Turney Duff's Blog, page 17

Tricks of the Trade…

 

I found that one of the dividends – or perils, depending on how you look at it – of working as a buy side trader is that it encouraged an

inflated sense of self. In pursuit of commissions, traders would tell me just about anything I wanted to hear. “You’re a great trader Turney.”

 

“Tell me more.”

 



 

But like the tech bubble or any bubble, it only took a small prick to deflate the whole thing. One of the stories I left out of the book illustrates this point. Appropriately, it happened on a Super Bowl trip:

 

It was February 2002, Patriots vs. Rams in New Orleans. My first big Wall Street boondoggle, I was very excited, the whole country rallied together after 9/11 and there was a patriotic feel among all New Yorkers. By February we’d started to feel a little less guilty about going back to our normal lives — we were moving forward but never forgetting.

 

I’ll spare you the details and cut right to Saturday afternoon. I’m walking down the hallway of my hotel when I see this guy I recognize — I know him, most Wall Streeters do. We’ll call him “Sledge.” He’s a born-and-bred New Yorker, works on the floor of the exchange and knows how to entertain. He’s a big guy, probably a power forward in the urban professional basketball league. He stops me, “Turney, I know you’re down here with another group, but we’re having an exclusive party tonight and I’d love for you to stop by,” he says. Then he hands me a business card. We part ways and I go to the vending machine and pop in a few quarters. I look at the card; it’s a restaurant or bar in the French quarter.

 



 

Sledge doesn’t have an account open with my firm, but I’m sure he’s thought about it. We’re paying the street a ton in commissions and he’d love to get a piece of that pie. Back in my room I look at the card again – it seems ordinary. My only hesitation is, I’ll have to break off from the group who brought me down here and disappear for a while. I mean, it’s not like cheating, but it probably would be considered kind of rude. I shove the card in

my pocket and nap for the rest of the afternoon.

 

Later, down in the lobby, I see another buy side guy, Keith, a.k.a. Kool-Keith. I convince him to come with me to the exclusive party, but to not mention it to anyone else. I decide to tell my group that I’ll be meeting some friends from the city that night and will reconnect with them after dinner. I figure if I only skip out for a few hours no one will care. We shower up, and I put on my best I-make-a-lot-of-money-so-I-dress-like-a-slob clothes and head out. But I accessorize with a black cane that has a silver bulldog head on the top. I’d broken my leg playing basketball at Reebok in November so the cane is necessary — well, at least it was needed in January, but why not stretch through the weekend.

 

Keith and I make our way to the general vicinity of the address, but we’re having trouble locating the entrance. We must go up and down the same block three times. Finally, a couple of guys we know come stumbling out of a black door that looks like a club. We run up and catch the door before it closes. Inside, it’s very swanky: dark curtains and wrought iron and spiral staircases that climb to a balcony. There are candles everywhere. The bars run down one side and across the back of the club. I see Sledge start to walk up to us, and he seems very happy to see me. We bullshit for a few and then he slaps

me on the back and tells me to have fun.

 

We need drinks. Two Patron Silvers on the rocks with three limes is a good start. Now that our drinking hands no longer feel lonely and discontent we decide to take a few laps around the place. I notice a few guys I know; most are talking to some of the twenty five to thirty women in the place. When I see the guys I know most only manage a wave or smile, some just a nod. Keith and I pull up a high top and sit down to enjoy our drinks.

 

Immediately, two women come up and join us; they’re hot, friendly and want to know our names. They’re from Louisiana or Florida, or someplace. Halfway through my drink, the Gator girl is rubbing my leg. “What’s your name,” she asks dreamily. What cologne am I wearing? The bar starts to fill up a little bit more and the music is louder. I look over at Keith and notice that the Miss Louisiana is just as interested in him. We both know we have a good thing going, but it’s too early to close any deals. We make our way across the bar. Maybe it’s the cane, I think. I’m not at the bar for more than a minute or two when a smoking hot girl from Texas sits next to me. Hook ‘em horns! This one thinks I’m even funnier than the last. My game has reached new levels. I can’t be stopped. I’m the man! The night keeps getting better.

 

A few hours later I look at the clock, I know we have to go, but does it really matter? With the skill set I’ve got tonight I can go anywhere. I grab Keith over at the bar and tell him we’ve got to go meet up with our group. It’s a hard sell, but eventually I pull him from the clutches of Trina from Tuscaloosa. We hit the dance floor running and make our way out to the hostess station. “Will you be having takeout?” the scantily clad hostess asks.

