Why do I say these things to you? I say them because I want you to know who I really am and, more importantly, who I’m not. And I say these things because I have two children of my own, and I have a lot to explain to them one day. I’ll have to explain how their lovable dad, the very dad who now drives them to soccer games and shows up at their parent–teacher conferences and stays home on Friday nights and makes them Caesar salad from scratch, could have been such a despicable person once.
But what I sincerely hope is that my life serves as a cautionary tale to the rich and poor alike; to anyone who’s living with a spoon up their nose and a bunch of pills dissolving in their stomach sac; or to any person who’s considering taking a God-given gift and misusing it; to anyone who decides to go to the dark side of the force and live a life of unbridled hedonism. And to anyone who thinks there’s anything glamorous about being known as a Wolf of Wall Street.
BOOK I
CHAPTER 1
A WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING
Six Years Later
The insanity had quickly taken hold, and by the winter of ’93 I had this eerie feeling that I’d landed the starring role in one of those reality TV shows, before they came into vogue. The name of my show was Lifestyles of the Rich and Dysfunctional, and each day seemed to be growing more dysfunctional than the last.
I had started a brokerage firm named Stratton Oakmont, which was now one of the largest and by far the wildest brokerage firm in Wall Street history. The word on Wall Street was that I had an unadulterated death wish and that I was certain to put myself in the grave before I turned thirty. But that was nonsense, I knew, because I had just turned thirty-one and was still alive and kicking.
At this particular moment, a Wednesday morning in mid-December, I was sitting behind the controls of my twin-engine Bell Jet helicopter on my way from the 30th Street Heliport in midtown Manhattan to my estate in Old Brookville, Long Island, with enough drugs running through my circulatory system to sedate Guatemala.
It was a little after three a.m., and we were cruising along at a hundred twenty knots somewhere over the western edge of Long Island’s Little Neck Bay. I remember thinking how remarkable it was that I could fly a straight line while seeing two of everything, when suddenly I began to feel woozy. Then all at once the helicopter was in the midst of a steep dive and I could see the black waters of the bay rushing toward me. There was this terrible vibration coming from the helicopter’s main rotor, and I could hear the panic-stricken voice of my copilot coming through my headset, screaming frantically, “Jesus Christ, boss! Pull up! Pull up! We’re gonna crash! Holy shit!”
Then we were level again.
My loyal and trusted copilot, Captain Marc Elliot, was dressed in white and sitting before his own set of controls. But he’d been under strict orders not to touch them unless I either passed out cold or was in imminent danger of smashing into the earth. Now he was flying, which was probably best.
Captain Marc was one of those square-jawed captain-types, the sort who instills confidence in you at the mere sight of him. And it wasn’t only his jaw that was square; it was his entire body, which seemed to be comprised of squarish parts, unit-welded together, one atop the other. Even his black mustache was a perfect rectangle, and it sat on his stiff upper lip like an industrial-grade broom.
We’d taken off from Manhattan about ten minutes ago, after a long Tuesday evening that had spiraled way out of control. The night had started out innocently, though—at a trendy Park Avenue restaurant named Canastel’s, where I’d had dinner with some of my young stockbrokers. Somehow, though, we’d ended up in the Presidential Suite at the Helmsley Palace, where some very expensive hooker named Venice, with bee-stung lips and loamy loins, had tried using a candle to help me achieve an erection, which turned out to be a lost cause. And that was why I was running late now (about five and a half hours, to be exact), which is to say I was in deep shit, once again, with my loyal and loving second wife, Nadine, the righteously aspiring husband-beater.
You may have seen Nadine on TV; she was that sexy blond who tried to sell you Miller Lite beer during Monday Night Football, the one walking through the park with the Frisbee and the dog. She didn’t say much in the commercial, but no one seemed to care. It was her legs that got her the job; that and her ass, which was rounder than a Puerto Rican’s and firm enough to bounce a quarter on. Whatever the case, I would be feeling her righteous wrath soon enough.
I took a deep breath and tried to right myself. I was feeling pretty good now, so I grabbed hold of the stick, sending a signal to Captain SpongeBob SquarePants that I was ready to fly again. He looked a bit nervous, so I flashed him a warm, comrade-in-arms sort of smile and offered him a few kind words of encouragement through my voice-activated microphone. “Ooo gone get hazdiz duzy pay fuh dis, buzzy,” said I, who was trying to say, “You’re going to get hazardous duty pay for this, buddy.”
“Yeah, that’s great,” replied Captain Marc, releasing the controls to me. “Remind me to collect, if we should happen to make it home alive.” He shook his square head in resignation and amazement, then added, “And don’t forget to close your left eye before you start your descent. It’ll help with the double vision.”
Very shrewd and professional, this square captain of mine was; in fact, he happened to be quite the party animal himself. And not only was he the only licensed pilot in the cockpit, but he also happened to be the captain of my 167-foot motor yacht, the Nadine, named after my aforementioned wife.
