Bond Girl (14 page)

“Not anymore; it's a long story. Chick just made me spend a thousand dollars on a cheese wheel and some meatballs.”

“What?” she said in disbelief. “On
cheese
? Please tell me you're joking.”

“I couldn't make this up if I tried.”

“That's just insane. You should tell your boss to go to you know where.”

“Because that's the way to advance my career.”

“Some career, cruising all over New York City with a thousand dollars' worth of cheese. It's not too late to go to law school.”

“I'm NOT quitting, Mom! I like my job. Maybe not today, but usually.”

“You know, Alex, pride is one of the seven deadly sins.”

“Trust me, pride won't be the sin that kills me.”

“Do me a favor. Call your father at work. He wants to hear how you're doing. Maybe leave out the pilgrimage for the cheese.”

“Count on it.”
Click
. I hung up. There was no way I was going to call my dad right now. He would ask why I wasn't on the desk, and then I would have to lie to him, or risk having to explain what happened to bring on the cheese punishment. I had enough issues to deal with at the moment. Lying to my father wasn't something I needed to add to “Alex's list of shame” for the day. It was long enough as it was.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the next leg of the ordeal, where Chick sent me to a hardware store to buy an industrial-sized cheese grater.
Why, why, why did I have to be so late?
“Oh Christ.” I sighed as I drummed my fingers on top of the wheel, thinking out loud. “How the hell am I going to get this thing up to the floor?”

“That's easy,” the driver said over his shoulder. “Just get a dolly and take it upstairs in the service elevator.”

Genius.

I dialed the firm's main number and asked to be connected to building maintenance. I told them I needed a dolly and use of the service elevator, which they said was no problem. They offered to have someone meet me at the curb to help. When we pulled up in front of the building, there was a tall man wearing a blue jumpsuit waiting patiently with the dolly.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said to the driver after he deposited me, the cheese, and the boxes of heroes on the sidewalk.

“No, thank YOU. I can't wait to get home and tell my wife this story.”

I turned to the maintenance man and said as calmly as possible, “This is why I need your help.”

“Whoaaaaa,” he said as he stared wide-eyed at the giant yellow block. “Is that parm?”

“Yup, Arthur Ave.'s finest.”

He shook his head in disbelief and said pointedly, “You guys have way too much time on your hands.”

No arguments there.

We loaded the wheel on the dolly, and I rested the two boxes of subs on top as he escorted me to the service elevator. When we reached the trading floor, I pushed the cart down the hall and called out, “Make way, coming through,” as seemingly unfazed coworkers weaved to the right and left, avoiding my path. Two guys from emerging markets were walking in the hallway and offered to help. They ceremoniously carried the cheese over to Chick's desk.

And they say chivalry is dead.

Chick knocked on the wheel. “How much? All in?” he asked.

“About twelve hundred,” I said. “One thousand for the cheese and about two hundred for the sandwiches.”

“I pay you more than twelve hundred a year, don't I?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“So really, you're lucky I didn't fire you, which in essence would cost you a lot more than twelve hundred bucks. I assume you learned your lesson and will never be this late again?”

I slowly nodded my head.

“Okay then. My job here is done.” He reached under his desk and removed a large, imposing cleaver.

“Where did you get that?” I asked. He smiled, as if it was perfectly normal for him to have a potential murder weapon resting on his briefcase. My thong couldn't clear security, but he somehow managed to smuggle a knife through x-ray. Bastard rent-a-cops.

He silently circled the cheese like an animal entrapping its prey. When he found what he deemed to be the perfect spot, he hacked into the giant wheel, barely penetrating the thick outer layer as the blade sliced the rind.

“Now, we eat.”

Nine

You're Going to Eat the Vending Machine for $28,000?

