I don’t tell work stories to many people for two
reasons: First, it takes too long to
explain what I do and where I do it, and second, it’s dead boring to most
people. There’s that. So at the substantial risk of posting a snoozer:
After I was miraculously and providentially delivered by The
Almighty from The Worst Gig in the Known Universe, I have had the good fortune
to work with exceptionally bright people.
It’s certainly not the end-all, be-all, but I’ve worked with some
frighteningly educated folks. Ivy. Oxford.
Cambridge. That crazy all-acronym
business school in France. You name
it.
Which is sort of notable for a dumb
country boy that went to an obscure Christian college in Arkansas’s hinterland.
I’ve bumped around with economists,
mathematicians, investment bankers, high-powered lawyers, deal guys that leave
slime trails when they walk, tragically flawed scions of wealthy and powerful
families, buddies and hangers-on to sitting and former presidents. Folks that sit on the boards of companies you
know and of museums you visit.
I say all that to tell you that these brilliant luminaries are
SO FUN to mess with.
I had a boss one time that was very into his
accomplishments. The term vanity doesn’t
do it justice. This guy’s identity was entirely
derived from his work. He was an Ivy
League i-banker that had made zillions of bigtime deals, mostly 20, 25 years before. He had pictures scattered around
the office of him shaking hands with world leaders that have since been assassinated. Yeah.
Sprinkled between the photos were the tombstones. Now, when you participate in some securities offerings,
they hand out what people call a tombstone. They’re cool little clear glass or plastic
blocks engraved with company names and the amount of the debt offering or the shares
issued or whatever. They’re ubiquitous
in any investment banker’s office, and their primary purpose is to sit there
for decades attracting dust and small particles of conceit. They’re actually less useful than paperweights.
No one cares one whit about the things.
Except for this guy.
One night, the cleaning crew had moved the dusty little blocks
around to scrape off the inch and a half of grime on the shelves. The ‘stones were moved around, and it was kind
of noticeable. Well, next morning, el jefe makes inquiries. “How do we know someone wouldn’t STEAL
them?!” (Because they have no value.)
“How would we know if someone TOOK one?” (We wouldn’t. Because absolutely no one else cares.)
He then issued one of the most preposterous orders, well,
ever: Our spunky office manager was to inventory
the ‘stones in a spreadsheet. Immediately. The order was, uh… flatly refused, to the great amusement of everyone within earshot.
A few nights later, SOMEBODY rearranged the tombstones on a
single, particularly out-of-the-way shelf so as to make it seem like one – and
only one – was missing.
And I forgot all about it.
Because I actually have, you know, a life that’s worth living. It was a bit like a comedy trot-line,
something you just bait up and leave for later.
Days pass. Then
one morning, I could tell the office had this quiet hum. You office inmates know what I’m talking
about. All the admin gals were flitting
about, whispering to each other. I asked
the CFO what was up. (My cynical guess
was layoffs. But that was later.)
Yep, you guessed it.
Heaven and earth were being searched to find that missing tombstone.
I quietly watched as a half a
billion dollar hedge fund essentially ground to a halt for an entire trading day looking for a hunk of
25 year-old clear plastic… that wasn’t missing.
You know, I felt a little guilty.
And then I got over it.
From H.M.:
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