 

“We didn’t eat here,” I say. I smile and thank her for the night. When we get to the street I readjust my bearings to figure out if we can get a taxi. “Keith, holy shit man, we were crushing it in there,” I say. Keith smiles and nods. “I mean, we could have had our pick of women tonight.”

 

“Yup,” Keith says.

 

“I just can’t believe it, man,” I say. “It was so great. We’ve got more work to do at the next stop,” I say.

 

It’s 4:00 a.m.

 

Keith and I limp into the hotel lobby. ALONE! At least, I have my cane. “What happened man? We were doing so well at the first bar,” I say as I hit the

elevator button. “We were working it.”

 

“So were they,” Keith says.

 

“What?”

 

“They were all escorts,” he says as he hits his floor button. “They were paid to be there. Hookers!”

 

“Oh,” I say.

 

 

First Taste of the Apple…

Over the past year, every time my phone dings with an email, I wonder, Is it about the book? Is it my agent? Is it my editor? What if it’s from my publisher? About a years ago I heard that same ding and I quickly checked. It was an email from my editor.

 

Perhaps you’ve heard this… A novelist is a failed short story writer… A short story writer is a failed poet… The reason my editor wrote those lines was because we were having  a minor tug of war over the length of the book. I didn’t think I could tell my story in under 400 pages and he was thinking 250 might be plenty. He was more right than I was: shorter is better

 

It’s interesting looking back, because now I have six or seven chapters that no one has ever seen, not even my agent. But I think creating them was a necessary part of my process. They just didn’t fit in into the book’s arc.  In losing those chapters I also lost some irony. For instance, the first chapter I wrote that’s not in the book was about the summer of 1976 when I came to New York City for the first time. I was a towheaded 6-year-old from Cleveland with a doting mom and a strict father and three older sisters. The trip was an all-expenses-paid weekend for a safety poster contest that I’d won. In a bid to win it all, I’d drawn a picture of a kid standing on a bike and pasted a picture of Fonzi on it with the caption: “The Fonz Says Sit On It.”

 



 

What struck me as I worked on that ultimately-to-be-discarded chapter was how my first experience in NYC as a kid was much like how I was treated on any given night as a buy side trader. Working on the buy side was like when the lifeguard blows the whistle at 4 p.m. every afternoon and yells “free swim.” There were times when I was responsible for distributing $40 million in commissions. So that meant I had throngs of sell side guys courting me. We’ve all heard stories of extravagant Wall Street entertaining: the private jets, the floor seats at the Garden and the exclusive golf courses. But that’s only where it started for me. One broker offered to pay my monthly car garage expense; another wanted to establish an open tab for me at Mexican Radio, one of my favorite restaurants. But for shear determination, nothing beats the time a broker helped me remove a toilet from my Bleecker Street apartment. Never underestimate a sales trader on a 40% payout. He came over after work and helped me carry a ten year old toilet about three blocks over to the Bowery and then we ran as fast as we could to get away from the evidence. For the record – that’s worth about 500,000 shares the next trading session. These days I carry my own toilets, it builds character.

 

Here’s an excerpt from the first chapter (not in the book) I wrote…

 

My father leads our way to the baggage claim. I proudly wear my plastic wings compliments of the crew. My mother holds my hand, but excuses herself to smoke a cigarette when we get to our destination. Flocks of people perch and wait. The grand echoes from the baggage carrousel cue everyone’s attention. I want to get on and ride it. During the flight I had two cups of Orange Crush. My lips and teeth are carroty in color and my body circulates with caffeine. “Don’t move,” my father says as he tries to locate our luggage, and as he does my mom returns.

 

A short time later, we’re soaking up “swank Manhattan” – shades of things to come:

 

The Plaza Hotel operates like Santa’s workshop, organized chaos. White gloves and black and maroon outfits everywhere. The limo door opens. A uniformed man smiles and welcomes us. He instructs us to proceed to the front desk. A black man, wearing all white is opening up the trunk. I wonder why he’s stealing our luggage.

 

No one seems to care; I keep my eye on him as we enter the front of the building.

 

I’ll cut it off here. Other highlights to that chapter that is not in the book involve a blue leisure suit with a silk shirt and huge collars, a specially made cheeseburger at Mamma

Leone’s, (not on the menu) and front row seats at the Magic Show staring Doug Henning — just your typical weekend for a 6-year-old on the buy side.

 

In addition to the trip, I also received a $500 savings bond for the safety poster contest. And ten years later I’d cash it in to buy a moped. Everyone from Kennebunk probably knows the moped story, but if you don’t, maybe I’ll share it later…

 

 

What it Really Means…

When I first started on Wall Street in 1994, I knew less than nothing. It was embarrassing. But as the years went on I finally figured out what things REALLY MEAN…

 

 

* “Sooooo, are we still on for tonight?”