S
pring was off to a slow start. In April, the markets were brutally quiet, which was bad considering we made our living doing trades. If clients didn't trade, we didn't make money, and it was never good to have an entire room full of cranky type A personalities with time on their hands. The floor became a breeding ground for practical jokes. First, Drew and Reese played dice for a while, betting ten grand on each roll. They kept a running tab, so it's not like they'd ever actually pay each other; they just kept the balance for their games. It kept them busy, and really that was all that mattered. I shopped online for things I didn't need: makeup bags, candles, picture frames, anything that could be tucked away and used as a gift in a pinch. You couldn't blame me, really; what else was a bored girl with three computer monitors supposed to do when there was nothing going on? We played basketball with Nerf balls and garbage cans, and golf using baseball hats as makeshift holes and putters that were stashed in closets, and we messed with each other's desks, stealing extra shoes or favorite trinkets.

Quiet markets also provided opportunities to exact retribution for past offenses. Earlier in the month, a trader named Biff (yes, there really are people called “Biff”) completely ripped me to shreds for a mistake I made booking a trade. His reaction was completely disproportionate to the seriousness of the crime (believe me), and Reese was furious at him for attacking one of his teammates so vigorously. As payback, he stole a stuffed bear Biff kept on his desk, one of his prized possessions for reasons no one understood. While the trader was in a meeting, Reese carefully constructed a ransom note with letters cut out of magazines and old copies of the
Wall Street Journal
. The note stated very clearly that unless Biff bought lunch for the entire sales desk, and apologized, he'd never see his teddy bear again. As word spread, clients began calling in saying things like, “I saw your bear in the back of a van on the West Side Highway; it was bleeding,” or “I found a bear head in a garbage can in Battery Park. I really hope it's not yours.” Reese bought a disposable camera and took pictures of the bear all over the building: at the coffee stand, on the Xerox machine, in the mailroom, hanging from the lamppost outside, holding the front page of the
Journal
with the date visible. He developed them at a one-hour photo shop and left them on Biff's desk every time he stepped away. Reese was merciless; he tucked ransom notes in Biff's briefcase, in his desk drawers. This went on for a week. When Biff couldn't take it anymore, he shot me a half-assed apology e-mail and had buckets of fried chicken delivered to our desk. The next morning, Reese came to work at 6:00 and returned the bear, which had an Ace bandage wrapped around its head and was covered with Band-Aids.

Marchetti messed with Reese's computer so that it translated the alphabet to Japanese characters. It took tech support an hour to figure out how to change it back to English. When Chick discovered the fried chicken came with dozens of mini corn muffins, he decided to mess with me. He scattered minimuffins everywhere. He lined them along the perimeter of my keyboard, a veritable minimuffin army. He hid them in my drawers, in the extra pair of shoes I kept under my desk. I found them in my makeup bag, at the bottom of my purse, and in my coat pockets. Every day, I removed corn muffins from any number of bizarre places, never knowing when I would smoosh one in my stiletto or find crumbs stuck in the wand of my mascara. I prayed that the markets would pick up so that the practical jokes would abate. If I missed a muffin, we'd end up with mice.

Drew stole Will's credit card, and shipped bizarre things to his apartment. Leather chaps, a whip, a case of body lube, nose hair clippers, jumper cables. Will called a hotel that Chick was staying at in Boston and informed them that he had back problems and needed to sleep on the floor, so they should remove the bed. When Chick arrived at his suite at midnight, the bedroom was empty, save for two pillows on the floor. He didn't find it funny, but we sure as hell did.

One of our traders had a well-documented aversion to pickles, refusing to eat anything that had come in contact with one. Early one morning, Drew removed the mouthpiece from the trader's phone while he was getting coffee and poured pickle juice into the receiver. As soon as the trader returned and sat down in his seat, Drew dialed his number. When the trader answered, the juice ran all over his chin and his shirt, and he puked. He held that one against Drew for a long time. On the other hand, downtime did have its advantages. There was more time to pursue extracurricular activities.

