Bond Girl. Erin Duffy

      “How on earth are you going to get up at 5:30 and not be a zombie by 3:00?” Annie asked. “That’s just unholy.” She looked at me the same way I look at people over forty who aren’t married: with unabashed pity. She sat on the living room floor and pushed her curly blond hair behind her ears. Annie had done gymnastics as a kid and possessed a flexible, toned physique I wouldn’t have even if I lived on carrot sticks. I know this for a fact. I tried for most of freshman year.

      “I’m sure I’ll get used to it,” I said as I jammed sweaters in my closet.

      “I’d rather die,” she added.

      “Are you excited?” Liv asked as she broke down boxes with a razor and laid them flat against the wall next to a bookshelf. She picked dust bunnies off her black spandex shorts with a perfectly manicured nail and ran her sleeve across her forehead. “I don’t start until next week, and I’m kind of dreading it.”

      “I’m excited. I guess a little nervous, too. It’s like the first day of school all over again. New people, new places. I hope I don’t screw up anything too badly.”

      “You’ll be fine,” Annie assured me as she stood to leave for her own apartment on the Upper West Side. And by “her own apartment” I mean the one her parents kept in the city for the two times a year they came to Manhattan to see a show. She gave me a quick hug and waved goodbye to Liv as she headed for the elevators. “Call me tomorrow and let me know how it goes,” she yelled over her shoulder.

      I helped Liv lug boxes to the refuse room down the hall, and we spent the next few hours unpacking, cleaning, hanging, ironing, scrubbing, organizing, and discussing how excited we both were to have our very own apartment in Manhattan. I went to bed at 9:30, still leaving a lot of boxes untouched, and prayed that my first week of work would be merciful. I’m sure it won’t be too bad, I assured myself. It’s just a job. How bad could it possibly be?

       Two

      She’s Cute. Would I Do Her?

      ON THE FIRST day I was so excited I could barely breathe. I couldn’t believe that I had managed to achieve the goal my eight-year-old self had set all those years ago. But I had. And I was ready to do whatever it is people actually did inside this building. I sat with the rest of the incoming class of new analysts, twenty-five of us in all, in a conference room on the main floor of the building. I looked around at the other new kids, knowing that they were all there for the same reason—cash (and maybe some stock options)—and worried that my more romantic motivations of fond childhood memories and a desire to follow in my father’s footsteps would result in my not being able to compete. I convinced myself that the rest of the group probably had memorized the Fibonacci sequence by the time they were twelve. My excitement quickly turned to fear, and the longer I sat in that conference room, the faster my fear turned to all-consuming terror. We sat quietly and listened to an overweight woman with dark curly hair and bright lipstick lecture us from a podium.

      “Welcome to Cromwell,” she said enthusiastically. “My name’s Stacey, and I’m the firm’s head of Human Resources.” The fuchsia lips flashed a brief, not entirely convincing smile. “Please make sure your name tags are visible at all times for the first week or so. It will help you get to know one another, and it will help your new colleagues learn your names as well. Please open your orientation packets.” We dutifully opened navy blue folders on the table in front of us and began to flip through the contents. “Inside, you’ll find a copy of the employee handbook, which addresses all of Cromwell’s rules and regulations. It goes over everything you should and should not do, common ethical dilemmas that, as new analysts, you may come up against and how to handle them and, more important, what we consider to be fireable offenses. Pay close attention to the section on electronic communication. You should not write anything in an e-mail or instant message that you wouldn’t want published on the front page of the Wall Street Journal. If you think it could embarrass the firm or yourself, don’t write it. If you receive incoming e-mail that contains inappropriate pictures or material, delete it. If you respond, you will be held accountable for disseminating material that is inconsistent with the firm’s principles and your employment can be terminated. Make sure you read the handbook because from this moment on, you’re responsible for knowing everything contained therein, and if you violate any one of the rules, you cannot use the excuse that you didn’t know. Does everyone understand?”

      We sat silently. A few of the eager analysts in the front row nodded, but apparently Stacey didn’t like the halfhearted response. She leaned forward on her elbows and asked us all again, louder this time, “Do you understand?” This time, there was no smile as she enunciated each syllable. We responded “yes” in unison. What is this—nursery school? I wondered. We get it Stacey, you own us. It wasn’t that hard to understand.

      “If you have any other questions, your orientation packet contains the names and numbers of the desk managers and the appropriate contacts in HR. You all should know what floor you are heading to. There will be someone from each group waiting to greet you at the elevators and escort you to your desks. Other than that, have a great day, and again, welcome to Cromwell Pierce. You are now part of one of the most respected firms in the industry.”

      We stood, and I moved with the crowd out to the elevator banks. I counted seven girls. The Ivy Leaguers walked together in front of the rest of us, acting like a pack of alpha girls I knew in junior high. I had gone to the University of Virginia, an intellectually inferior school as far as they were concerned. I felt, warranted or not, like an outcast. Not exactly how I wanted to start my first day.

      The hierarchy in most Wall Street firms is clearly delineated. You spend your first few years as an analyst, responsible for learning as much as you can, and making sure the rest of “the team” gets their lunch orders picked up from the lobby in a timely fashion. From there, you move up the ranks to associate, then to vice president, then director, then managing director and, from there, I was pretty sure you jumped to the executive committee or something. For my purposes it didn’t really matter. All I needed to know was that I was as junior as junior could get, and I therefore worked for everyone. I figured as long as I kept that in mind, I would be okay. At least I hoped so, because from what I had heard, forgetting your rung on the corporate ladder was a very bad idea.

      I was one of ten analysts who stepped off the elevator when the doors opened on the eleventh floor, all of us assigned to various “desks” in the fixed-income division. There were people waiting in the hallway for us as we exited the elevator, everyone somehow knowing which clueless analyst he was supposed to claim ownership of. As I stepped onto the marble floor I was immediately intercepted by a stocky man with shocking green eyes and short brown hair. He was imposing and suave, attractive in a rugged way, the kind of guy who instantly commands your attention. I figured he was in his midforties, due to slight graying at his temples, but it was hard to tell. Men are annoying like that. He seemed to excrete charisma from his pores as easily as a normal person sweats. His khaki pants and blue-and-white-checkered shirt were pressed within an inch of their life, and his brown tweed blazer fit him perfectly. He looked like a brunette Ken doll, live and in the flesh. When he extended his hand to greet me, I noticed that his fingers were thick and squat, but that his skin was smooth and his nails were perfectly manicured. Here was an interesting dichotomy: a guy who oozed machismo but who also valued immaculately buffed nails. This was my first introduction to a legitimate Cromwell salesman and, more important, my first introduction to Ed Ciccone, otherwise known as Chick. My boss.

      Chick was a trading floor veteran. I’d come to learn that he’d spent twenty years in the Business, fifteen of them on this very trading floor. He was smart, ferociously competitive, and could sell just about anything. He was well known on the Street for his hard partying, his lavish entertainment spending, and his ability to function on little to no sleep. He was wildly successful, extremely popular, and hugely intimidating. He didn’t waste time with formalities; after a perfunctory shake of my hand, he turned and walked toward the trading floor, a vast room that encompassed nearly the entire floor of the building, except for the foyer by the elevator bank, a coffee stand