 

Really means – I still have stripper glitter stuck on my neck from last night and I’d prefer it if you would cancel.

 

* “I gotta hop” Really means – Leave me alone I’m reading www.danzatap.com

 

* “Would you like 4 Mets tickets this weekend?” Really means – You are my absolute last resort and these tickets landed in my lap when the back office guy’s sister didn’t want them.

 

* “I treat your orders just like it’s my kid’s college money.” Really means – I’ve really botched this order up and pleasedon’t cut me off.

 

* “Hey can you call me on the outside.” Really means – I have the most insane hooker story for you.

 

* “I’m jammed up.” Really means – Go haunt a house and leave me alone.

 

*“Hey can I call you at home tonight?” Really means – I have a job offer, but it’s dependent on you trading a million dollars in commissions with me next year.

 *

“Is it allergy season?” Really means – I did a lot of cocaine last night so please stop staring at me every time I sniffle.

 

* “I caught another seller.” Really means – My market maker might be the worst trader on the street, sorry about your forthcoming report.

 

*“Does anyone have the NY Post?” Really means – I’m going to be in the bathroom for a really long time. Can you watch my orders?

 

* “We aren’t allowed to open any new accounts, but try back in six months.” Really means – you should leave the firm you are working for – Immediately…

 

* “Let’s do a breakfast.” Really means – I’m a recovering alcoholic, an active alcoholic or an aspiring alcoholic and I don’t want you to see me at night.

 

* “We got 25k MSFT for sale.” Really means – I’m living proof that there should be more cuts on Wall Street.

 

* “We should get Justin Bieber tickets and bring your kids.” Really means – I will do ANYTHING for an order; see how wide I can open my mouth…

 

* “Bobby isn’t in yet, he’s in a meeting.” Really means – Were the f&ck is Bobby?

 

* “Last night when I was looking at my charts I noticed a correlation between…” Really means – I wear black jeans on casual Fridays.

 

* “According to the F-Test, the portfolio’s return are heteroscedastic. If we use a weighted-least squares approach, we should be able to model the portfolio’s future returns without the use of a stochastic random variable.” Really means – I browse the amputee section at my local porn shop on the weekends.

 

* “I hate Wall Street.” Really means – I hate Wall Street, but love money.

 

A new blurb…

Just wanted to share – I got another last minute blurb – very exciting – it’s from Bethany McLean, author of NYT best sellers The Smartest Guys in the Room and All the Devils are Here…

 

“Turney Duff is a natural storyteller, and his tale of how a naive kid from Maine traded in L.L. Bean for Armani and got sucked into the seamy side of Wall Street is almost impossible to put down. The book is by turns hilarious, harrowing, maddening, and illuminating. After this debut, the smart money will be on Duff.”

–Bethany McLean

THE LIFE OF THE HOLIDAY PARTY…

 

I’ve written a book called The Buy Side. Everyone keeps asking me what’s in it. I mean, they know it’s about my – how to put it? — adventures on Wall Street, but they’re asking: will I include everything??

 

The fact is, my editor held me to a little over 300 pages. So there’s a lot that didn’t get in. For that reason, over the next few months, I’ve decided to check in from time to time and tell you what is…NOT-IN-THE-BOOK

 

…like my thoughts on holiday parties.

 

Tis the season…The rumors and ghosts from Christmas past usually surface every December. That’s when we see brokers and assistants making out in the corners, and people saying things they shouldn’t while bonus figures and promotions dance in their head. I remember the first time I puked at the Holiday Party. The shindig was held at Au Bar, a darkly lit basement that aspired to be chic and swanky, but whose patrons radiated a certain sweat-mixed scent of Drakkar Noir. If you’re anything like me and have no other skills than networking, you probably think the holiday party is the perfect opportunity to show off your smooth talking abilities. I was in my third year –Wall Street’s equivalent to a sophomore in high school. I wasn’t considered the lowest of the low, but I still couldn’t rap about nursery schools, mortgages and summer homes. So I wanted to be that

coolsophomore. You know, the one who makes the varsity team, dates an upperclassman and gets invited to senior parties. I wanted to show off my weekend charm, my dance moves and swagger.

