“In the federal trial, AIG alleges that ousted CEO Maurice ‘Hank’ Greenberg left AIG in 2005 with 290 million shares of illegally seized stock, since sold for an estimated $4.3 billion …”
“A consortium led by Kumho Investment Bank has taken over the headquarters ”
The disintegrating company’s news Googles into my inbox, like jagged rocks down an avalanche.
I could tell you about AIG.
That I was one of the no-name people, not the elites who screwed up. That I made $20,000 a year. That my office was on the narrow crooked end of Wall Street where on the most glorious sunny day, it was dusk out my manager’s window.
That my own office was three mustard-colored walls and one grey, free-standing partition.
I could tell you that I was terrified of the big buildings, the air of mystery, the sub-CIA cowboy culture. Of the numbers I didn’t understand.
I could tell you that our P.R. policy was Don’t Talk to the Press. That the building foundations shook when USA Today named chief, Hank, the seventh highest-paid CEO in the nation — or was it the world?
I could tell you that not only in the company, but all over Wall Street, everyone knew that A.I.G. meant All Is Greenberg. I could tell you that if Spitzer hadn’t forced Hank out, we wouldn’t be in this mess, that AIG’s been brain-dead ever since.
I could tell you I have a soft-spot for Hank. I could tell you that this company was a family when I had nonethe year people died, went mad, out of business, into rehab and nursing homes.
I could tell you that for years I ignored the half page ads in the Help Wanteds with the tall letters that said WALL STREET. That I only answered AIG’s because it didn’t. That when I learned it was Wall Street and didn’t answer their calls. That they kept calling.
That my boss at AIG was the first man I worked for who didn’t harass me. That he was a blue collar New Jersey newsman. That his staff called him Bambi behind his back.
I could tell you that this was the year the stock market dropped. That a rising tide lifts all boats, but hurricanes stir up gold. I could tell you I made the best friends of my life there. That we drank vodka in the morning but worked through the night.
I could tell you that AIG’s unofficial motto was “We shall pay no claim before its time.” That it didn’t need a diversity program, its workers came from over the world, its interns from housing projects.
I could tell you we were proud of the sub-CIA cowboy culture. That I came to have more respect for financial people than writers. That the Ivy arts grads I roomed with after college couldn’t hack the real world. That they left their jobs and lived off their parents. I could tell you that AIG didn’t care about pedigrees, just work. That people on Wall Street don’t take money from their families, they support them.
I could tell you that on my floor Jews and Arabs were friends. That there was a transsexual, a platinum punk rocker, and a girl with purple hair, (me.) I could tell you all about the married closet queen and his 400-pound secretary.
I could tell you how I learned to use a personal computer there. That on the computer cube wall hung the Leviathan company chart. For internal use only. A complex web of holding companies, limited partnerships, and wholly-owned subsidiaries. Chilean pension funds, Indonesian customs bonds anyone?
Four hundred boxes, cross-linked, to outsmart the auditors.
I could tell you that when Hank made a joke people were afraid to laugh. That his oldest son Jeffrey was overworked, that his second son Evan looked like a movie star. That he fired both sons, or they left of their own volition, and became CEOs elsewhere.
That when Hank entered a party, he scattered crowds like a smoke bomb. That he was five foot six, or looked it. That he was 60 and looked 40. That the one time my work brought me within feet of him, he winked.
I could tell you that I remember what I wore that day and what it cost. That I walked home over the Brooklyn Bridge.
I could tell you that my whole life flowed from that building. That it split me in two and broke up my home. That when I worked there, I moved to a seedy hotel. That AIG was more home than hotel, both prison and refuge.
I could tell you that I couldn’t afford to leave the hotel till I got a better job. That I left AIG after 18 months for a $10,000 raise. That I’d have stayed for $5,000.
I could tell you that I understood why AIG was cheap. That by the time I left I understood numbers. About shareholder value. About managing risk. I could tell you that AIG wasn’t like other Wall Street Casinos.
I could tell you that once a week Hank went through his rolodex to call someone in and rip his face off. That I wasn’t important enough for this to ever happen to me. That the old Chinese waiters were equity millionaires. That the upper echelons lived in a culture of fear. That they worked with Golden Handcuffs. AKA Deferred Compensation. AKA Holding on for the Retirement Bonus.
I could tell you that when Spitzer kicked Greenberg out, he parted the golden pot from the people who’d earned it. Or were promised it. That none of this was on paper, all on trust.
I could tell you that most likely the company chart, with its 400 cross-linked boxes, made this perfectly legal.
Is life ever fair?
I could tell you more. I could tell you all policemen are pigs, all soldiers murderers, all men are rapists and all Wall Street workers evil.
Or I could tell you that Hank Greenberg gave me a job when no one else would. That the company saved my life. Or I could tell you I left my soul back there, locked up in a grey metal desk drawer.
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