Over the past year, every time my phone dings with an email, I wonder, Is it about the book? Is it my agent? Is it my editor? What if it’s from my publisher? About a years ago I heard that same ding and I quickly checked. It was an email from my editor.
 
Perhaps you’ve heard this… A novelist is a failed short story writer… A short story writer is a failed poet… The reason my editor wrote those lines was because we were having  a minor tug of war over the length of the book. I didn’t think I could tell my story in under 400 pages and he was thinking 250 might be plenty. He was more right than I was: shorter is better
 
It’s interesting looking back, because now I have six or seven chapters that no one has ever seen, not even my agent. But I think creating them was a necessary part of my process. They just didn’t fit in into the book’s arc.  In losing those chapters I also lost some irony. For instance, the first chapter I wrote that’s not in the book was about the summer of 1976 when I came to New York City for the first time. I was a towheaded 6-year-old from Cleveland with a doting mom and a strict father and three older sisters. The trip was an all-expenses-paid weekend for a safety poster contest that I’d won. In a bid to win it all, I’d drawn a picture of a kid standing on a bike and pasted a picture of Fonzi on it with the caption: “The Fonz Says Sit On It.”
 

 
What struck me as I worked on that ultimately-to-be-discarded chapter was how my first experience in NYC as a kid was much like how I was treated on any given night as a buy side trader. Working on the buy side was like when the lifeguard blows the whistle at 4 p.m. every afternoon and yells “free swim.” There were times when I was responsible for distributing $40 million in commissions. So that meant I had throngs of sell side guys courting me. We’ve all heard stories of extravagant Wall Street entertaining: the private jets, the floor seats at the Garden and the exclusive golf courses. But that’s only where it started for me. One broker offered to pay my monthly car garage expense; another wanted to establish an open tab for me at Mexican Radio, one of my favorite restaurants. But for shear determination, nothing beats the time a broker helped me remove a toilet from my Bleecker Street apartment. Never underestimate a sales trader on a 40% payout. He came over after work and helped me carry a ten year old toilet about three blocks over to the Bowery and then we ran as fast as we could to get away from the evidence. For the record – that’s worth about 500,000 shares the next trading session. These days I carry my own toilets, it builds character.
 
Here’s an excerpt from the first chapter (not in the book) I wrote…
 
My father leads our way to the baggage claim. I proudly wear my plastic wings compliments of the crew. My mother holds my hand, but excuses herself to smoke a cigarette when we get to our destination. Flocks of people perch and wait. The grand echoes from the baggage carrousel cue everyone’s attention. I want to get on and ride it. During the flight I had two cups of Orange Crush. My lips and teeth are carroty in color and my body circulates with caffeine. “Don’t move,” my father says as he tries to locate our luggage, and as he does my mom returns.
 
A short time later, we’re soaking up “swank Manhattan” – shades of things to come:
 
The Plaza Hotel operates like Santa’s workshop, organized chaos. White gloves and black and maroon outfits everywhere. The limo door opens. A uniformed man smiles and welcomes us. He instructs us to proceed to the front desk. A black man, wearing all white is opening up the trunk. I wonder why he’s stealing our luggage.
 
No one seems to care; I keep my eye on him as we enter the front of the building.
 
I’ll cut it off here. Other highlights to that chapter that is not in the book involve a blue leisure suit with a silk shirt and huge collars, a specially made cheeseburger at Mamma
Leone’s, (not on the menu) and front row seats at the Magic Show staring Doug Henning — just your typical weekend for a 6-year-old on the buy side.
 
In addition to the trip, I also received a $500 savings bond for the safety poster contest. And ten years later I’d cash it in to buy a moped. Everyone from Kennebunk probably knows the moped story, but if you don’t, maybe I’ll share it later…
 
 

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