 

I was standing with a group of back-office guys. We were probably talking about the Jets or the Giants or that chick in the corner. I don’t remember. I just remember feeling it coming up. I looked to my left and there were a group of managing directors. I looked to my right and there were several female party-goers. I knew I shouldn’t have done that last tequila shot. (Damn you, tall Texas ex-cheerleader.) I bent down like I was tying my shoes (dress loafers). And then it happened — all over the circle of shoes around me. I bounced up and smiled. “Did you just puke?” The guy to my right said. I had to think fast. If this got out I was done. The entire department would know in minutes. “I’ll buy you all lunch tomorrow if you don’t say anything,” I said. At this point five guys were looking at me in disgust and reaching for napkins to wipe off their shoes. I

begged. I told them they could order from any place they wanted, even Stage Deli, but if I heard one rumor about me puking, no one would get a free lunch.

 

But as it happened, I didn’t need to swear them to silence. A young analyst from Yale named Phil grabbed a pair of managing director’s boobs. It was the only thing anyone could talk about for the rest of the night, and the next morning. For the entire next year it would come up every now and then in conversation. At the next holiday party it was like the boob-grabbing had just happened! And every time I heard the story I thought, Whew! That could have been an entire year of the company talking about Turney puking on the shoes.

 

I’m lucky that way.

 

At that party, a few minutes after I puked, I was back at the bar talking to a girl named Michelle. She was the assistant to one of the managing directors on my floor. She was sweet and honest, in other words she had no business working on Wall Street. She looked at me curiously, and then wiped off my tie. “You got bean dip there,” she said. She grabbed a napkin from the bar and wiped a few specks of bean dip from her hands. I smiled. She smiled back. “I love bean dip too,” she said.

 

Inevitably, if you’re on Wall Street, when the calendar approaches the year’s twelfth month, you’ll be receiving an email from a twenty four year old assistant asking you to RSVP for the office Holiday Party. Wahoo! will be your first thought. But stifle that inner surge of party animal. Only bad can come from it.

 

You still have to go, though. A no-show gets labeled: “not a team player,” “elitist” or “apathetic.” To make your night a little easier, I’ve come up with a list of “don’ts” (you don’t need to know the “do’s”):

 

*Don’tbe the clown who wears a Santa hat.

 

*Don’t bring mistletoe.

 

*Don’t say “ho, ho, ho” as you walk by three female employees.

 

*Don’t be the guy to suggest doing shots. If you really feel the need to do shots, find the “drunk guy” and subliminally plant the seed. Say stuff like: “Wow, can you believe 50 cent got shot eight times,” and “you know my favorite line from Deer Hunter is? “You have to think about one shot, one shot is what it’s all about.” It’s like a Jedi mind trick. He’ll be screaming “shots for everyone” in no time and then you can act like you’re the poor guy stuck next to “drunk guy.”

 

*Don’t dance Gangnam Style… I don’t care how accomplished you are at it.

 

*Don’t use the bathroom stall if a managing director is in there with you. I don’t care how bad you have to go, pretend you just need to wash your hands, hang out near the exit and then wait for him/her to leave. Otherwise, they’ll assume you’re doing cocaine.

 

*Don’t hit on a coworker. I promise you, not worth it. If you don’t eat the forbidden fruit, you’ll be that much more desirable when you resign (especially if you go to the buy side). That way, the first six months at your new firm can be all about “Oh my god, I’ve wanted you ever since the holiday party in 2012.”

 

*Don’t run around reminding everyone you’re Jewish. We already know.

 

*Don’t bring your American Express Black card, unless you intend on using it later (wink wink).

 

Ladies, I know this night is a watered down version of Halloween, so it’s okay to let those weekday B cups be weekend C’s. And it’s okay to show a little more leg, but do not dance dirty to the Divinyls’ “When I Touch Myself.” Or to the Black Eyed Peas’ “My Hump.” If you can’t control your sex appeal when dancing, stick to a ballad.

 

And yes, for you earnest get-ahead types, it’s okay to make a mental list of the people you least want to talk to and start at the top and work your way down to your friends.

 

If your plan is to do the Keyser Soze — you know, after the first hour limp out of the bar when no one is looking and then hit a full sprint when you reach the sidewalk — there are a few preliminary things you must do. First, find the professional photographer and make sure you’re in three completely different shots.

Second, pick three arbitrary groups of people and say something bizarre or random. “God I hope they play some Air Supply tonight,” or “Does anyone have a pair of socks I can borrow,” it will be one of a few details they remember from the night. Third, walk around the party several times asking revelers if they’ve seen so and so. Pretend that you’re looking for someone — preferably someone who didn’t show up. In general,

be seen. Dance twice, have a drink at the bar, stand near the buffet and act like you’re having a blast. Then escape.

 

Please use the Drunk Employment Regression Analysis model. For each year employed at a particular firm, slide the drunk scale from 1-10. If it’s your first year, you’re probably looking at about three beers maximum. By year five you can switch to hard liquor.

 

Nothing good can come from being the life of the office party.