Lee Geiger

I did it my way.

Frank Sinatra

Friday, September 4 – 3:00am

I can’t sleep. Haven’t for months. Most mornings I can be found downstairs lying horizontal on the family room couch, mean scrolling through my phone for an hour or two before nodding off for a final lap of shuteye. It’s more than frustrating.

I tune to “Morning Joe” on MSNBC. Host Joe Scarborough says the president made some disparaging remarks to describe fallen American soldiers. Sweet Dixie, is this nightmare ever going to end? I down a mug of tea before beelining to my home office. I’m scheduled to take a test in a few hours and some last-minute cramming is required.

Unbeknownst to most everyone, especially to those I’m closest to, is that fact that today, should everything go as planned, has the possibility of being one of the best days of my life.

The pressure starts to build.

6:30 a.m.

The Pretty Blonde and I meet for our morning “date,” a ritual that’s lasted for years. We normally exchange small talk about how we slept or what’s in store for our day ahead. But today I throw in an apology for doing a perfect Oscar the Grouch impersonation last night while making dinner. No reason for the guff, I tell her. I was just in a foul mood. We’re approaching thirty-five years of marriage, so not every day is wedded bliss. We make up and wish each other a nice day.

Our routine during the pandemic has become fairly predictable; Anne works from home for St. Mary’s College while I motor over to Penserra’s Orinda office for a few hours of marketing duties. But today is anything but routine, if for no other reason than Anne is completely unaware of what I am about to do, the gauntlet I’ve thrown down. Like everyone else in my orbit, she thinks I’m taking the exam next week–Saturday, September 12. I’ve purposely misled her and anyone else who knows I’m taking this test. By the time I return home today for lunch, I’ll either be in the mood to celebrate of slit my wrists. There is no in-between.

My chest begins to tighten. The pressure is mounting.

6:45 a.m.

I’m nervous. I focus on deep breaths. Cruising past downtown Oakland, the haunting lyrics of “Miracles” by Jefferson Starship plays on the radio. How appropriate. I could use a miracle today.

The test I’m taking is called the Financial and Operations Principal Examination, known on Wall Street as the Series 27 Exam. According to FINRA, the brokerage industry’s regulatory arm, this test for FinOP folks (financial operations…get it?);

“…assesses the competency of an entry-level principal to perform their job as a financial and operations principal. The exam measures the degree to which each candidate possesses the knowledge needed to perform the critical functions of a financial and operations principal, including the financial responsibilities, rules and recordkeeping requirements of broker-dealers.”

Earning a Series 27 license allows one to become a number-crunching nerd obsessively nitpicking over financial and operational rules and regulations for Wall Street’s legion of broker/dealers. Who doesn’t want some of that?

How did I get here? In mid-August, Penserra head honcho George Madrigal shared with me the news that the firm’s FinOP professional was no longer available. Somebody in the Penserra ecosystem, he said, needed to have a Series 27 license. I then inquired about others in the firm who could take the test. George proceeded to give me a Penserra history lesson, outlining the obstacles others had encountered over the years to pass the exam. “Holy cow,” I said, “this test sounds brutal.” What had just transpired between George and me was nothing more than innocent conversation about the day-to-day travails he encounters while running a financial services firm. George was simply venting.

Then, suddenly and without warning, my stupidity gene, masquerading as my ego, kicked in. “Why don’t I take a shot at it?”

George paused. His furrowed brow suggested he saw no earthly reason for his firm’s AARP card-carrying director of marketing to undertake such a complicated, rigorous examination on regulatory procedures and protocols. Finally selling out to my puppy dog gaze, George relented. “Go for it, Geiger.”

George’s words lit a fuse that I thought no longer existed. He had just greenlighted an opportunity to prove that an aging Lee Geiger still had his fastball.

For thirty years, I was a simple stock trader. You know, bids on the left, offers on the right. Now I’m a marketing guy, where the hardest part of my job is figuring out how to upload a photo collage. Why on Earth would I raise my hand and volunteer to subject myself to this torture, requiring one to memorize a gobsmacking amount of regulations, such as the early warning criteria of SEC Rule 17a-11 as it pertains to a firm’s net capital; or learning how to compute concentration thresholds and charges on customer margin balances; or figuring out what, and when, fails to receive and fails to deliver should, and should not, be included in determining a broker/dealer’s aggregated indebtedness? It made no sense. Surely, I have better things to do than this, don’t I? Shouldn’t I seek nobler pursuits, such as playing more golf or filling out my fantasy football roster? Anything but this. Not to mention I’m sixty-freaking-years old. I spend half my day either running to the bathroom or trying to remember where I put my glasses.

But the truth is obvious. I’m looking for a challenge. It was a critical element missing from my life. I want to do this. No, I NEED to do this. Desperately, it turns out.

I had recently come to the realization that I was wrong, dead wrong, for thinking that turning sixty provided a lame excuse to stop testing myself. The world is full of people who made their marks on the world after their hair turned grey and the wrinkles on their faces began planting roots. Learning had always been a habit of mine, so why had I been denying myself the opportunity to continue growing as a man? That’s just not me.

