In the fall of 2007 I retired from the money trade and escaped from New York. For the preceding twenty-two years I had toiled in a series of lucrative office buildings sprinkled around the landscape of Manhattan’s financial services business.

The first half of my Wall Street career was spent at one of the biggest investment banking houses in a series of positions inside the corporate finance and the institutional stock departments. By age thirty-two I was a Managing Director and running a high profile business of the firm (IPO’s and other equity issuance). Infected with ambition and coveting fresh pastures, two years after making MD I crawled out of the velvet coffin of financial comfort to strike out on my own as a hedge fund manager.

Starting with a relatively modest initial grubstake, within five years my firm was managing a billion dollars of client capital. And within ten years I was not only bored but also somewhat jaded. So, at the high-water-mark of my fund’s performance, I did the unthinkable: I folded my lucrative business and sent my investors their money back.

No sooner had I handed my landlord back the keys to a plush Fifth Avenue office, the markets went amok. As stock prices collapsed and scores of corporations went bust, all manner of financial stench began floating to the surface from the briny deep. With the revelation of each new scoundrel and scam, the public clamored even louder, “Why?”

Safely ensconced away from the carnage, I watched and wondered as well. What went wrong? Was it something blemished in the people? Or was it the business that was flawed? Or was there even something tainted in the place?

Reliving my memories from two decades on The Street, I found myself recovering fragments of lost conversations, witnessing adrenaline-packed moments all over again, and catching fresh glimpses of large personalities who carried with them concealed personal flaws. I could not escape the conclusion that Wall Street’s majesty, mystery, and money had mixed together, as it always had, into a strange and toxic brew.

And so, emancipated by this revelation and flowing over with poignant memories, I decided to share my own story of The Street. Sometimes a fictional narrative can be more revealing than a strictly factual one.