Bond Girl. Erin Duffy

and most other big-name companies you can think of are traded off the high-grade desk, which sits directly to their left. Past them you have mortgages, which should be self-explanatory, and at the end of the room you have the money market team. They sell bonds that mature in one year or less. There’s also some structured product teams over there,” he said as he rotated me again and pointed to a bunch of nerdy-looking guys in the right far corner. “They do highly complicated structured trades that most people don’t understand, and that includes a majority of the people in this room. You’ll learn what they do eventually, because I’m training you and I don’t have idiots working for me. Finally, around the corner is the foreign exchange desk. They trade global currencies. If you ever travel to Europe and have to change your dollars for sterling or euros, you’ll have to know where those rates are trading. That’s their job. Capiche? There are economists and strategists scattered all over the place. You won’t have much cause to interact with anyone who doesn’t work in rates to start off.”

      I tried to process everything he was saying, but my brain shut down somewhere around the time he mentioned Brazil. I was so screwed.

      “Now, these rows over here,” he said as he pointed to long rows that faced each other, the elevated monitors forming a wall in between the guys so they didn’t have to stare at each other all day, “is the trading desk. These guys actually price and trade the bonds that we, the sales desk, buy and sell for our clients. It’s our job as salespeople to solicit business and keep our clients informed and happy. Clients can pick up the phone and call any shop on the street to do trades; we need to make sure that they call us. How do we do that? By being good fucking salespeople, that’s how. That’s what we are going to teach you. How to be a good fucking salesperson. Capiche?” My head was spinning, and I could swear that I just heard one of the trader’s computers cluck like a chicken for no apparent reason. What the hell was going on here?

      “What’s that noise?” I asked, afraid if I hadn’t really just heard a clucking chicken I was about two minutes away from a stroke.

      “What, the chicken?” he asked.

      I was relieved he heard it, too, and yet startled that he didn’t seem to think random barnyard animal noises needed explanation. I nodded. “Yes, the chicken.”

      “Some of the traders programmed their systems to make farm animal noises when they do a trade. They can’t possibly keep their eyes on everything all the time so the sound effects help let them know where their positions are. So don’t be surprised when you hear something moo, or bark, or oink. The junior guy’s system rings a cowbell, but it’s annoying so I might make him change it. I hear that fucking thing in my sleep.”

      Unless you saw it for yourself, you couldn’t accurately imagine this scene if you took three tabs of acid and locked yourself in closet. I gulped.

      “So are you ready to start?” Chick asked as he walked toward his chair on the desk, where he apparently spent most of his time, despite having a private office.

      Ready to start? I couldn’t remember anything he just said. I needed a map. And a finance-to-English dictionary. Pronto.

      Before I could ask him to clarify a few things, he called everyone to attention.

      “Listen up, team; this is Alex. She’s our new analyst. Introduce yourselves and make her feel at home.” A few people nodded; some of them raised their hands and waved. One guy actually got up and shook my hand, though he was on the phone when he did it so he didn’t actually speak to me. I looked around and noticed that there were no empty workstations. I sure as hell wasn’t going to sit on someone’s lap, so I was sincerely hoping that Chick was going to tell me where I’d be sitting. When he sat down and started typing into a massive Excel sheet, I realized he wasn’t.

      I had no choice but to ask him, or else stand in the aisle all day like the team mascot.

      “Excuse me, Chick. Where should I sit?” I asked, nervously.

      “Here you go.” Without taking his eyes off his spreadsheet, he reached behind him and grabbed a tiny metal folding chair that was leaning against the wall. It was kindergarten size. I took the chair from him and held it in front of me without unfolding it, clearly confused.

      “You don’t have a desk yet,” he said, without trying to hide his irritation. “We have to figure out where to put you. In the meantime, just pull up the folding chair behind people and watch what they do. Rotate through the whole group.”

      My mind was racing. How could there be nowhere for me to sit? I didn’t just show up unannounced. I got this job offer last October. It was July. In ten months’ time they couldn’t even find me a desk? A man in his late thirties walked over and grabbed Chicky’s shoulder, staring at me like Sylvester the cat used to look at Tweety Bird. He was tall, well over six feet, with a platinum blond crew cut, broad shoulders, and huge biceps. He never took his eyes off me as he talked to Chick. It made me so uncomfortable I had to stare at the floor.

      “Yo, Chicky, this is the new girl?” he asked in a thick southern drawl.

      “Alex. Our new analyst.”

      “She’s cute. Would I do her?”

      “I get the feeling she’s feisty, so yeah, probably. I doubt she’d do you, though.”

      “Give her time, Chick. Give her time.” He then grabbed one of the last two sandwiches out of the box and offered it to me. “Hey, Alex. Welcome to Cromwell. Have a sandwich.” His hands, like Chick’s, were perfectly clean and smooth.

      I answered him politely, “No, thank you, I’m fine.”

      “You don’t like the swine?”

      “Excuse me?”

      “The swine. Bacon. You aren’t Jewish, are you? If you aren’t Jewish, then why don’t you fancy the swine?”

      “What? Umm, no, I ate already, thank you. But I don’t have a problem with the swine, no.”

      “Suit yourself, newbie. It’s probably better. If you start eating bacon every day, you’ll lose that tight ass of yours, and nobody here wants to be stuck looking at a pretty girl with a fat ass. Remember, for girls, eating is cheating.” With that he threw the sandwich back in the box and winked at me as he walked away.

      I looked for Chick to say something, anything, to defend me, but he didn’t. Instead, he removed his wallet and his BlackBerry from his drawer.

      He smacked me on the back as he stood. “I have a golf outing, but I’ll be in tomorrow,” he said as he struggled with the sleeves on his blazer. I watched him leave, feeling as if I was watching my lifeboat turn around while I was still treading shark-infested waters. One hour as a full-time employee at Cromwell and, so far, it was nothing like I had imagined.

      I STOOD HELPLESSLY CLUTCHING my chair like a security blanket, staring at my fellow team members, none of whom made a move to introduce themselves. I walked down the first row, feeling as if I was walking the plank, until a man who looked an awful lot like Andy Garcia intercepted me. He had the same tan skin, the same black hair, the same brooding eyes, and thankfully, a smile.

      “Hey,” he said as he shook my hand. “I’m Drew. Why don’t you hang out with me today?”

      “Oh really?” I was relieved, like a kid just saved from being picked last for dodgeball. “That would be great, thanks.”

      “Pull up a seat … well, a folding chair. Whatever.”

      He slid his chair to the left, to make room for me. I stared wide-eyed at all the numbers, the scrolling headlines, the modeling systems, the Excel sheets, the various colors flashing spastically on his monitors. Drew smiled and said, “Until you get your own desk—and, knowing this place, that could take a year—you’ll just have to shadow people during the day. Here’s what you need to know.” I flipped open my spiral notebook and waited anxiously for my first sales lesson. “First, don’t put the chair in the aisle, that’s the fastest way to piss people off. Make sure your chair