Does WSO's Founder & Chief Monkey Have Dark Past...

Mod Note: Patrick Curtis: Entrepreneur, Visionary, Impressive Grower of Facial Hair... All accurate descriptions... But did our founder have... A Dark Side? Was he responsible for the catastrophic fire drill depicted below? Just how destructive was his Red Bull addiction? Is he the real inspiration behind a classic Leveraged Sellout post? We'll let you be the judge...

It’s a Tuesday, and it’s 7:00 PM. As per usual, the air in the lobby of 11 Madison Avenue is crisp and sterile as if it were captured from 10,000 feet and then repeatedly HEPA filtered. The humongous ground floor glows bright, fluorescent lighting bouncing off walls to create the encouraging, “always early enough to work” ambiance.

At this hour, the employees of the other companies squatting in the building and The Bank’s admins, HR-chicks, and varied support staff have already made their exits, and the diligent bankers are just beginning the second half of their workday. So save the few oddballs “letting down the team” to abate frustrated wives and girlfriends with long-overdue dinners and spoon-sessions, the flow of traffic is into the building—the visitors: delivery men.

Double-bags in hand, they line up dutifully across from the row of guarded turnstiles that serves as CSFB’s gates—the line of demarcation, unsubtly illustrating where riffraff end and where the aristocracy begins. The delivery men stand on the prole-side of the turnstiles, the closest any Mexican, Brooklyn resident, or sneaker-wearing person has ever been to the inside (except that sorry fuck that wore his grey newbies one Saturday before getting fired). And they wait.

They tap their feet on the ground, the Latinos humming Maná and the Chinese quietly contemplating the teachings of Confucius. Despite their similar situation, they don’t speak to each other, restaurant rivalry taking precedence over diversion. Slowly but steadily, young professionals exit the elevators, timidly step through the turnstiles, and conduct transactions. As one delivery man leaves, another arrives, ensuring approximately 8-10 in the group at all times.

This Tuesday was not unlike any other weekday at an investment bank, but it was on this particular Tuesday that Benvenuto delivery man Juan Sanchez went apeshit and attacked Patrick Boffin, a CSFB analyst.

Juan arrived at 6:55, 10 minutes after the order was placed. He chuckled as he walked over, amused by the fact that customers were too lazy to literally walk two blocks to pick up their order. “Big-time hot shots,” he mused in Spanish, reflecting on the time he walked 16 miles for water because the village’s well had gone dry.

At 7:30 Juan started to get slightly irritated. Over 20 people had asked him if he was from Cosi, and he had barely been able to hold back from saying “My fucking hat says Benvenuto, pendejo! ” Luckily, Juan was a reserved man.

At 8:05 Juan called the number on the receipt, scribbled right below “3 roast turkey, chicken caesar, 5 red bull” (Benvenuto didn’t even carry Red Bull, Juan had to pick them up from the bodega because apparently the customer was so vehement). A young man answered and Juan stated bluntly, “Delivery.” “Two seconds,” the voice responded.

Patrick Boffin was on the other end of that phone, and his desk had just been thrown into a frenzy. Patrick had calculated a critical number wrong and 50 pages of a pitch book that had to be sent out the next day needed to be redone. Everyone hated Patrick, and needless to say, no one was thinking about eating.

At 8:30 Juan returned to Benvenuto but was sent back by his manager and told to wait. CSFB was their best customer.

At 9:15 Patrick remembered the food he had ordered, his stomach screams finally audible over his associate’s seemingly perpetual “Are you fucking kidding me here, man?” Patrick had slept only 4 hours in the past 36, and even more than the food, Patrick craved the viscous energy nectar he had ordered. So he went downstairs.

When Juan finally saw the dirty blond, blue-eyed fuck that had stolen 2 and a half hours of his life, he nearly exploded. Patrick had his hands in his pockets and calmly pushed through the turnstiles with his forearm. He spotted the Benvenuto’s hat and made his way over.

“A clever one,” thought Juan, sizing up his enemy.

“Hola,” said Patrick in horrendous, middle-school Spanish-class-Spanish, huffing out the “h.”

Juan cringed. “I’ve been here two and half hours, man,” he informed, fuming.

“Uhh…my bad. You didn’t bring the light blue Red Bull cans, right? I hate that light shit,” responded Patrick, totally oblivious to Juan’s pent up rage.

Juan couldn’t even speak. He gritted his teeth, and his face turned bright red.

“Jeez, take it easy, hombre,” said Patrick, finally noticing Juan’s anger and offering a bit of pacification.

But the “hombre” broke Juan’s ability to restrain himself. The frustration of two and a half hours of staring at doochebag after doochebag and hoping one of those blue button-down shirts would finally come over and talk to him could be held back no more. He let the plastic bag slip from between his thumb and middle finger and leapt wildly at Patrick. Being approximately 1/2 the size, the scene initially seemed like an adopted immigrant child hugging his philanthropic white father. But then the pair fell to the ground; Patrick flailed his arms as Juan squeezed his neck. Spanish expletives echoed throughout the lobby. Other analysts in the lobby whose turn it was to get food for their desks gaped, frozen.

Luckily, the guards were able to wrestle Juan off of Patrick before he stopped breathing. And the police arrived soon after to take Juan away. The sandwiches were squashed in the tussle, but the Red Bulls remained intact. They were the light blue ones. Patrick chugged two, went back upstairs, and resumed working.

Patrick they didn't even change your name, though clearly they took some creative license in describing you. Have you thought about suing on the grounds of libel? As an aside... I thought your Spanglish was better than this...