Tonight I’m spending the night on the street. I’m raising money for the Covenant House. Covenant House not only shelters, feeds and medically cares for homeless teens, but also has educational and employment programs to help empower the kids, it’s an emotional and worthy cause. I’m sleeping out so others don’t have to… I’m at 98% of my donation goal.

I pitched the idea to cover the night to CNBC and they’re on board – so hopefully we’ll have a video and article for you on Friday.

Here’s my donation page – Sleep Out Donations

I knew that eventually Jenn, my ex, would start dating someone. I was okay with that. We had too much of a past to ever consider getting back together, and the present was too good to consider changing. I thought we’d already been through the hardest part. We’d managed to get past the breakup of a five-year relationship, which culminated in my return to drug and alcohol rehab. We’d navigated our way through the short sale of our home. We’d had to get lawyers. We’d fielded questions from Lola, our four-year-old daughter, as to why Mommy and Daddy were no longer living together. Each hurdle proved to be difficult, but we agreed on one basic premise: What’s best for Lola?

After a while, joint custody seemed almost normal. Thursdays, Fridays, and every other Saturday at Daddy’s house and the rest of the time with Mommy seemed fair—on paper. Pick-up and drop-off were always pleasant, but sometimes life happened and we had to accommodate the other person’s schedule. Not once did we have to refer to the legal document issued by the courts. We just communicated. Always starting every conversation with: What’s best for Lola?

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It’s rare that anything positive comes to me through the mailbox these days. Typically, my walk from the driveway to the trash can hidden underneath the sink consists of eyeballing and sorting through unwanted catalogs, IRA statements, and unsolicited junk mail. It’s just a daily chore. But once a month I get my American Express bill. I always know when it’s coming. We meet at the mailbox at 4 p.m. right around the 20th of every month. The back of the envelope resembles a sinister smile saying, “Open me…I dare you.”

I don’t comply. I just look at it and it stares back at me. It’s like the moment before a duel with matched weapons and agreed-upon rules. I try to assess my challenger before grabbing it. Then I feel for its weight and thickness, just like when I was waiting for college acceptance or rejection letters. You can tell a lot about an American Express bill from the envelope.

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It may be holiday-shopping season at the mall but on Wall Street, it’s bonus season. The amount they’ll receive has pretty much already been determined so there’s only one thing left to do — figure out how to spend it.

The average bonus per employee in New York City’s financial-services industry was about $164,000 last year according to a report from New York State Comptroller, but for traders, sales people and bankers, bonuses can hit seven figures.

By the time you get to million-dollar-bonus territory, you’ve grown accustomed to living a certain lifestyle. You upgrade your wardrobe and buy a car, maybe an apartment or rent a bigger place. The vacations you go on are more extravagant — instead of Hilton Head you jet over to the Greek Islands. Here’s the breakdown:

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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?”

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Everyone wants to point a finger at the 1 percent. “They’re the reason for all our troubles.” “If it wasn’t for the 1 percent being so greedy then the world would be a much better place.” Or so people think. But the 1 percent isn’t greedy; they already have all they can spend. It’s those damn 2 percenters who are the problem: the 1 percent wannabes, the classic “climbers.” They’re the guys and girls we took to the prom who hopped into someone else’s limo at the end of the night. You need to be careful because the 2 percent will cut a bitch.

Your Friend Is in the 2 Percent If:

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