The White Rabbit
Billy Irish kept his lobster as a pet and led it around the neighborhood on a leash. At the office, he began to hear stories about a legend, the White Rabbit, who had made his reputation as a foreign exchange trader. The White Rabbit was also the biggest cocaine user on Wall Street, amongst healthy competition that year. FX wasn’t in Billy’s wheelhouse, but they met at a monthly event known as “Man Food.” Like all Wall Street events, networking was the driving force behind it, notably when someone like the White Rabbit attended. He was at the top of the food chain, the sort of guy who socialized with your boss.
Two rules came with an invite to Man Food. You had to take whatever drugs were on offer and you had to eat whatever was on the menu, which was usually weird and gross. Drugs are prevalent in finance because they give users a window of madness that can be scheduled, synchronizing derangement.
Billy walked into the restaurant and saw traders throwing money, betting the White Rabbit wouldn’t eat an eyeball out of an unrecognizable carcass. There’s four or five thousand dollars before he laughs and pops it into his mouth with a smile.
Billy joins the table with a buyside guy who had secured the invite. He figures he will hang out and, when something particularly disgusting arrives, say he has to leave to trade Asia. Trading after hours was a common excuse for escaping awkward social situations. Alternatively, perhaps he’ll slip into a manic phase and see what happens.
Half an hour into this, Billy heads to the bathroom, and the White Rabbit follows. He pulls a mirror out from under the counter and starts blasting lines of what Billy assumes is cocaine. After Billy zips up to wash his hands, the White Rabbit offers him one of the rolled-up hundreds he had just won. Billy rips a line and suddenly realizes that even though he sees himself in the mirror, standing in a bathroom at the China Club, he’s not really here he’s just persuaded himself it’s that way he’s acted it so damn well he knows he’s in the real world but he’s been playing at it all this time he hadn’t realized that life and death black and white good and evil being and non-being come from the same center they imply each other what he was basically deep-deep down far-far in is simply the fabric and structure of existence itself he looks up at the White Rabbit and he smiles benevolently back at him they are surfing the same wave he cuts up another enormous line of special K with his black card they share that and why not after all there’s no point in just sustaining bliss Billy now understands that if he was able on any these nights out to dream any dream he wanted to dream and he could for example have the power within one night to dream 75 years of time he would naturally as he began on this adventure of dreams fulfill all his wishes he would have every kind of pleasure that he could conceive and after several nights of 75 years of total pleasure each he would say now let’s have a surprise let’s have a dream which isn't under control he would get more and more adventurous and make further and further out gambles to what he would dream and finally Billy would dream… Billy would dream where he is now.
Billy’s eyes snap into focus. He is looking in the mirror. The figure in the mirror is him. The White Rabbit snorts more lines and offers Billy the last of them. He distractedly shrugs it off. The White Rabbit nods with approval and puts the final line of ketamine back under the counter.
The restaurant is eerily silent as they exit. All eyes must be on them. Billy puts his shoulders back, makes sure he has his feet under him properly, takes in the scene, and tries to hold as many people's gaze as he can, staring them down one at a time. Then the White Rabbit claps him hard on the shoulder and the pandemonium of the China Club roars back, shaking Billy out of solipsism.
They return to the table where a seat has opened opposite the White Rabbit. Billy sits down and, in his loudest voice, informs them all that he doesn’t like drugs, just the way they smell. Everyone laughs and the night powers ahead. The White Rabbit goes to the bathroom several times, and on one of these trips, Billy makes an ill-timed joke about excessive drug use. He regrets it instantly, and the White Rabbit sees the weakness. He fixes Billy with a stare and snarls, “Drink the gravy.”
Billy’s not sure what to make of that. After the ketamine, he ate a French fry and is good until next week. The trader next to the White Rabbit is from Tudor; they’ve met a few times before and got on well. Tudor adds authority while the rest of the conversation ceases, “Yeah, gross, someone should drink that shit!”
“New guy, drink the gravy!”
“What’ll it cost? Drink the gravy!”
Billy looks on in horror as a large, boat-shaped pitcher is handed to him. It looks nasty. The smell wafts up, unpleasant. Bubbles are forming on the surface; something rolls around underneath. The White Rabbit takes out a roll of bills and throws it on the table. More cash follows, and people start to take notice. This is after the China Club relocated from the Upper West Side, but Billy is in his 20s. He lifts weights, boxes a couple of times a week, shoots guns at the local range, is dressed well, has a good job, and the drugs have his neurons blasting into the remains of his synapses. Billy’s been challenged, and while he hasn’t been in the business long enough to have a reputation yet, he’s determined to forge one in this city he’s chosen to call home.
Also, he needed the cash.
Billy grabs the sauceboat and looks over at the White Rabbit. He’s shocked to see such gauntness. The papery skin on the White Rabbit’s forehead pulses with blue veins, and his eyes cloud into a deep red. He grimaces, recognizing Billy’s alarm, and prompts him, “Go on. Drink the blood.”
Billy turns away and gulps down the gravy. It does taste like blood. Like liver and rotten cherries. He gags. It’s unpleasant, but he finishes. People cheer, and the White Rabbit snarls it’s time to move on. While someone pays the check, he points out his dealer, the Baron, at an adjacent table. The Baron is an elderly gentleman, perhaps in his 70s. One of the biggest coke dealers in Manhattan looks like a retiree or something. The White Rabbit heads over for road soda.
With his head spinning, Billy follows the crowd out of the China Club, where black cars await. The driver introduces himself as TC. He looks like a bit character from The Sopranos.
Billy doesn’t feel well.
TC asks if they’re heading to Marylou’s, but the White Rabbit says it’s closed. Instead, they’ll try the Madison Club.
Billy falls into the backseat, a sharp pain in his stomach.
He blinks his eyes to see them pulling up to a brownstone. An excited hum as his colleagues exit the car.
Billy’s head is throbbing.
Someone named Serge greets them, and Billy stumbles inside. There are girls everywhere. Vaguely he realizes the Madison Club isn’t a club at all; it’s just four floors of whores.
A trader he recognizes is so excited he’s jumping up and down. He elbows Billy, “You like titties? Wait until you see Rosie. Rosie’s breasts are magnificent. Oh-my-God. Rosie-Rosie-Rosie-Rosie.”
One of Billy’s eyes is swollen shut, but when Serge brings Rosie over, he finds himself nodding his head like a maniac. Billy feels the UBS guy and Serge both staring at him, so he turns to concentrate with his good eye. He hears himself mumbling, and Serge looks a little concerned. UBS guy elbows Billy, “Go on, pay him.” Billy reaches into his jacket and throws money at Serge. A pile of hundreds hits him in the face. Rosie laughs. There are thousands of dollars on the floor. Rosie is bending down, picking up bills, and stuffing them down her top. Billy throws more money out of his pockets in a trail around the room. She’s showered with hundreds while she giggles and winks at Billy.
Billy’s stomach lurches.
He meets Rosie’s eye as an enormous stream of vomit explodes all over her and the money. She screams so loud that Billy can still hear her sometimes. Several of the girls run into the room to see Rosie on her knees, covered in cash and what looks like blood. They start screaming too. Rosie turns away on all fours, still clutching at the money, and Billy throws up on her upturned ass.
As he’s being thrown out, Billy looks over to see the White Rabbit smiling and raising a martini to him in salute. And that’s the story of how Billy spent eight thousand dollars on hookers without even seeing a nipple.
***
The White Rabbit is from Occupy a Job on Wall Street.
