Free Moral Hazard by Kate Jennings

stench from my mouth and nose, I would stop between parked cars and retch into the gutter.

18
    Horace wore his suits lightly; his colleagues came bubble-wrapped in their pinstripes. But on the day he had to give a speech to the firm’s Women’s Network, his tailoring was no help. He looked as uncomfortable, as unhappy, as a wet cat.
    Fretting about the speech, he had enlisted me to come up with ideas. This was a problem. I kept my distance from diversity issues. I admired the people who put energy into the task, but they were Penelopes, always weaving, their work unraveling during the night. No matter how many speeches were given, targets announced, and initiatives launched, the numbers of African Americans, Hispanics, and Asians at the firm kept filling, with women making only the tiniest of gains. And, to be honest, I found young women bankers off-putting. They seemed to have perfected—indeed, made into an art form—the kind of hand gestures that showed off large diamond rings to maximum effect. And they could be more obnoxious, more condescending, than their male counterparts. While I marveled at their astonishing self-confidence, I also couldn’t help but think,
For this my generation of feminists fought the good fight
? (The answer:
Yes.
)
    Horace was of the opinion that minorities had the bank by the short hairs. (No, not his words.) I pointed out that Niedecker had yet to appoint a woman to its executive management team, par for the Street.
    “They’re in the pipeline,” he replied. Ah, the fabled pipeline, invoked at moments like this. “And we have two women on our board.” Miffed, defensive.
    “Good for Niedecker! But two swallows do
not
a summer make.” Trying hard to keep insolence out of my voice.
    “You never miss a trick, do you?” And we turned back to his speech.
    I warned Horace against repeating the CEO’s mistake in front of the same group. Our Big Toe—so white, so male, so advantaged—had earnestly put himself forward as an example of diversity. If he, a Midwesterner, plucked from architectural studies at Princeton, could succeed at Niedecker, anyone could, prompting head-ducking, teeth-gritting embarrassment. (“My favorite honky,” commented one black woman to another, sotto voce.) I suggested instead to Horace that he empathize with the women by saying that being female in financial services was like playing tennis with the wind against you. One had to be careful using sports metaphors with career women, but I thought this might make the grade.
    Horace forged into the meeting and spoke his piece. Polite applause. Then a panel of midlevel women took over. It became apparent that none of them thought that the wind was against them. Instead, to hear them tell it, they were making their way unaided except by their own talent and determination, vanquishing doubt by the excellence of their work. No mistake about it, these gals were fast-tracking to the top. For them, the pipeline was a greased waterslide at an amusement park. Bravado? All the same, standing there, at the back of the room, I felt like the Ancient Mariner.

19
    Niedecker had two dining rooms. One was on the top floor, a soaring space with a maître d’, attentive waitresses, exquisite art, and sweeping views of Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. Here executives and managing directors dined with one another or with clients. When so disposed, MDs invited subordinates to accompany them, in the name of mentoring.
De haut en bas
occasions, to be endured. The other dining area was a cafeteria in the sub-basement, where everyone below MD level amiably congregated to dissect the latest gossip. The food was awful, a notch above nursing home fare, but it was free.
    I was lunching in the firm’s cafeteria with Richard, the Human Resources officer who kept tabs on our department, when Mike walked by our table with one of his underlings in tow and nodded in my direction. Although he was executive management, he sometimes came