Before the pandemic hit, I spent one late morning in lower Manhattan, right up the block from where old Trinity Church stands observing the ’passerby’s’. By passerby’s I mean working suits, coffee drinkers, Bose ear bud joggers, fashion enthusiasts, lunch vendors, hard hats; the good tax payers like yourself and I. Notepad and pen in hand, I wrote down my hypothesis that this was the microcosm of the universe; millions of people working their daily shift of morning rush, afternoon frenzy and evening drawl home or evening dinner or cocktails (with or without someone to share it with).

The typical Wall Street types and even those suspected of being Wall Street types; pleated pant, red bull drinking, focused, cell phone types - an eerie similarity to what most of the youth look like today. Going with that notion, I noted many of these Wall Street types were young stud bulls with fire in their eyes and belly looking to pull the trigger on a deal that would send them, like my old boss Jim Cramer, into money-making folklore.

What I wondered most was what these Wall Street Kids (as I started to refer to them as) would do at night after a day of madness at the Exchange. What I found will shoot your stereotypical belief down further than the ‘29 crash.

The Wall Street Kids found their way to the urban hipster beat spot of New York: Williamsburg Brooklyn. They congregated in cafe’s and dim pubs that served Manhattan quality Mojitos along side a quirky menu complete with corn and crab chowder, snapper ceviche and a lobster roll which by means of a marquee sign was heralded as the best in New York City. With their suit jackets off and sleeves rolled up, they sat and ordered drinks and food while carrying on hot conversation. Talk of stocks and funds and municipals began to saturate walls of the bar that, if they could talk, would repeat conversations of drug sex and rock and roll. I began to wonder: are these Wall Street Kids any different from rock stars? Hipsters? You and I?

My new hypothesis: The suits of Wall Street covet the torn denims on Bedford Avenue. As investing becomes more ingrained into a cult side of popular culture through television, radio and writer personalities lines that were once clearly drawn, blur.

My recommendation is talk to your son or daughter, even the young buck investor working along side you about where they are going for cocktails at night. After work take the train down with a few buddies and order some food and drink. The stories are there and will help fuel your writing. You can find a lot of these same folks spread across the pages of my debut novel: The Slow Midnight on Cypress Avenue.

The Slow Midnight on Cypress Avenue