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Confessions of a Wall Street Analyst

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Ed picked me up at my house in a taxi. My home, at the time, was nothing super fancy, but Paula and I had put a lot of sweat into it and were quite proud of it.

Ed took one look at the house and almost started laughing. "You ought to come to Wall Street and hit the big time," he said.

That's what I was thinking as I stepped off the early morning express train from Scarsdale and stood on Madison Avenue, blinking nervously in the bright sunlight. As I gazed up at the rows of tall buildings and tried to avoid colliding with the natives, I felt the tiniest sense of relief.

At least my job was on Wall Street. Madison Avenue, by contrast, was the center of the advertising world, the place where smart and manipulative companies burned loads of cash and creative energy to convince us that we needed to wash our hands with Dial, brush our teeth with Colgate, and wipe our derrieres with Charmin. At least I was going to be an analyst whose job it was to evaluate companies on their merits, not someone whose raison d'etre was to seduce America's soap-opera watchers with meaningless slogans and exaggerated promises.

My new job in equity research, I believed, had nothing to do with manipulation and everything to do with balanced, rational thinking. I had made the leap to Wall Street in part because of the money, but also because being an analyst seemed like the perfect job for a serious guy like me who liked to reason his way through life. Sure, emotion and hype sneaked into my line of work occasionally, but in the end, the stock market was rational, analytical, cool. Fooling people wasn't part of this equation.

Or so I thought. In retrospect my naivete sounds charming or -- let's not be charitable -- silly. Of course Wall Street was as much about fooling people as Madison Avenue was, at least if you were one of the corporate executives trying to convince investors -- and analysts -- that your company's shares would shoot to the moon. But my job, I hastened to tell myself, was all about shooting straight. I had been in a sales role before, and I'd never liked it. Now I'd have a chance to focus entirely on the facts.

I grabbed on to that belief as if it were a life preserver and clutched it as I walked up Madison, then west on Forty-eighth Street and north on Sixth Avenue until I reached the headquarters of Morgan Stanley at Fiftieth and Sixth. I was 36 years old, it was my first day on Wall Street, and I was scared out of my mind.

Not that I had fallen off the turnip truck or anything. I had moved here from Washington, D.C., where I had been director of business analysis at MCI, the brash upstart that was shaking up the telecommunications business. I had interacted with Wall Street and its analysts and bankers for the past two years, trying to make them see my company as positively as I did. What I loved the most was the intellectual sparring as we debated the future of MCI and the telecom industry. It had been a great gig.

But this was the big time. I had been recruited by one of the premier investment banks, a place better suited to Brooks Brothers-clad Greenwich bluebloods than a middle-class public school guy from Buffalo, New York. I was going to be one of a select group of some 35 analysts at Morgan Stanley whose job it was to recommend stocks -- and, I had been told, move the financial markets. The prestige and power of my new job filled me with pride. But the responsibility terrified and humbled me. All of a sudden I was in the major leagues, and I'd never even played Class A ball. What was I doing in the middle of this?

Already, I'd ventured pretty far from my beginnings as the son of a scrap-metal dealer with a high school education. I'd been a political science major and math minor at the State University of New York at Albany, where I'd met my wife-to-be, Paula Zimmer, during a Wiffle ball game on the first day of our second year. She studied art history and then went back to school to become a pediatric-intensive-care nurse. And I'd gone on to become a starry-eyed graduate student of Middle East politics at the University of Chicago and Princeton University, certain I wanted to devote my life to bringing peace to that powder keg of a region.

I ended up at the LBJ School of Public Affairs at the University of Texas, earning a master's degree in 1979. I was hoping for an assignment that involved foreign policy but instead accepted a $24,000 offer from Coopers & Lybrand, one of the world's largest accounting and consulting firms, as an economic consultant in its Washington, D.C., office. For a few years, I was really happy at Coopers. The job appealed to my inner wonk, and I worked my way up the food chain. But once I was promoted to manager, my job became more and more about selling new consulting services to clients. The whole selling thing turned me off. I didn't want my life to be defined by the spin and hype of selling. Working inside a growing company began to sound a lot more interesting.

It just so happened that the Coopers's D.C. office building backed up against the new offices of MCI, an upstart telecommunications company that had been in business since 1968. MCI had emerged as a young, exciting David to AT&T, the ultimate corporate Goliath, with a more responsive, entrepreneurial culture. Its founder, Bill McGowan, had found a way to compete against AT&T in the long distance market even . . .

Continues...

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Excerpted from Confessions of a Wall Street Analyst by Daniel Reingold Copyright © 2006 by Daniel Reingold. Excerpted by permission.
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