Random Reader Reaction

I like my women like I like my loafers: expensive, fit, and more often than not, with a bit of bling around their necks. They’re probably my two favorite things in the world, women and loafers. Put to it, I’m not even certain which one I’d pick over the other. I’d normally be tempted to select women, but, it is summer right now, meaning that until the government mandates a universally implanted, 3-month contraceptive device (sans mood swings), the winner would have to be my loafers—the ones I can safely slip into bareback.
Note: My affinity for black and brown loafers does not quite carry over to their female counterparts.

But summer means more to me than just unprotected loafer-sex. Summer means Coral Reef, Jake Blue, and Bermuda Pink. It means timeshares, outdoor dining, and Bethpage Black. It means a seersucker hoodie when it’s a bit nippy, and seersucker shorts when it’s not. Summer means various things to various people, but one thing it means for most people in finance and all of New York is: interns.

In what other scenario is a city so flooded with impressionable, overeager, and clueless minds as summer in Manhattan? I’m told there is a similar wave of little political interns towards D.C. this time of year, but frankly, I’m not even certain they get paid. And anyway, what is the overall impact of that industry when compared to that of finance? Negligible. Don’t get me wrong—activism is to be applauded, but only in hedge funds.

Back to the subject. Emotionally, summer interns act intimidated and obsequious. And even if they hate finance, they are hyper-aware of the comfort that would come with getting an offer (a feeling perhaps only comparable to early action / decision to college), and they are driven accordingly. This is their entire psychology, terribly simple and uninteresting.

Instead of dwelling on that though, let’s consider a quick cultural analysis of the average undergraduate finance summer interns in New York, which is more interesting only in that we can amuse ourselves with their naiveté:

Where They Live

From 14th Street to 200 Water, New York University dorms get filled with juniors working in finance seeking summer housing. These units sometimes also house foreign graduate students (law, even). They often are minuscule. And they, without fail, have the pungent smell of Tier Four exuding from the walls (Does the stench come from that little torch that is their emblem?).

Tragically, the time when New York University’s dormitories are filled with the most intelligent students is the summer, when very few of the students attend NYU. One can only hope the NYU administration is aware of this and hoping some of the brainpower will rub off.
Note: Frugal Midwestern State School X students interning at Houlihan H(L)okey are known to spend their entire summers in one of New York’s, communal-bathroom “youth hostels.”

What They Wear

Like their unpolished speech, summer interns’ fashion is a bit too frat. They can easily be spotted by their brand spanking new canvas messenger bags and shoes from Aldo. No joke, I even saw one on the street with white socks and black pants—must have been a rough day at work for him. Interns are universally clueless, but perhaps most tragic is that many have gone out with their mothers and intentionally invested in their “sweet” new threads. Come on Intern Mom—I know this shit wasn’t acceptable in your day, either.

Where They Go Out

Summer interns beam proudly when they’re out at someplace like Bowery Bar, the South Street Seaport, or that horrendous bar in the middle of Union Square; they’re almost endearing all lined up drinking Rum & Cokes or Long Island Iced Teas or god knows what. They will also spend a fair amount of time at the Hudson Hotel, Maritime, and waiting in line outside the Gansevoort, but the summer intern will, unequivocally, wet his pants and leave the bar/club scene behind if he even hears mention of a “rooftop party” (2 Gold! 45 Wall! et.al.).

Inspecting this culturally-unrefined species, it’s frightening to think that many interns will one day join the ranks of real Bankers and leaders of their generation. It’s scary to consider the massive amount of responsibility that will be placed on those young shoulders in just a couple years. It’s almost a miracle that the system functions.

But interns aren’t all bad, and there is a bright side to having my city flooded with them—it’s even more easy than usual for an established finance guy like me to woo a young female. “Deal flow,” as it were, is greatly increased.

As a matter of fact, I’m currently filtering a list I’ve aggregated from friends still at banks for a girl intern to invite out to East Hampton for an unofficial information session. I’ll mentor and guide her through all the tough questions she’s facing: was it ok that she was having some trouble understanding how to create a restructuring model for a bankrupt corporation with multiple cross-border divisions?—Sure, girls aren’t expected to complete the difficult work anyway. Will it be tough on her as a woman in finance?—No, she’s cute. And will it be bad if she doesn’t get an offer?—Yes, she won’t be able to leverage that offer for a better one, and she might end up working at a place whose name doesn’t incite envy. Imagine that.

She’ll nod (too frequently, as if she’s in class) through all of this, and her eyes will widen when I casually tell her the tale of the credit agreement I just negotiated. It was just for the revolver; but hey, that word even turns me on. Then, when she’s sufficiently impressed, I’ll bust out my new Tods¹ (white stitching and tie) which will undoubtedly push her over the top.

Hopefully, if I filter well enough, my summer intern will be one with an unnaturally clear, acne-free complexion, and I’ll be able to simultaneously experience my two favorite things in the world, sockless.

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¹Intern chicks don’t even require the real high-end shit.