Fortunately, neither the fate of Penserra, nor my job, is riding on today’s outcome. George has already crafted a workable fix to the firm’s FinOP dilemma. And if I were to fail the exam, which I’m most likely to do, I can always take it again after thirty days. (memo to George…pigs will fly first). But I wasn’t doing this for George, and I wasn’t doing this for Penserra. I was doing this for me.

The pressure is suffocating. My self respect is on the line. Failure is not an option.

7:00 a.m.

I pull into the Prometric test center, located next to the Oakland Airport. My test is scheduled for 8:00, but I’m instructed to arrive at least a half-hour before. I have just enough time for a last look at my fifteen scrawled pages of notes. What kind of riveting information am I trying to cram into this fermenting brain of mine at the last second? Here’s a bite-sized morsal;

Securities are considered in control if:

• In transfer – 40 calendar days or less
• In transit – 5 business days or less
• Failed to receive – 30 calendar days or less
• Fail to deliver – 10 business days or less
• Stock resulting from splits or dividends – 45 calendar days or less
• Short securities difference – 45 calendar days or less

And that’s just the tippy-tip-tip of the iceberg. It gets worse. Much worse.

I had enlisted the services of the Kaplan Learning Program to help me prepare for the test, which included a thick textbook and a website featuring a potpourri of practice questions. Kaplan came in handy back in the fall of 1983, helping me prep for the Graduate Management Aptitude Test (GMAT), the exam I needed to take prior to applying to business school. Thanks to Kaplan I raised my GMAT score from a putrid 480 to a respectible 690 (out of 800), propelling me toward admission to Dartmouth College’s MBA program. Without Kaplan, I’m stacking cans in El Segundo.

My initiation to the FinOP universe began from a flat-footed standing start. I first opened my textbook on Monday, August 17. I can’t put into words what happened over the ensuing days, but soon I was consumed by a white-hot passion of intense focus, a strap-on-the-blinders mindset I had experienced only twice before in my life. The first was the aforementioned exercise preparing for the GMAT, and the second was in 2009 when I wrote the first draft of my novel. This, I realized by the end of the week, was the third. I was all-in.

Two Mondays and over one-hundred grinding hours of studying later, I had downloaded the entire 260-page textbook in a sea of yellow, highlighting the intricate details encompassing six primary areas of study (net capital requirements, recordkeeping, credit extension, customer protection, FINRA and SEC rules, and Uniform Practice rules…sexy stuff). I had answered each of the 654 practice questions on the Kaplan website, and I was taking victory laps after scoring in the low 90’s on each my four simulated exams. Through hard work and discipline, I had gained a thorough understanding of the circadian rhythm of the FinOP profession. My confidence was sky high, so high that I took a bold step and reschedule my test to the end of the week — Friday, September 4. I was ready.

Now all I had to do was execute. I had devised a plan pulled from a Disney movie; take the exam earlier than anyone anticipated, pass it with flying colors on my very first attempt, and then proudly spike the football during Penserra’s weekly admin meeting on Tuesday, September 8. Everyone on the call would be blown away, so much so that I could hear their jaws hitting the ground from thousands of miles away. How in the world, they would ask themselves, did this old man reach back and pluck from his quiver the mental acuity required to pull this off?

Life is about moments, and rare are the opportunities you get to shock the world. This was mine. And it could very well be my last. I stayed up nights just dreaming about it.

My plan came with one caveat; I had one, and only one, chance to do this MY WAY. To fail the test and start anew, digesting for another four weeks the same mind-numbing material that had all the sex appeal of boiled Brussel sprouts, was more than a downer. It was fatal.

Then Wednesday happened.

Kaplan offered one final, full-scale practice exam; a 145-multiple choice extravaganza executed under test conditions. I would be on the clock, with no cumulative scoring or follow-up text displaying correct answers. Just pick from A B, C or D, hit submit and receive a summary judgement of Pass or Fail. I had planned to take the test on Wednesday morning, in time to provide this cagey codger with a wave of positive energy that would carry him into Friday.

But within minutes, I realized I was in trouble. The first few questions were on material I swear I hadn’t seen before. Nearly every question thereafter bore no resemblance to anything I had seen previously, worded with details and verbiage that created paralyzing doubt and confusion. Unlike the simulated exams, this one had no familiar cadence or rhythm. Upon completion of the Kaplan Death March, I hit submit and immediately came face-to-face with an awful truth. My score was an abysmal 52%. Come Friday, I would need a minimum score of 70% to pass. Losing forty pounds by then seemed easier.

Boxer Mike Tyson once famously said, “Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.” Ain’t that the truth. I had failed, miserably. The blow to my confidence was catastrophic. How could I have been so insanely stupid, so boorishly arrogant, to think I was ready for something as challenging as the Series 27? I was beyond despondent, and I had only myself to blame.

And I had less than 48 hours to recover.

7:30 a.m.

