It was less than five minutes later, and I was sitting in my office,
behind a desk fit for a dictator, in a chair as big as a throne. I
cocked my head to the side and said to the room’s two other occupants,
“Now let me get this straight: You guys want to bring a midget in here
and toss his little ass around the boardroom?”
In unison, they nodded.
Sitting across from me, in an overstuffed oxblood leather club chair,
was none other than Danny Porush. At this particular moment he seemed
to be suffering no ill effects from his latest fishcapade and was now
trying to sell me on his latest brainstorm, which was: to pay a midget
five grand to come into the boardroom and be tossed around by brokers,
in what would certainly be the first Midget Tossing Competition in
Long Island history. And as odd as the whole thing sounded, I couldn’t
help but be somewhat intrigued.
Danny shrugged his shoulders. “It’s not as crazy as it sounds. I mean,
it’s not like we’re gonna toss the little bastard in any odd
direction. The way I see it, we’d line up wrestling mats at the front
of the boardroom and give the top-five brokers on the Madden deal two
tosses each. We’d paint a bull’s-eye at one end of the mat and then
put down some Velcro so the little bastard sticks. Then we pick a few
of the hot sales assistants to hold up signs—like they’re judges at a
diving competition. They can score based on throwing style, distance,
degree of difficulty, all that sort of shit.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Where are you gonna find a midget on
such short notice?” I looked over at Andy Greene, the room’s third
occupant. “What’s your opinion on this matter? You’re the firm’s
lawyer; you must have something to say…no?”
“Well,” said Wigwam, “in terms of the insurance issues here, if we get
a signed waiver from the midget, along with some sort of hold-harmless
agreement, then I don’t think we have any liability if the midget were
to break his neck. But we would need to take every precaution that a
reasonable man would take, which is clearly the legal requirement in a
situation like…”
Jesus! I wasn’t looking for a fucking legal analysis of this whole
midget-tossing business—I just wanted to know if Wigwam thought it was
good for broker morale!
[snip]
In essence, what it really boiled down to was that the right to pick up a midget and toss him around was just another currency due any mighty warrior, a spoil of war, so to speak. How else was a man to measure his success if not by playing out every one of his adolescent fantasies, regardless of how bizarre it might be? There was definitely something to be said for that. If precocious success brought about questionable forms of behavior, then the prudent young man should enter each unseemly act into the debit column on his own moral balance sheet and then offset it at some future point with an act of kindness or generosity (a moral credit, so to speak), when he became older and wiser and more sedate.
The Wolf of Wall Street by Jordan Belfort