Bond Girl. Erin Duffy

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       Three

      Girlie

      I SPENT THE rest of the month working like a lunatic. I got to the office every morning by 6:15. I wanted to make a good impression, even if there wasn’t much that I could do. During the day, I sat behind people on my folding chair and was mostly ignored. A few guys attempted to teach me how to look at any number of a dozen applications that scrolled numbers in a dizzying array of colors. I learned to discern which ones displayed the stock market, the Treasury bond market, derivatives and swaps; where you could see the calendar of economic indicators that were being released that day; foreign exchange rates; corporate spreads; and prices for futures contracts and for the European and Asian markets. I still didn’t really understand what any of these things were, but I watched their prices flash like mini strobe lights on their computers. I was given little projects to do, which was a problem since they all involved having access to a workstation.

      My solution was to stay late every night, using the models and various programs on someone else’s desktop to solve the math equations I had to turn in the next morning. I usually got home around 8:00 P.M., ate whatever I could find in the refrigerator, and collapsed into bed from exhaustion. I was beginning to forget what Liv looked like, and so far, we had yet to take advantage of our cool apartment in the city because we were both too busy working. Every morning I was quizzed on the important news stories around the world, and I was asked what might have moved the market overnight during Asian trading. The sheer mass of material I was supposed to know was staggering. I still didn’t know anyone’s name except for Chick, Drew, Reese (swine guy), and Kate/Cruella. I don’t think anyone knew mine. Instead, they called me “Girlie.” Much to my horror, I answered to it.

      On a particularly steamy day in August, I sat in my metal chair, listening to a large man with hands that looked like catchers’ mitts explain bond market basics and tried very hard not to fall asleep. He had a scruffy beard and chocolate-colored eyes that were friendly despite the fact that he looked like he could crush my head like a walnut with his bare hands. His name was Billy Marchetti, but everyone called him Marchetti. As he playfully flicked rubber bands at me while he waited for me to finish the equation he had given me I heard some random guy on the floor scream “Pizza’s in the lobby!” at the top of his lungs.

      Without looking at my watch, I knew exactly what time it was. Every Friday for the last six weeks, some guy screamed “Pizza in the lobby!” across the floor at 10:30. And every Friday morning at 10:30, the floor erupted into applause that rivaled what was heard in Yankee Stadium when Jeter scored against the Red Sox. I had had a glimpse of trading floor eating habits my first day at Cromwell—hundreds of egg-and-cheese sandwiches dripping with grease being devoured as fast as humanly possible without choking to death. At the time, I disregarded it. That was before I understood the pivotal role that food plays in the finance industry. Every day there were bagels, or egg sandwiches, or Krispy Kreme doughnuts. The food was ceremoniously carried to various parts of the room in huge cardboard boxes that were dropped on the floor every thirty feet like paper land mines. Within seconds, dozens of grown men would descend on the offerings like angry bees swarming a honeycomb, grabbing whatever they could get their hands on. You wouldn’t think that guys who earned seven-figure salaries would care so much about free doughnuts. You wouldn’t think so, but they do.

      Mealtime at Cromwell was like feeding time at the zoo; if you were fast and big, you ate first; if you were small and slow, you had better get out of the way. An example of Darwin’s survival of the fittest, adapted for healthy, well-fed men. The delivery options weren’t restricted to the usual Chinese or pizza joints. If someone felt like ordering $2,000 worth of penne alla vodka, veal parmigiana, and Caesar salad for lunch from an expensive restaurant that didn’t have delivery service, the executive chef and the waiters would deliver the food themselves. Sometimes there were trays of fried chicken, ribs, and cornbread from a BBQ place in Midtown; kung pao chicken, lo mein, and anything else on the menu from the Chinese place; or cheeseburgers and fries. In the afternoons, when energy began to fade, someone would inevitably appear with three dozen milkshakes, ice cream sandwiches, or bags of candy from the drugstore. When it was someone’s birthday, the secretaries ordered huge ice cream sheet cakes, and platters of chocolate chip cookies. I was pretty sure I was going to wind up weighing two hundred pounds. And I was single. This was not good.

      Chick pressed the button on “the hoot,” a microphone that broadcast his voice across the floor. “Copy that. We got this one, Frankie. Pizzas will be there in five, and if they’re not, you have my permission to beat my analyst.” He pointed to me with his right hand. “Girlie slave, go get the pizzas and bring them back up to Frankie. Go.” Chick believed in figuring things out for yourself and being proactive. For the most part, I had managed to follow along without having to ask for clarification until now. Considering I didn’t know how many pizzas I was supposed to pick up, or how I was supposed to pay for them, or who the hell Frankie was, I thought now it was appropriate to ask a few questions.

      I stood nervously behind his desk. “I’m sorry, Chick. How many pizzas do you need me to get and how should I pay for them?” I asked, sweetly.

      “Do my shoes need a shine?” he responded, as he examined his impeccably clean loafers. “Hey, Wash!” He called to the shoeshine guy roaming the floor. “Can I get a СКАЧАТЬ