Lee Geiger

Get me Bobby Kahan!

Paul Hopkins, Texas Teachers Retirement, circa 1993

“So what will you say to Bobby?”

Like the teaser of a Donald Trump presidency, the question of how to address our former superiors at Wednesday night’s “Montgomery Securities Reunion” presents for some a challenging conundrum. One the one hand, should a prominent “thank you” articulate to the sixteen members of the event’s host committee, each of whom made enough money as a Montgomery Securities partner to purchase a small Caribbean island. Or, like the vast majority of attendees who filed a W-2 instead of a K-1, should one make the most of their “$300 minimum suggested donation for entry” and use the event as an opportunity to finally and forever tell their former bosses to stick their fortunes where the sun doesn’t shine. (Full disclosure: proceeds from this event raised over $150,000 for The 49ers Foundation “Fresh Lifelines for Youth (FLY) program, an award winning non-profit dedicated to breaking the cycle of violence, crime and incarceration of teens).

I did two tours of duty at Montgomery. My first was a three-year stint beginning in February 1991. Montgomery 1.0 was a brash, prepubescent thirteen year-old teenager, and despite the million-dollar art collection welcoming visitors to the reception lobby tucked inside the 22^nd floor of the Transamerica Pyramid, the downstairs equity trading floor had all the charm of a medieval slave ship. I realized I wasn’t in Kansas anymore on my very first day at work, when I stepped into a sweltering arena held together by guile and duct tape and was greeted by a howling cacophony of trading banter, much of it handcuffed to one of George Carlin’s Seven Dirty Words. Locker room mentalities were the trading floor norm back in the Nineties, but the testosterone-fueled culture perpetuated by Montgomery’s managers bordered on the pugilistic. The commands were loud and sharp, the insults belittling and personal. Like a rollicking band of greedy pirates trolling the high seas, Montgomery Securities was a nameless adventurer, a swashbuckling bully, reeking of blood and leather. It was, in short, not a very fun place to work.

But here’s the kicker: I knew that coming in.

I was broke, unemployed, and thirty days from fatherhood when Bobby Kahan first hired me. To say I was grateful would be a gross  understatement. Bobby gave me a job when no one else on Wall Street was hiring. More importantly, he provided me with something I had spent a lifetime seeking; an opportunity to succeed. But I had heard the rumors and read the tea leaves, and I knew succeeding at Montgomery implied much more than simply working hard; it meant surviving. A siege mentality pervaded over Montgomery’s trading floor, where the blitzkrieg of verbal intimidation and senseless browbeating were ratcheted to an art form. Success wasn’t measured by what you did yesterday; you were judged by what you did an hour ago. “They’re lining up outside the door to take your jobs,” was Bobby’s all-too-familiar mantra, reminding everyone within earshot that Montgomery Securities was the ultimate reality show, and that at any given moment you could be voted off the island.

But here’s the thing; not once did I ever see a Montgomery employee padlocked to their desk. No guards stood over your cubicle holding a gun held to your head, forcing you to get on the phone and make your calls. Anyone could up and leave and quit their job whenever they wanted to. But the money was too good, the industry too exciting. Wall Street was THE place to be in the Nineties, and you’d be labeled certifiable if you were crazy enough to leave your post. So while many complained, few ever left. Nonetheless, after a circuitous three year grind, which included a highlight reel of being involved in the biggest block trade in Montgomery’s short history and getting fired by Jim Cramer, I had had enough. In early 1994, when I came to the realization that I would never be promoted to F.O.B. status (Friend of Bobby’s), I made the decision and left for the calmer waters of Robertson Stephens. “That’s the worst decision anyone’s ever made on Wall Street,” Bobby said to me as I made my way out of his office. Though I can’t recall my exact words, I’m sure I returned the favor and wished him a hearty good luck as well.

