The Prophet of Park Avenue

The Prophet of Park Avenue

Russ was a high flyer. He had navigated the corridors of power on Wall Street with great aplomb. He had been at the bank for seventeen years, had had only one misstep from which he had recovered, and was back on the rocket path to the Management Committee of the bank. He had recently been given the assignment to run the Global Private Banking business, which was a large sprawling network of sixty or so offices in every corner of the world with a staff of over 500 bankers. His assigned office was on the southeast corner of the building on the third floor, overlooking Park Avenue and 48th Street. From that spot he could keep track of several of his competitor banks on the four corners of Park Avenue.

Russ had a habit of meeting people for breakfast at the Intercontinental Hotel across Park and a half block down 48th. He was an early riser who got into the bank before 7am and went over to meet people for breakfast at 8am for an hour. His routine was to go down to Park and 48th, cross the boulevard and slide into his familiar banquette where there was always a reserved sign for him at 8am should he come by. On the way over there was nothing particularly unusual to notice on the street, but on the way back every morning there was a fellow with wild red hair and beard who would stand on the grassy part of the median on Park Avenue. This guy would pace back and forth with a well-worn bible in one hand, flapping his arms and talking into the heavens about the trials and tribulations of God and man.

The first few times Russ saw him, he did what all New Yorkers are trained to do, he ignored him. It was the early 1990’s. New York was a much nicer place than it had been in the 1970’s. It was cleaner. The Subways and MTA were not defaulting. The City was not bankrupt and negotiating with the municipal unions every day. There were occasional rallies and demonstrations, but those were usually over by the UN, not here on Park Avenue. All the parades were over on Madison or Fifth, so Park Avenue was a quiet and serene place by comparison.

Then one day Russ misjudged the light and got caught on the median as traffic raced by. There was nowhere to go, so he just stood there within a few feet of this raving, red-haired madman with the wild eye. Russ was a people person and his instinct was to look at the man eye-to-eye, which is what he did. That was a mistake. The man chose this spot because he could rant and rave and get away with not having to interact with anyone. Being confronted was very uncomfortable for this prophet of doom. He didn’t know what to do and had that cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof look about him. The light changed and Russ charged across, having had enough of wild man on the median.

Russ went about his business. He loved his office. He called it the cafe office because he felt he was on the open plaza of Park Avenue while being slightly above it all. The only thing that disturbed his view was the redhead in the middle of the road. Russ started to watch the guy every day and he quickly picked up his pattern. He would arrive every day at 8:30, rain or shine. He would spend five minutes policing his area, picking up loose papers or cigarette butts, making sure his office was neat and tidy. He would rant and rave with his bible continuously unless someone stopped to talk to him. If that happened, he would just shut down, stand there not looking at the person and wait until he left. He would do this in all kinds of weather until 10:30. At a few minutes before that he would look at his swatch watch and start packing himself up. At exactly 10:30 he would bolt off the median headed towards Grand Central. He had a schedule to keep and probably had to get to his next corner on time. Wild man was nothing if not fastidious and punctual.

One day it was pouring rain and our man was out there in the mud as he wore out the grass with his pacing. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew his umbrella to smithereens. He didn’t miss a beat and just put down the broken umbrella and kept pacing in the rain, getting soaked to the bone. One of Russ’ guys came into his office and commented that he really should go out and give the poor guy a rain jacket. Since the wild man wore the same thing every day (or at least every day of the season) it seemed the only civil thing to do. Russ thought it was a good idea. A few minutes later, Russ heard laughter coming from the floor. He went out to see what was up.

The guys were laughing about the wild man on the median. The jacket he had been offered and took without hesitation was being proudly worn as he paced back and forth on his little clean patch of mud on the median. It was a black nylon jacket and as he turned east, Russ saw that it had big bold letters on the back that proudly proclaimed MORGAN STANLEY. We worked at Bankers Trust.

For two hours each day, wild red headed man paced Park Avenue advertising for Morgan Stanley, our vaunted competitor. Russ and his team got a kick out of it every day and someone even followed him and found out that he spent 11:00 to 1:00 each day at Madison and 42nd Street. So wild red headed man presumably went around town touting Morgan Stanley for months.

Then, one sunny day, we saw someone in a suit out on the median trying to talk to our wild man. Wild man was having none of it. He clammed up and stared at his shoes. But then the suit took out some money and held it out to the wild man. This he understood. He stared at the suit until he took out some more money. Then wild man took off the jacket and gave it to suit and took the money. He didn’t miss a beat and went right back to pacing while the suit crossed back to our side of Park and balled up the offending garment and stuffed it in a waste basket on the corner.

Naturally, one of our young guys ran down to the corner and took out the jacket, unfurled it and promptly took it back out to the median when the light changed. Wild man didn’t miss a beat. He took the jacket without any acknowledgement, put it on and went about his business.

We told that story for years, embellishing the mid-Avenue exchange where the wild prophet of Park Avenue negotiated the hell out of the Morgan Stanley banker. Great stuff.