The Prometric testing center bears all the charm of a hospital emergency room. A Betty White lookalike asks for my ID and inspects my glasses to see if I have scribbled any notes onto the frames. She asks me to pull out the pockets of my pants and to raise them high enough so she can determine whether I’m carrying any crib notes, or pipe bombs, around my ankles. Bad Betty is not to be messed with.

There are at least two dozen eager beavers under the age of 30 preparing to take a plethora of tests, from civil engineering exams to medical boards. Surely a few are asking themselves what this burnt out piece of bacon is doing here. I’m beginning to ask that myself.

I’m assigned Cubicle #13. Why not.

8:00 a.m.

I whisper a prayer through my mask (required). I frequently ask God for guidance but asking for His divine intervention is something I rarely do. Today, however, I need all the help I can get.

A button flashing “START EXAM” awaits a response, like my mother waiting for me to come clean on why I missed curfew. No one has forced me to be here, but here I am. I gather my courage and dive in.

The first few questions are challenging, but not nearly as difficult to comprehend as Wednesday’s practice exam. I’ve got three hours and thirty-minutes to answer 155 questions (ten are practice questions for who knows why). That works out to 80 seconds per question. In order to pass, I need to correctly answer at least 70% (101 of 145). Based on what I’ve seen so far, I’d bet the under.

Question #14 asks the following: If a broker/dealer has customer credit balances of $1 million or less and a ratio of aggregate indebtedness-to-net capital (AI/NC) less than 8:1, what reserve requirement percentage is required for the firm to compute monthly?

A. 100%

B. 105%

C. 125%

D. 160%

I know this one. It’s either A or B. One percentage pertains to monthly jibberage, the other to weekly. That’s how granular, specific, and gnarly SEC and FINRA rules and regs are. I pick B, then check a box on the bottom of the screen that says, “Mark for Review.” That means I can come back to it later. I end up doing that A LOT. I look at the clock, relentlessly marching second-by-second toward a finish line of triple-zeros. Nearly thirty minutes have already passed. I need to pick up the pace.

10:30 a.m.

For better or worse, I have selected answers to all 155 questions, and I have an hour to spare. I also have to use the bathroom. BADLY. I raise my hand and am given the go-ahead by Bad Betty. She guides me like a commercial jetliner coming into the gate. Despite being gone for less than two minutes, I have to once again show her my ID and go through the inspection protocol of examining my glasses and pants. Bad Betty should be in charge of Homeland Security.

Throughout my years of taking standardized tests, my ritual is to finish fast and early. But not this time. I click the “Questions Marked for Review” button. There are 86 of them. EIGHTY-SIX! I have only 57 minutes left. Time to get busy.

I return to question #14. Answer B still looks right, but then again it could be A. Or B. Or A. C’mon, Geiger. Think. Think.

I stick with B and move onto the next one. I really have to hurry.

11:28 a.m.

Of the 86 questions marked for review, I change answers on eleven of them. That seems like a lot. I return once again to Question #14. Two minutes are left. Is the answer A or B? I decide to go with my first instinct. Come hell or high water, my answer is B. I look at the clock; thirty seconds left. The agony I’ve put myself through is almost over. But if I fail, the agony could just be beginning.

I stare as the clock clicks down to 0:00. I’m spent mentally, physically, every which way. I have nothing left.

11:31 a.m.

After a few perfunctory post-exam clicks, I come face-to-face with a button labeled, “CLICK HERE FOR RESULTS.”

I’m truly not man enough for this moment. Only the entirety of my self-worth is riding on the outcome. I move to the edge of my chair. I’m scared, frightened even. How am I going to react if I fail? No matter the outcome, I’m going to:

A. Laugh

B. Cry

C. Scream

D. Whimper

It was time to live or die with the consequences. After almost a minute, the shaky index finger of my right-hand leans on the mouse. In an instant, staring back at me near the bottom of the screen, like some invisible person waiting for the bus, is but a simple word.

PASS.

I’m stunned. Beyond stunned. I’m paralyzed with emotion, my breath taken away. I pause several seconds to see if the screen is going to refresh. Nothing changes. I move closer, staring, certain I must have forgotten how to spell. P-A-S-S? Me? Really?

I drop from my chair, my left knee brushing the ground. I wrestle with the urge to howl, but I don’t dare interrupt the other test takers, every one of whom I’m certain is taking an exam exponentially more critical that mine. The room is dead silent. I look up at the ceiling, put my palms together and give thanks to God. He had my back.

Bad Betty asks me to cool my heels while she prints the results for me. The scene is positively surreal. I ask her if it’s true, that I actually passed the FINRA Series 27 exam. She nonchalantly glances at her computer screen. “Yep,” she says with a who-gives-a-hoot snarl. Pass or fail, Bad Betty goes through this exercise dozens of times a day, though I doubt she sees many test takers whose hair is grayer than hers. She notarizes the single sheet of paper, which at the bottom simply states; “Result: Pass.”

I return to my car and close the door. I start rocking back and forth. Tears flow, my face contorts. The next thirty seconds are spent delivering a thunderous roar, a primal scream elicited at the top of my lungs, repeating over and over and over three words I honestly didn’t believe I’d be saying when this day started.

“I DID IT!”