Many moons ago, when I worked as an associate for a small investment bank in New York, there was one particular managing director who commonly scheduled Friday morning meetings during the summer in Connecticut, not far from where he lived. I was often involved in these meetings, which meant I had to wake up rather early in my East Village apartment on those summer Friday mornings to get to Grand Central Station and take a Metro North train heading north, to Connecticut. This wasn't always easy, largely because, back then, I typically stayed out very late on Thursday nights (which, as many New Yorkers know, is perhaps the most popular night to go out during the summers, if only because many residents flee the city on the weekends for the shores of New Jersey and Long Island).
In any case, as I recall, these Friday morning meetings were never all that important; they were typically nothing more than meet-and-greets, meaning there was no formal presentation given, meaning I didn't have to put together a presentation the night before and present it. And so, a few cups of coffee before the meeting was all that was required of me in preparation. Making the meetings even easier on me, I soon realized that most of the so-called potential clients that we were meeting with were friends or, at the very least, close acquaintances of the managing director whom I worked for and who scheduled the meetings. This meant I didn't have to say much, if anything, during the meetings. Staying awake was essential, though, and due to the aforementioned late Thursday nights, this wasn't always so easy.
Thankfully, the meetings never went long; they were always done before lunch. And so, afterward, the managing director would treat us both to lunch (fully expensed, of course) in one of the affluent Connecticut towns near where he resided and near where the meeting was held. We typically ate our club sandwiches or burgers while sipping several adult beverages that came in green or brown glass bottles. After lunch, at which I don't recall what we discussed (perhaps the Knicks, perhaps work, perhaps something having to do with the fairer sex), the managing director would drive me back to the nearest Metro North train station in his luxurious German sedan (thankfully, the train station was never a long drive, southern Connecticut backroads were deserted on Friday afternoons, and the managing director would drink several Diet Cokes after his adult beverages).
Although I don't recall exactly, I would guess that, at the latest, I'd catch a 3 p.m. train back to New York, which put me into the city at the latest around 4 p.m., at which time I typically called my shared secretary (from a pay phone; this was pre-cells) to see if there was anything that 100 percent absolutely required me to come back into the office. Which was code for I will not be coming back into the office and if anyone asks why not tell them my train was delayed.
I can only assume that the managing director lobbed a similar call to the office, to his assistant, as well.
In my memory, summer Fridays like these happened often during my time working in investment banking. Though, it's likely that, in reality, they only happened a handful of times (my memory has a history of glorifying, which is to say distorting, many of my youthful experiences, especially those that occurred during my early and mid-20s).
The point is, however frequent or infrequent these semi-summer Fridays were, I very much appreciated them. They were some the few unofficial (or official) perks I remember receiving at the time, and they made my summers Fridays of yesteryear extremely memorable, if not all that easy to remember.
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