I gave my captain a hearty thumbs-up sign. Then I stared out the cockpit window and tried to get my bearings. Up ahead I could see the red-and-white-striped smokestacks that rose up from out of the wealthy Jewish suburb of Roslyn. The smokestacks served as a visual cue that I was about to enter the heart of Long Island’s Gold Coast, which is where Old Brookville is located. The Gold Coast is a terrific place to live, especially if you like blue-blooded WASPs and overpriced horses. Personally, I despise both, but somehow I ended up owning a bunch of overpriced horses and socializing with a bunch of blue-blooded WASPs, the latter of whom, I figured, viewed me as a young Jewish circus attraction.
I looked at the altimeter. It was at three hundred feet and spiraling downward. I rolled my neck like a prizefighter stepping into the ring, beginning my descent at a thirty-degree angle, passing over the rolling fairways of the Brookville Country Club and then easing the stick right and cruising over the lush treetops on either side of Hegemans Lane, where I started my final descent onto the driving range at the rear of the property.
Working the foot pedals, I brought the helicopter into a stationary hover about twenty feet above the ground and then attempted to land. A little adjustment with the left foot, a little adjustment with the right foot, a little less power to the collective, a tiny bit of back pressure to the stick, and then all at once the helicopter slammed into the ground and started rising again.
“Oh, zit!” I muttered, on the way up. Out of panic, I slammed down the collective and the helicopter began sinking like a stone. And then all at once—SLAM!—we landed with a giant thud.
I shook my head in amazement. What an incredible rush that was! It wasn’t a perfect landing, but who cared? I turned to my beloved captain, and with great pride I slurred, “Am I goodz, buzzy, or am I goodz!”
Captain Marc cocked his square head to the side and raised his rectangular eyebrows high on his square forehead, as if to say, “Are you out of your f**king mind?” But then he began nodding slowly, his face breaking out into a wry smile. “You’re good, buddy. I have to admit it. Did you keep your left eye shut?”
I nodded my head. “It zwork like charm,” I mumbled. “You za best!”
“Good. I’m glad you think that.” He let out a tiny chuckle. “Anyway, I gotta bolt out of here before we get ourselves in trouble. Want me to call the guardhouse to come get you?”
“No, I fine, buzzy. I fine.” With that, I undid my safety restraints, gave Captain Marc a mock salute, and opened the cockpit door and climbed out. Then I wheeled about and closed the cockpit door and banged two times on the window, to let him know that I’d been responsible enough to close the door, which gave me a feeling of great satisfaction, insofar as a man in my condition could be sober enough to do that. Then I wheeled about once more and headed for the main house, straight into the eye of Hurricane Nadine.
It was gorgeous outside. The sky was filled with countless stars, twinkling brilliantly. The temperature was unseasonably warm for December. There wasn’t a stitch of wind, which gave the air that earthy, woodsy smell that reminds you of your childhood. I thought of summer nights at sleepaway camp. I thought of my older brother, Robert, whom I’d recently lost touch with after his wife threatened to sue one of my companies for sexual harassment, at which point I took him out for dinner, got too stoned, and then called his wife an a**hole. But, still, they were good memories, memories from a much simpler time.
It was about two hundred yards to the main house. I took a deep breath and relished the scent of my property. What a fine smell it had! All the Bermuda grass! The pungent smell of pine! And so many soothing sounds! The ceaseless croaking of the crickets! The mystical hooting of the owls! The rushing water from that ridiculous pond and waterfall system up ahead!
I had purchased the estate from the Chairman of the New York Stock Exchange, Dick Grasso, who bore an odd resemblance to Frank Perdue, the chicken salesman. Then I dumped a few million into various improvements—most of it sucked into that ridiculous pond and waterfall system and the remainder sucked into a state-of-the-art guardhouse and security system. The guardhouse was manned twenty-four hours a day by two armed bodyguards, both of whom were named Rocco. Inside the guardhouse were banks of TV monitors that received images from twenty-two security cameras positioned throughout the estate. Each camera was tied to a motion sensor and floodlight, creating an impenetrable ring of security.
Just then I felt a tremendous gust of air, so I craned up my neck to watch the helicopter ascend into the darkness. I found myself taking small steps backward, and then the small steps became bigger steps, and then…Oh, shit! I was in trouble! I was about to hit the dirt! I wheeled about and took two giant steps forward, extending my arms out like wings. Like an out-of-control ice skater I stumbled this way and that, trying to find my center of gravity. And then, all at once…a blinding light!
“What the fuck!” I put my hands to my eyes, shielding myself from the searing pain of the floodlights. I had tripped one of the motion sensors and was now a victim of my own security system. The pain was excruciating. My eyes were dilated from all the drugs, my pupils as big as saucers.
Then, the final insult: I tripped in my spiffy crocodile dress shoes and went flying backward and landed flat on my back. After a few seconds the floodlight went off, and I slowly lowered my arm to the side. I pressed my palms against the soft grass. What a wonderful spot I picked to fall on! And I was an expert at falling, knowing exactly how to do it without hurting myself. The secret was to just go with it, like a Hollywood stuntman did. Better still, my drug of choice—namely, Quaaludes—had the wonderful effect of turning my body into rubber, which further protected me from harm.