9/11, David Rice, Sandler O’Neill, Sting and Me…
For the past five years on the anniversary of 9/11, I have written about some of the extraordinary men and women with whom I worked at Sandler O'Neill on the 104th floor of Two World Trade Center in New York City. The following is an excerpt from a letter which I wrote eighteen years ago to the mother of my deceased and great friend David Rice.
David Rice - three weeks before he was murdered on 9/11
"I met David at Sandler O'Neill in September of 1998. I had recently joined the firm some two or three weeks earlier and David was visiting from Chicago. We were introduced and chatted briefly, each one of us eyeing the other, wary and suspecting, like two fighters ready to spar. He was all Brooks Brothers head to toe: gray flannel suit, white button down shirt, red rep tie and conservative wing tips. I was all flash: Italian suit and loafers, custom shirt, cuff links, and a loud Hermes tie.
In an instant, I hated him. He was young, smart, gregarious, and unflappable Mid-West cool. At the end of the day (it was a Friday), he was flying to Chicago and I was headed to Washington, DC. David suggested we share a cab to the airport. I nodded begrudgingly, and we walked to the elevator bank. By no small coincidence, David mentioned that he didn't drink. Leery that I was now in the company of some high minded Okie Southern Baptist, I stammered, 'Do you go to meetings?' "Yes," he said excitedly and loudly, "Do you?" ‘Yes,’ I told him, ‘ever since December 13, 1992.’ David smiled broadly, and all the fears and tensions melted away as we shared the elevator ride down and subsequent cab ride together like two little school kids caught up in our own secret world.
During the cab ride, David told me that he had been sober since March 13, 1993, and he shared with me his remarkable story of how he came, came to, and came to believe. From then on, I teased him unmercifully that he would never have as much sobriety as I, and, as competitive as he was, this drove him nuts. It was a beautiful day and a beautiful drive, and over the next three years, we shared an incredible, intimate relationship, talking on the phone (almost) daily, and needling and teasing each other incessantly. David's zest for living and unbridled enthusiasm was infectious.
When David came to visit New York, I took him to meetings, in particular a Monday Men's Group that he enjoyed, and he introduced me to Richard V.F. and the very small meeting that Richard hosted in his apartment. I will never forget that gathering, six or seven dysfunctional personalities functioning beautifully, discussing their hopes, fears, dreams, and, as David always insisted, the twelve steps. At the conclusion of the meeting, it was off to dinner in the East Village.
This ragtag, motley crew enjoyed a convivial dinner and then, the check came. In a flash, David seized it. "What do you think about bank stocks?" he asked. Blank looks and vacant stares abounded. Our guests - a disheveled, unpublished playwright, a fine watch salesman peddling wares of questionable provenance, and other assorted hustlers and malcontents - went quiet. David continued, "Do you think they're cheap in here? The bank stocks?" "Yes" came a timid, unsure reply from nowhere. "All right then, that'll satisfy the IRS. Dinner's on me!" David proclaimed, proffering his corporate American Express (thanks Jimmy D!).
Then it was out into the streets and bright lights of the big city. A couple of blocks later, David started shouting, "Amy Rice! Amy Rice! Amy Rice!" at the top of his lungs. Thinking he had Tourette's Syndrome of a particularly weird and virulent strain, I didn't know what to do. Then, some three or four flights up in a window, a furtive image darted out from behind a curtain. "David, is that you?" It was his sister. Thank God he didn't have Tourette's, although others on the New York City sidewalks seemed not so sure and they gave him a wide berth as he strove with ardent resolve to her building. "I'll call you tomorrow!" he shouted, "We just had dinner. It was great."
In March of 2000, my career was at a crossroads, and I began to have discussions with another Wall Street firm. David was my biggest cheerleader. "Yes, you have to explore this opportunity for the sake of your family," he told me. I was a little hesitant and nervous, but he reminded me that God was always taking care of me and that God wasn't going to stop now. I made the move to UBS Warburg in May of 2000, relocated to Connecticut with my family, and David and I continued our friendship and constant dialogue.
