Chapter 2: Let me Clear My Throat

When I graduated from a small liberal arts college in distant and frigid Maine [North East USA], I had somehow managed to make my way away from the hands of the "ivy leaguers" and "target school" focused recruiters. I, the 22 year old Ecuadorian who managed to get a scholarship to attend school abroad, was recruited by no other than top investment bank Goldman Sachs. Goldman freaking Sachs.

I was recruited into the New York office. Into the very 50th floor of 1 New York Plaza. The very first first building at the very tip of the Manhattan borough. My glorified start entailed being at the office at 5:00am daily to kick off trading activity for the Pan European Equities team. It was lovely. Up at 4:30am every day, milking the markets before my team made it in. I did not know anything about finance. Worse even, about trading floor culture. I was never told, "behave like you are in a produce market back at home." No. To me, this entailed working with the top of the top. I treated people with reverence. Overtime, it paid off. Character came through. Respect prevailed. Professionalism in the form of humbleness prevailed. But in the short term, my senior colleagues wondered why I treated them like the pope. Why I tip toed when a phone call arrived. "He is not shark enough to prevail" I can hear my peers thinking. My hair was slicked back. In true Latin American style, my button-up shirt was open to half my chest. Oh yes, full hair action showing off. And I obliviously worked. Day in. Day out. And dedicated fully, to learn.

Time flowed by. And the challenges and responsibilities mounted. The culture was outstanding. People I worked with were well rounded individuals. No "I' in our teams. No actual respect or allowance for bright stars. We merged. My colour bright shirts at some point became light blue. I merged gradually with the wholly business principles on top. I loved the principles. And often checked in with the privilege of having such ample responsibility at such early age. I transitioned from Equities to Commodities. A hot seat. Fast track indicator. Everyone wanted to trade derivatives. And commodities were in the upswing. There was simply no better opportunity. Goldman Sachs. New York. Commodities. Still, these things did not land. I remained focused on my duties. On building a career.

In the process of this, at some ridiculous point after a promotion, I lost my best friend to an accident. Off he went. A soul that touched me fully in a tragic accident. A moment that changed me to the deepest levels. I was the being he was on his way to pick up when his death occurred. And without me noticing, life started changing. My nights became random walks across Manhattan. Supposedly reading Commodities reports, I ended up frolicking to midnight establishments. My work continued to flourish. The responsibilities grew. And I was leading regional initiatives and became responsible for significant chunks of P&L for the team. No better focus than work. No better distractor than the interior based life of a trading floor. Where I could leash out and lash out any aggressiveness in a simple request for a quote to a colleague trader. Or feel immense at any given glass office conversation. With my managers. With the firm's partners. Or with the clients that came from the highest offices of the Ministries across Latin America.

I was there. X, in the making.

Through this process, I discovered one day an ample, vast, and overwhelming burning of my stomach. If I had a drink the night before. Burn. If I had tomatoes. Burn. If I had orange juice. Oh baby, BURN! And so i did, I lived my days with stomach burning. I remained alone. No significant other by my side. Just me. And my burning. At Goldman Sachs, I did not permit myself to think of the doctor. That entailed time off the desk. Book the doctor. Find the doctor. Research a doctor compatible with an insurance policy I did not understand. And simply chose not to. At one point, after my promotion, and three years after joining the firm, I felt it was time to request a physical. First time to the doctor in three years. The physical visit was sponsored by the firm. And so it meant at most 30-45 minutes off the trading floor. To X's ethical commitment, this was okay.

And so I went, and in general strokes detailed my stomach burning. The doctor told me it sounded like I needed an endoschopy and smoothly scheduled it. After much thought, I delivered the news to my team via email. "Team, on July 23rd, I will be going to a doctors appointment at 4:00pm. The procedure advises I go home to rest but seeing how it goes, the doctor may allow me to come back. Please let me know if there are any issues." I was oblivious. My managers of course told me go and take the afternoon off.

And so I went. The doctor had recommended to go with someone. My friends were plenty. But I could not think I could disturb anyone else from their days. We were all working our asses off. And so I went to the clinic. A private clinic in 40th street. The doctor was male, Jewish, and kind. He must have been in his 50's. It was a very quick visit. I was shown to a room that resembled a studio apartment by the nurse. She talked to me in script. Told me to lay to my side. And put me to asleep. No one knew I was there. My parents were in Ecuador. I did not want to worry them. My younger sister at Yale, I did not want to frighten her. My friends were there, working. I provided emergency numbers as my two roommates. But then erased that. And then jot down my father's name. The nurse asked, is he in New York, "No" I replied. "He is in Ecuador". What good is that? I felt she asked. That was my reality. Sister take it. And leave me be.

And so I felt into anaesthetic coma. First time I am thrown into black-out mode ever. Waking up was, therefore, awkward. The doctor did not say goodbye. They would call me with the results. I was dissy and felt naughty by missing work. I went back to the floor at 7:30pm. No one was there. I sent a couple emails. I was yelled at by my dear Associate, a woman would who would become integral in my life. She was also from Ecuador. She also worked in Commodities. She also was a free spirit.

