They would be tough months, grueling months, during which I would be at the very mercy of assholes like Scott, the yuppie scumbag who seemed to have bubbled up from the fiery depths of yuppie hell. The LF Rothschild training program was six months long. “No, I can handle it,” I said confidently, as a wave of panic overtook me like a killer tsunami. Think you can handle that, or is that too complicated for you?” So and So, I have Scott holding for you,’ and then you pass the phone to me and start dialing again. “And when you do get one on the phone, all you’ll say is: ‘Hello, Mr. You’ re just trying to get business owners on the phone.” He paused for a brief instant, then spewed out more venom. You’re not trying to sell anything or recommend anything or create anything. “Your job”–he looked at the plastic nametag on my cheap blue lapel–“Jordan Belfort, is a connector, which means you’ll be dialing the phone five hundred times a day, trying to get past secretaries. But my new boss was quick to remind me that I wasn’t. They had their suit jackets off, and at this hour of morning–9:20 a.m.–they were leaning back in their seats, reading their Wall Street Journals, and congratulating themselves on being young Masters of the Universe.īeing a Master of the Universe it seemed like a noble pursuit, and as I walked past the Masters, in my cheap blue suit and clodhopper shoes, I found myself wishing I were one of them. It was an oppressive space, loaded with desks, telephones, computer monitors, and some very obnoxious yuppies, seventy of them in all. The boardroom was a vast space, perhaps fifty by seventy feet. We were walking through a maze of brown mahogany desks and black telephone wire on the twenty-third floor of a glass-andaluminum tower that rose up forty-one stories above Manhattan’s fabled Fifth Avenue. “Good,” snapped my boss, and he kept right on walking. You’re lower than pond scum,” said my new boss, leading me through the boardroom of LF Rothschild for the first time. “Entertaining as pulp fiction, real as a federal indictment. Belfort has the Midas touch.” - The Sunday Times (London) “A cross between Tom Wolfe’s The Bonfire of the Vanities and Scorsese’s GoodFellas.
proof that there are indeed second acts in American lives.” - Forbes “A rollicking tale of rise to riches as head of the infamous boiler room Stratton Oakmont. “Raw and frequently hilarious.” - The New York Times
It’s an extraordinary story of greed, power, and excess that no one could invent: the tale of an ordinary guy who went from hustling Italian ices to making hundreds of millions-until it all came crashing down. In the 1990s, Belfort became one of the most infamous kingpins in American finance: a brilliant, conniving stock-chopper who led his merry mob on a wild ride out of Wall Street and into a massive office on Long Island. From the binge that sank a 170-foot motor yacht and ran up a $700,000 hotel tab, to the wife and kids waiting at home and the fast-talking, hard-partying young stockbrokers who called him king, here, in Jordan Belfort’s own words, is the story of the ill-fated genius they called the Wolf of Wall Street. By night he spent it as fast as he could. Now a major motion picture directed by Martin Scorsese and starring Leonardo DiCaprioīy day he made thousands of dollars a minute.
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