How I Found Happiness working on Wall Street |

The elevator doors open into a plush reception area with modern couches and comfy chairs off to the side. The oak desk is front and center. The woman behind it looks at me with contempt. She continues to talk into her headset. The receptionist can’t be much older than me, but she looks like a senior and I feel like a freshman. She’s probably already lived in the city for a year or two. And city living is the equivalent to dog years in life experience. I’d moved to Manhattan in a packed U-Haul that had America’s Moving Adventure—Maine underneath a giant lobster on the side just two weeks ago. I was moving my stuff in on the corner of 85th and Columbus wearing L.L. Bean boots and a flannel shirt.

My resumes are tucked under my armpit and I pull out the little piece of paper stuffed in my Filene’s Basement suit pocket to check my contact’s name. It’s 1994, so writing notes to myself is a way of life. It’s my fifth or sixth interview on Wall Street and I’m starting to understand the formality of it all. After I check, I take a seat in the waiting area. Eventually a skinny guy with a beer belly extends his hand. He’s got brown hair and is about ten years older than I am. He’s got his white sleeves rolled up and a blue tie loosened. I follow him to a conference room and take a seat across from him. It’s going exactly like all of my other interviews and we’re hitting every beat. We’re just at the point when he’s going to ask me if I have any questions, but instead he asks a different one. “How much money do you want to make?”

“Huh?”