While the physical distance between Robertson and Montgomery was measured in yards, when it came to trading acumen the gap between the two rival firms could be calibrated in light years. Montgomery was The Show, while Robby Stephens was Double-A. Unexpectedly, like a batter who can suddenly hit everything thrown at him, the world of trading slowed down for me.  The searing flames of market mayhem I had experienced in 36 months at 600 Montgomery Street had prepared me for battle. As a result, I quickly found my professional stride at Robertson, and though I would admit it to no one, I gave all the credit to Bobby. He had taught me not only the science of pricing merchandise, but more importantly, Bobby had schooled me on the art of convincing a customer to take action. Though I didn’t fully realize it until years later, Bobby had laid the groundwork to what would eventually become the single most important weapon in my Wall Street arsenal; the ability to trust myself. Whether it was the Montgomery shackles being removed from my wrists, or the fact that Robby Stephens was considered the Jurassic Park of the trading universe, for the first time in my career I began trusting what I was doing. I believed in what I was saying to my customers, and I trusted my instincts to do what was right. My knowledge base grew exponentially with time, and so did my account package. After gaining three more years of valuable experience and contacts, Bobby Kahan, on the strong advice of my customers (and Scott Kovalik), swallowed his Montgomery pride and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

So like MacArthur, I did return. Only what I witnessed bore little resemblance to your father’s Montgomery. Market dynamics, along with a shot of new blood in leadership roles, had caused a seismic shift in the Montgomery culture. Rightful confidence replaced blatant arrogance, and rabid dissention had been bartered for spirited camaraderie. The capital markets of the late 1990’s were hotter than a New Mexican rattlesnake in heat, and Montgomery had raised its game and smoothed its rough edges. Professionalism, though not always civility, had found its way onto the trading floor. And thanks to a barnyard fire of a bull market, Montgomery 2.0 was the wildest party in town.

But nothing on Wall Street lasts forever, and eventually the F.O.B fan club was disbanded and shown the door. There was a new sheriff in town, and I’ll be the first to raise my hand and say Scotty was the right man for the job. My career soared after that, as did my net worth, and I rode the F.O.S. wave (friend of Scotty’s) as long and hard as I could. In 2003, when it came time to say my goodbyes and make my final curtain call from the Pyramid garage, I blew a kiss in appreciation toward those who signed my more-than-generous bonus checks. Because when the storied history of Montgomery Securities is finally written, a 20-year odyssey shared by bulls, bears, buddies and boors, a lot of people will have made a lot of money. Not that there was anything wrong with that.

So what will I say to Bobby? Probably not much, but I will say something to him for my $300 donation, a check I’m only too happy to write.

“Thank you.”

Views from the Cheap Seats, Part II

“So who do you want to see at the reunion?”

I want to see Blanca Gutierrez and know if her smile is as bright as I remember.

I want to see Bobby Olsen and thank him for forgiving me for having to lay him off.

I want to see Bill Falk and ask him if his Oregon neighbors also call him Dirt.

I want to see Jerry Markowitz and tell him I never bought into his act. But he sure made me laugh.

I want to see Thom Weisel and ask him if he remembers who I am.

I want to see Rick Kimball and ask him if I can meet Giselle (anyone can get an audience with Tom Brady).

I want to see Len Oppenheim and ask him what’s it’s like to discuss radical politics with an Iowa farmer.

I want to see John Skeen and ask him if he stills drives 120 mph on the flat portion of I-580.

I want to see Joe Jolson and ask him if JMP’s stock price will ever reach the levels it achieved during its first day of trading. In 2007.

I want to see Craig Johnson and tell him how I jumped out of my chair and let loose a rebel yell after watching him knock it stiff on #12 at Pebble Beach with Bill Murray in his foursome. And to tell him how incredibly silly he looked wearing a blue blazer over his Warriors t-shirt during last season’s playoff run.

I want to see Scott Kovalik and ask him what ever happened to that job offer in Hong Kong.

I want to see Greg Allcroft and give him a hug.

I want to see Victoria Parker and tell her she’s still the single most favorite person I ever met on Wall Street.

I want to see Michael Balog. Everyone wants to see Michael Balog.

Finally, I wish I could see Jim McMahon, who sadly can’t be with us. I once told Jimmy he was the worst boss I ever had, but the greatest date I ever met. I miss him.

See you Wednesday.