My relationship with Will was anything but normal. First off, I had no business as a sane person to call it a relationship. Since the night we hung out last month that had resulted in a $1,200 lunch tab, I had seen him only once outside of work. We went to a dive bar in the village and played pool for a few hours and then he put me in a cab and sent me home. That was fine; I was all for backtracking and approaching this completely irresponsible relationship with a colleague with caution. But hanging out only once after spending an indiscriminate night together seemed to be taking caution to the extreme. Normally, I would've just figured he wasn't interested, swallowed my pride, and moved on. But that was hard to do when I sat a few feet away from him and he flirted with me mercilessly on e-mail. I was beginning to wish that technology wasn't so advanced. If we didn't have unfettered access to each other via e-mail all day long, it would be way easier to stay detached. Carrier pigeons no longer seemed like a dumb way of communicating. It probably kept people a lot more sane.

First thing in the morning one sunny late April day, Marchetti waved a white order form in front of my face. “It's time for the annual ordering of the Girl Scout cookies,” he said cheerfully.

“The what?” I asked as Drew snatched the form and filled in his name and address.

“Girl Scout cookie time—awesome,” Drew said. “His daughter's in third grade, and if she sells the most cookies in her troop, she wins a scooter or something. Marchetti passes the form around and everyone buys some, and by the time we're done she's sold enough to win a freaking BMW, never mind the scooter. It's the little things we do to help make the lives of little girls that much nicer.”

“If she wants a scooter, why doesn't Marchetti just buy her one?”

“It's the
principle
of the thing. You know, teaching the youth of America that they have to work for what they really want.”

“That's great in theory, but you realize that she isn't exactly selling any of these cookies herself, right?”

“Why are you raining on the Girl Scout parade?”

“I'm not! I'm just pointing out that your theory is flawed.”

“How about this theory? I like Samoas and won't get any unless the form is dropped on my desk. Is that reason enough to enthusiastically support the Girl Scouts?”

“Touché. I do like me a good Samoa.” I opened my wallet and noticed that it contained only a ten-dollar bill and a gum wrapper. I gulped. “Do I have to pay now or later?”

“You pay up when Marchetti delivers the goods. For now, just write your name and your order on the form.”

“What would I do without you, Drew?”

“You'd be lost.” Drew finished filling out his cookie request. “Go to town,” he said as he dropped the cookie form on my desk, but Will snatched it up before I had a chance to even look at it.

“Umm, what are you doing?” I asked.

“I'm ordering cookies. What does it look like I'm doing? Was there a reason you couldn't wait until I was done with it?”

“You don't have to order cookies if you don't want to, Alex. After the cheese thing, if you'd rather not light your money on fire, we'd understand.”

“No, we wouldn't,” Drew said.

“See, no they wouldn't. And I love how you think I'm so poor I can't afford a few boxes of cookies. I think I can manage!” I said.

“Do you need a loan?”

“No!”

“Are you sure?”

“You're annoying me, Will. Fill out the form and hand it over.”

“Fine. If you need a loan though, you know where to find me.” He finished scribbling, tossed me the form, and returned to his desk.

Then I had an idea—a way to get back at Will for making me late and therefore responsible for my being out $1,200. I scrutinized the form, wrote on it, and returned it to Marchetti at his desk. I stifled a laugh.

“How long does it take for the cookies to arrive?” I felt like a kid anticipating Christmas. I didn't know how I'd be able to wait.

“A couple of months,” he answered succinctly.

“Perfect.”

Marchetti's Girl Scout cookies prompted a conversation about cookies in general, and that morphed into a conversation about the cookies in the vending machine, and
that
somehow instigated one of the largest trading floor bets in Cromwell history.

“There's no way, Marchetti. There's no way you can take the whole thing down by four
P.M.
” Chick laughed as he threw down the gauntlet to Marchetti. They were standing in a group that included Will, Drew, and Reese. It was early in the morning and it already promised to be a slow day.

Marchetti was confident. “How much do you want to bet I can do it during market hours? How much you wanna bet I can do it
today
?”

“You might be one crazy guinea, Billy, but there's no way. Your stomach would explode. Didn't you see the movie
Seven
? Where that fat guy eats himself to death? That will be you, and I'm not calling your wife to tell her you're not coming home tonight because we made you eat the vending machine and you're dead.”

