A day in the Life of the bitter investment banker

A day in the life
From ‘The Bitter Investment Banker’

6:15. Alarm goes off. I’ve told myself I’m going to start working out in the mornings. All those late night M&Ms sweets. A quick calculation , two hours and fifteen minutes of sleep. Not too shabby. Only five or six coffees required to get myself out of bed. That beeping noise; there must be a bunch of sound technicians tinkering away in a room trying to find the perfect frequency to completely crush my soul.

8:20 ****. That infernal Pavlovian pushing of the snooze button. Ten minutes until I’ve got to be at a pitch. Can’t remember what it’s about though, stayed up until four in the morning cranking it out.

8:40. The Star printed out the books. He’s one of the analysts who sits in my nook of the office. The guy you want to hate but can’t find a reason to do it. He’s simply too nice. Able to work ungodly lengths on no sleep and still has this beatific grin every morning. The Star is passionately in love with investment banking. You’ll be talking to him about this movie you managed to squeeze into your weekend and all of a sudden he’ll have this eerie smile, he’ll rock back and forth on his toes, blurt out, “We're so damn lucky”. You roll your eyes. In deadpan serious, “No, I mean, how perfect is this? Can you really see yourself doing anything else?” Try sleeping, mate.

8:50 Oh god. Glaring error on page 17 of the pitch book. Forgot to convert Euro into Sterling 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.

9:20 I’m going to piss myself.

9:25 I’d gladly give up my full bonus for one adult diaper. Half my bonus for a plastic bottle.

9:30 Way too close.

10:30 Starbucks. Buy the Star a consolatory cappuccino for printing out the books.

10:35 The Star really saved your ass this morning, eh? This from the Defeated One, the other analyst who sits in my neck of the woods. He’s the Star’s antithesis. He would be the Star’s arch-nemesis if the Star gave any opportunity to hate him. But no, the Star’s just too nice. The Defeated One despises Investment Banking though he’s never going to leave. It’s not that he’s sado-masochistic. It’s the high maintenance girlfriend. It’s the presents that must be lavished on the high maintenance girlfriend after he’s cancelled their dinner plans for the fourth time that week.

10:45 Sycophant calls me into his office. Wants some follow-up research for the Client. Also 60 bound booklets of trivial information anybody with a web browser could download for themselves.

11:20 Utterly Incompetent Assistant has printed only one side of double-sided document. No matter – document is for wrong company anyway. Utterly Incompetent Assistant should have been fired long ago but incredibly she’s managed to survive the corporate reshufflings following the credit-crunch financial armageddon. We’re fairly certain she’s sleeping with the Philandering Managing Director, a bulky ex-rower Alpha male type who’s previous four assistants resigned abruptly over the past six months. Interrupt her horoscope reading to point out the mistake. Utterly Incompetent Assistant pays no attention. Utterly Incompetent Assistant guffaws into phone, probably to widespread network of Utterly Incompetent Assistants guffawing into their respective phones throughout the downtown core. Utterly Incompetent Assistant knows she’s here to stay, utterly secure in her incompetence.

11:25 Starbucks.

12:30 Finished binding 60 booklets.

12:45 The Defeated One’s skimming through the Daily M&A Activity Update. Utterly Incompetent Assistant comes by asking if she can help with the binding. There’s two very obvious towers of pitch books beside me.

1:20 Sycophant wants two sections of the books reversed.

1:25 Utterly Incompetent Assistant gone to read the latest Shopaholic novel on her two hour lunch break. Unbind the 60 pitchbooks

1:45 Rebind the 60 pitchbooks.

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 curry chicken up to our desks. It’s only frickin Tuesday, the Defeated One grimaces. I am nothing more than an accumulation of spreadsheets. Really, my neurons are nothing more than linked cells. ****, 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. “Let’s go back inside.” The Defeated One nods solemnly, and follows me to the elevators.

2:45 Sycophant wants a precedent transactions multiple analysis: hours of accumulating obscure data that may or may not exist, tabulating a column, inserting some cockeyed formulas and coming up with the number seven. It’s always seven. Across continents, industries, other investment banks it’s always seven. There’s an obvious question begging to be asked. I’ve learned its best not to ask yourself this sort of a question. Also why you’ve just received a phone call from the Sycophant to bind 30 more books. And how the Star can maintain that perpetual Buddha-like disposition I’ll never know.

3:15 Finish binding additional 30 booklets.

4:10 Starbucks.

4:15 Still hunting for that elusive seven.

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 be 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.

6:20 Starbucks.

6:30 Sycophant drops by on his way out. Client meeting next Friday but wants complete turn of a pitch for first thing tomorrow morning (tomorrow morning = when he finally gets around to looking at it at some point next week). A quick calculation; there’s no way I'm getting out of here before four in the morning.

8:15 Dinner. Subway again. Start with the shredded lettuce, then gorge myself on six M&Ms bags.

9:30 Argue with the Defeated One over the music selection.

10:30 Coffee from the acne-scarred lady who runs the most Depressing coffee shop in the City, the only place that’s open at this hour. Its chock-full of old men literally weeping into their cups of tepid coffee when they re not coughing up phlegm or gnawing away on chocolate muffins.

10:30 There’s a little concealed niche between the back of my desk and the window. God, could I squeeze back there. Probably not after all those M&Ms. Note to self: lose weight, then bring in blanket and pillow.

10:35 The Defeated One returns from the washroom sniffling.

10:40 The Defeated One starts cawing.

12:15 E-mail from your buddy’s Blackberry. He works at the investment bank in the next building over. “Hey dude, got off work early, having a couple beers with this new associate, what do you say?” Though the situation has been reversed many times, though you’re well aware he’s getting his ass clobbered just as bad as you, you write back: “Capacity.” He writes back: “Climbing the corporate ladder, that’s all.”

12:30 Rest my head against my desk.

1:45 Wake up. The Defeated One’s gone. The Star is mirthfully plunking away at his keyboard, occasionally stopping to kick his legs in glee. I wipe the drool from my desk, get back to my spreadsheet.

3:00 I’m plotting deviant ways to kill that Office Assistant paper clip, the one that suddenly materializes with an annoying ping whenever you least expect him.

3:05 The Star yelps, “It balances, It balances,” his eyes glazed over in sheer bliss.

3:50 Finished.

4:00 The only people out are the homeless. The old lady who sits in the bus shelter with her shopping bags full of garbage. The young girl that looks a heroine addict. Can’t think straight. Everything is foggy, like a heavy mist has set around my brain. What did I do today? Bind 60 booklets, 120? All you want more than anything else is to fall asleep, to escape, to dream about being young, when life wasn’t like this. Before it all starts again tomorrow