And so I went home. Days later, I received the news. I was told I had an "acid misbalance", gastric acid that is. Nothing serious. Just a misbalance. i was then prescribed some lovely pill to have every night and day. Of course, it was had for three weeks. And it did nothing. I was glad to know I had no ulcer. Or no gastritis. I did not think it serious. And so life went on. And on I drank. And on I worked. And on I explored New York. The city never let me rest. It gave me as much as I took. And I took a lot. I have myself fully to it. It was there to receive it. And throw me some change in return.

Those were the hidden pleasures of my New York. It offered everything.

In response to no subsiding to the burning, I recoursed to the alley I best new in China town. An alley never flocked by tourists and with a very eventual and random Western face. I went there, to the Fish Herb Centre, a massage dungeon where what felt like hundreds of mainland chinese worked and gave cheap massages. Forty dollars for the hour. This would have been a sin to pay back at home but here in New York, it was THE deal. And so I became a regular of the centre. The Chinese lady that knew me, and assigned herself to me, knew that my stomach needed her. And so she massaged my face, body, and legs but saved the real deal for the stomach. She would lift it out of my body, and concentrically touch it, pressed in the right spots. It felt as if water dropped on the top of my skull and slowly melted throughout. She had me at hello. It all went away. Orgasmic relaxation of stomach meant more than running by the West Side highway, than endless loft dinners, than visits to the MOMA or the Chelsea galleries. No relaxation matched that moment.

I allowed myself this orgasmic experience once a week. The other days I would simply go back home, sit at the edge of the bed, and stretch my body as far as I could. For a bit, that made the trick. Then, I would start rolling a crystal bottle of Perrier water up and down my stomach. Volcanoes within. Volcanic activity that felt, oh, so good.

And so the months went on. Unrealised the issue. I gulped water at the gym one night in an evening work out and did not go down. I looked around when no one looked I vomited the water in the nearest trash can. "Damn, I thought." I am in terrible shape. Man, come on, fatso, that is what you get for eating like this! And I went on to run. Never mind I was in okay shape. Next I know is that on the trading floor I am eating breakfast, and it would not go down. The food stayed. So I stretched my head back patiently and eventually it went down. Next bite. Conversation with a client while eating. Taking notes. Closing a trade. Next bite Speaking to the boss. Discuss bonus. Negotiate pay. Next bite. Breakfast issues started populating lunch time. I could not swallow. I just continued eating.

Memorably, one fine day, during lunch, post a big night out with clients the night before, I ate our beloved Indian lunch. X and Y closed trades, fine performance by us both. And the food simply did not go down. It stayed. I waited my usual forty seconds but no sign of swallowing. I could not breathe. I stood up, not showing panic, and went to the nearest office room where I normally would find a trash can and force myself to vomit but all the rooms were taken. And so I tried frantically to make it to the bathroom. It felt as though I did not breathe for a month. I felt like I would collapse. And as I made my way to the bathroom, the food finally came out. I had to vomit in my hands. And as I left, Partner Managing Director, Power woman, with none other than a senior client are walking in. I rushed by them, she caught a glimpsee, and seeing my rushedness prefered not to ask. I made it to the bathroom. My eyes were red. I bathed my mouth. Looked at myself in the mirror and got back to my desk. She never asked what happened.

In this process, I woke up one fine October morning. I had been promoted to a dream job. I rose in the fast track. I had not made it to the shower. I was about to face my daily routine. And my shoulders dropped. Life felt incomplete. Vomit aside. Not swallowing was a non issue. Life, as itself, felt uneasy. Sad Rushed. Indoors. Un-emancipated. Un-free. I needed a change. I loved the company. I saw myself for years and years surrounded by those people. But something within was clapping for attention. When my shoulders dropped, I knew, it was time for change.

Bear Sterns collapsed a few months later. And then off went Lehman Brothers. The sign was clear. I was to leave. Not endure the crisis. Grateful for all the opportunities. The amazing growth. And leave to become a Masters student. The MBA was my victim degree of choice. I was to leave transparently. Openly. Leaving all open doors at Goldman Sachs. And in spite of most people at the trading floor not respecting much the MBA credential, and questioning why I left, I decided to go off and make my way into becoming a youth once again. Into allowing adventure, uncertainty, and risk into my life. I made the transition smooth. My team was incredibly supportive. My departure was reality. It was all it could be. It was managed well.

New York, also, became the other factor. I felt ready to leave the city. I had started drawing my face and concrete emerging from it. I wrote poetry, broken poetry, about asphalt raining on my face, and skyscrappers falling on me. This felt romantic but to an extent felt as though my body and mind were ready for change. I envisioned London. Asia. Brazil. As places where I would be born again. Away from this city that had become so pervasive in my notion of reality. I also saw that I had become hopelessly impatient. That I had lost my ability to touch humanity. To connect with reality away from the Manhattan reality. From the island where windows rained on me, and it was okay. Where roads frolicked into my ear, traversed my brain, and it was okay. Where my shoulders, one fine day, dropped. It was unacceptable.

And so, getting solid, liquids, and all kinds of food stuck in my chest, and not noticing, I made up my mind. I am to become a student. And I left.