I rolled my chair down the row and joined in. “Wait,” I interrupted. “You're going to eat everything in the vending machine? There are ten different kinds of gum in there that no one has eaten since 1989. There's no way you can swallow that much gum and not throw up. No way.”

“My indentured Girlie makes a good point,” Chick said. “I didn't think about the gum. Gum doesn't count as real food anyway. So if you're going to do this, you have to eat
one
of everything in the vending machine, not
everything
in the vending machine, excluding gum, starting today at nine thirty and finishing before the closing bell rings at four
P.M.
You can use my office if you don't want to be distracted, but Alex has to sit in the room with you to make sure you don't throw anything out or give anything away. You'll be supervised at all times. If you go to take a leak, you let me know and someone will go with you. Ten thousand dollars is the current pot, but I imagine once word gets out it will be higher. If you throw up at any point during the day, game over. Do you agree to these terms?”

The rest of the team had heard what was going on and formed a large circle around Billy and Chick, chanting “Bil-ly, Bil-ly, Bil-ly” and pumping their fists in the air. Billy stuck his chest out, pounded it with his fists, and shouted, “Bring it on! Mangia, mangia!”

And with that, Billy Marchetti agreed to eat the vending machine for $10,000.

Chick instructed everyone to remove all their singles from their wallets. Within seconds we were all holding up large wads of cash, waving them in the air like little green geisha fans.

Chick turned to me and said, “Girlie, collect the singles, get a box, and then go get one of everything in the vending machine, including the breath mints but excluding the gum. It's now eight thirty. Billy, you have an hour to prepare. Make sure you call your clients and tell them that Drew is covering them today. Alex, he doesn't go anywhere except the men's room without you watching him, and if he tries to cheat in any way, you come right to me. Now go.”

As I walked by the trading desk, one of the younger traders saw the stack of cash I was holding and made a joke about me having had a good night dancing tables. Typical.

Without question, there were items in the machine that had been there for over a decade. The top row held the usual assortment of chips and salty snacks: Sun Chips, hard pretzels, Fritos, sour cream and onion potato chips, Doritos, Cheetos, and Funyuns (definitely there since the '80s). The second shelf held all the Hostess products: Twinkies, Cupcakes, Devil Dogs, Ho Hos, Yodels, and Snow Balls. There were bags of chocolate chip cookies, Vienna Fingers, Oreos, and Snackwells (for those health-conscious vending machine visitors). There were Snickers, Milky Ways, Butterfingers, M&Ms both plain and peanut, Skor Bars, and Almond Joys. The bottom row had the gum and a variety of breath mints. I put the box on the floor and one by one started running dollar bills through the machine.

Word traveled quickly and by the time I returned to Marchetti's desk with all thirty-two items, the pool was up to $20,000. Of course, everyone wanted to know the rules and what safeguards were in place to make sure that he won it honestly. This was Wall Street after all. No one parted with his money without being fully aware of the risks and well versed on the details of the deal.

Chick stood and grabbed the hoot off his desk. He pressed the button and blew into the microphone to get the floor's attention. “Everyone, listen up. If anyone else wants in on the vending machine bet, have your money to me by nine twenty-five.”

The floor erupted in applause and cheers. Chick's desk was mobbed with people. Will recorded all the names and wagers alphabetically in a spreadsheet.

“Well, this won't be a normal workday for you, huh?” Will said as I dropped the box of junk food on the floor. “This is going to be fun.”

Fun? This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen in my life,
I thought to myself. Drew went through the items for me and created an inventory so that there would be no confusion as to whether or not an item was consumed. Will double-checked the list, and once everyone was satisfied that the inventory was complete and accurate, Chick fetched Old Faithful, my folding chair, from the closet and placed it right behind Billy. My mission seemed clear: watch him eat, check the item off the list, and hold on to the wrapper, which would serve as proof each item had been consumed.