really. So, what are you going to do about it?”

I grabbed the Greek and we started sucking face like a bunch of animals. There was a little dressing room right behind the lockers. She pulled me in and shut the door. I pulled up her skirt and saw she was wearing a thong. And you wonder why I love the Greek.

Then I got down to business. The Greek was drunk and frisky. But she was definitely into it. Three-and-a-half minutes later we emerged, and she made for the ladies’ room.

I walked outside and smoked a bowl in the rain. When I came back in with bloodshot eyes and a voice like I was talking through cotton swabs, the Greek was waiting.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said.

And that’s how my affair with the Greek started.

* * *

The next day, I was singing to myself and actually making eye contact while walking down the halls. It was freaking people out.

“What the fuck did you do?” the Greek asked.

“Good fucking morning to you too,” I said.

“What the fuck, Craig!”

“You mean that e-mail?”

“Yes, I mean the fucking e-mail.”

“What, I just sent him a strongly worded e-mail with a selfie attached.”

“He sent your e-mail to Steven and told him to can you fuck-for-brains.”

“What?” That was when my arrogant streak faded. The music stopped. And I knew for an absolute certainty I was out of a job.

That was just the kind of prick that Patrick was.

* * *

Steven was about 6’4” and was famous for beating cancer. This methodical prick was the COO of Ledger & Barron. He was so regular, that you could set your watch to his bowel movements. He arrived every day at 7:06 a.m. To the minute. And he clocked out at 6:07 p.m. To the minute. That was the kind of evil fuck Steven was. Brad once went a full calendar month documenting this insanity in a Steno notebook and started a PowerPoint with timestamped photographs to prove the veracity of his claims. Steven was basically the fucking antichrist incarnate in the body of a lanky accountant with a thing for yellow button-downs.

“Craig. There’s no easy way to say this. Here, at Ledger & Barron we believe that winning is a team sport. You know what I mean champ?”

“Sure. I’m always looking out for the team.”

“That’s the thing, sport. Patrick has brought to my attention, uhhh, a troubling development. A real breach of the chain of command, as it were.”

“You mean when I sent him a picture, evidencing the fact that he was banging his secretary at the Renaissance Inn while his wife was home with the kids? That breach?”

“Woah. Simmer down there, champ. Let’s not jump to conclusions. Anyway, here is a document I’m gonna need you to sign, and we’ll pay you three months’ severance and neither party will mention anything to anyone outside this room except dates of service.”

“Are you firing me?”

Steven just shrugged. “Yes, Craig. Yes, I am.”

That was the kind of prick that Steven was.

* * *

Vickie poured the Johnnie Walker into a clean glass.

“Make it a double,” I said.

“Bad day?” Vickie asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, last night I banged the girl of my dreams. And this morning I told off the biggest fucking prick on Earth.”

“Fuck. Well then. Who’s better than you?”

“Damn straight. Who’s better than me?”

“Didn’t take you for a rebel.”

“Maybe I’ve finally grown a set of balls.”