It's Saturday night. Most of us came into the office to get some work done and the office was hot as sh** as usual. Around six, we went out to grab a quick dinner and parted ways as each of us went to meet up with friends and get ready to go out for the night. I was rolling with my friend
B who is a banker in Chicago. The night picked up quickly after a couple of beers at a friend's house who works for one of the Big Four accounting firms. The idea was to go clubbing. We were rolling about seven deep. Four bankers, a consultant, and three accountants (an old fashioned nerd convention).
The bouncer at the club we wanted to go to gave us a lot of lip and without thinking twice about it, we decided to hit up a lounge/bar near the ocean. It turned out to be a place for older professionals who could afford to pay for the high class drinks they offered there. Some dude was wearing a shirt advertising his unstable status as a student at the
Stern MBA program in New York. We had a good laugh about that one. How insecure about your crappy undergraduate education do you have to be to rock a t-shirt making sure everyone you meet that night knows you're somewhat validated by a better graduate education. (Besides, I've heard over and over again that you only go to an MBA program for the connections and a nice break from the business world).
Another mob of people rolled up; another ibanker and a few of his friends who are dispersed throughout a broad range of professions including this one dude who whipped out a SICK business card for his graphic design company. Thing was impressive. As the routine goes, everyone drank fast. Beers, straight shots, you name it. Eventually people were feeling pretty good about their sh**ty weeks building up this cool Saturday night. One of the highlights of the night came when a banker (
Banker #1) went head to head against a real estate developer (we'll call him
RITS because that offends him) about who was the true "baller." If you've never witnessed this event, here's the rundown: Someone tests someone else's ego in one of a million ways that a guy's ego can be challenged. This instance started out with who can drink more alcohol.
Banker #1 reached into his wallet, grabbed his credit card and slammed it on the table, "Let's see who can go the lowest."
RITS, reached in to grab his standard issue ATM card and from there it progressed rapidly (or deteriorated rapidly). The credit card comparisons didn't really happen because the Banker had a more established line of credit. Then it went to the shoes...
At this point my Chicago friend jumped into (
Chicago) the contest. Banker #1 actually took off his shoes and slammed his
Ferragamo dress shoes onto the table we were sitting at.
Chicago then busted out his
Prada shoes asking
RITS rhetorically, "What's that say?" This is where it gets good.
RITS ignores the call to battle surrounding the shoes and slams his
Bottega Veneta wallet down. (For those that don't know, this is a $350 wallet, which in my opinion is a grip of cash for a folding piece of leather).
Chicago slowly pulls out his Prada wallet (because "he didn't want to clash") and says, "What happend to the shoes?" Having been called out,
RITZ takes off his shoes and slams it on the table next to the Ferragamos still there: A special edition
Converse. He spewed out some reason why they were tight, but it didn't fly with the table or the seven or so spectators surrounding the table having a great time.
No one really gave
RITZ a chance to justify his putting up a pair of Converse to match the fashion elitism of
Ferragamo and
Prada. I don't think he could have come up with a good justification. The contest ended when they started comparing watches. I actually didn't catch the brands of either
RITZ or
Banker #1 because
Chicago ended it with, "
Cartier,
Roadster, bitch."
After this episode, one of the bankers goes up to run game on a couple of dames sitting at a table near ours. The guy approaches the three ladies and is having a pretty good conversation. We're watching with interest from our table taking joking bets about his success rate with the older women (mid to late 20s). Banker #1 (obviously drunk) turns to us and says, "I'm going to go and f*** up his game" Before anyone can even object or encourage, he rushes to the table, sits cozily next to the most attractive girl, puts his arms around her and says, "Hey baby, I'm a banker." What was surprising was that the girl didn't even slap his arm away from her in repulsion. She turned and he actually sparked a conversation! The guy who just got cock-blocked came back to the table in shock that Banker #1 actually said that to a girl. It was all down hill from there in terms of stories. The rest was the usual but very fun and lighthearted night that most young professionals have when they have some money to spend. Oh, at one point Banker #1 and pretty much the whole table was yelling "I'm a banker bitch!" in a quasi-reference to
Rick James (RIP), embodying the mentallity that we can and will do pretty much everything we want to do. Well, except me, because I am not a banker. And they never let me forget; making fun of me for my lower wages. "Section 8! Come over here!" (Section 8 is a nickname
Chicago gave me). "When you're in the welfare line, I'll be sure to help you out," he says to me. "You're a finance guy," I usually retort, "what's my present value?"