David, in turn, began to think about his career. His marriage was falling apart - we shared many a late night call - and he felt professionally that he should move from Chicago to New York and switch to bond sales from equities. I became his biggest cheerleader. Yes, you should move, the partners at Sandler O'Neill love you, you are young, smart and all the action is in New York, I counseled. It is the only advice which I have come to regret.
On Monday, September 10, 2001, I spoke with David and, as usual, he had a crazy story. On the previous Saturday night, he went to the Michael Jackson birthday celebration at Madison Square Garden in the Sandler O'Neill box. 'How did you possibly get tickets?' I asked, incredulous that he saw the show, the hottest ticket of the year. "You'll love this Wheely," David started. By then he had given me many nicknames, "Neilio the Dealio" begat "Dealio" begat "Wheely Dealy" begat "Wheely" or just plain "Wheels."
Then David's story.... Sandler had four tickets for David and his customers. So, of course, he invited a date. He needed five tickets. Desperately. He called all the ticket brokers to no avail, there were no tickets. Did David back down? Hell no. He said he went to the security desk, and with all the earnestness he could command, he looked the guard straight up and said. "Sir, my name is David Rice and I do not have a ticket, my name is not on your list. But I have four clients in the Sandler O'Neill box who are expecting me and you HAVE to let me in." His sense of urgency and passion did not go unnoticed. Probably, it would have been easier to breach White House security than get into Madison Square Garden that night, but the guard relented and David quickly joined his guests in the Sandler suite.
How was the show? I asked. "It sucked. Michael Jackson's a freak and Marlon Brando's insane," he replied. How was your date? "Well..." then he paused, a long pause. "Let's just say I don't think we'll be going out again, but the clients loved it and we all had a great time." Classic David Rice. Always a story, always an adventure, and always an unstoppable force of life and energy.
The next day, September 11, was the worst day in my life. I was at work in Stamford, Connecticut on my firm's trading desk when the first tower was hit. Unsure of which tower had been struck, I immediately called the Sandler equity trading desk and asked for Frank Salvaterra or Bruce Simmons. Allison Jones answered, and she told me that Frankie and Bruce were off the desk in a meeting. She said it was chaotic but they were fine. 'Tell Frankie and Bruce I love them and I'm thinking of them,' and then I hung up.
Then I typed David an electronic message via my Bloomberg terminal, 'Just another day in paradise...' In an instant, David's response flashed: "Bad situation. We're OK" His words gave me comfort. Of course, David was all right and he would tell me fabulous stories later. Minutes later on live television, I saw a fireball erupt. The second tower had been hit, and in that one horrifying instant, so many lives, hopes and dreams were shattered and forever altered. I called Sandler again. The phone rang three times. I hung up. I felt guilty, as I didn't want to slow down anyone's escape. Or so I thought....and then I felt a terrible emptiness and sadness for what had befallen my friends and colleagues at Sandler O'Neill. It continues to this day.
When David's tower collapsed, I left work immediately, went home, hugged and kissed my wife and children, and tried to make sense out of what had happened. That night I went to a meeting - David was always on me to go to more meetings - and I prayed and prayed and prayed. Well, I'm still praying, I'm still trudging and I'm still waiting. I want answers and there are none. I can't make any sense, nor most days do I even try. All I know is I miss my friend David. Terribly.
For my birthday in December 2001, my wife, Erin, gave me a frame with David's picture which she downloaded from his memorial website. I burst into tears, a mixture of mostly sorrow and some joy. David's picture now occupies a prominent place among our other family photos. And when my children get older (they are five, three and one) and they ask me who is that smiling, handsome, slightly mischievous man whom they have never met, I will tell them simply: David Rice was one of the finest men I have ever known. He was a great and true friend and I loved him..."
Well, eighteen years have passed since I wrote those words to David's mother, and my kids are much older now, and they know exactly who David Rice is and what he means to me. I was very blessed to have him in my life, however fleeting the time, and I cherish his friendship and the many laughs that we shared.
This will be my last Sandler O'Neill 9/11 post. It's been an honor and privilege to share with you some small measure of their humanity. They are remarkable men and women and I miss them dearly and wish peace and blessings for their families. Shakespeare wrote that "Parting is such sweet sorrow..." Sometimes, for me, it's just sorrow.
God bless.
Neil
Happy, Joyous and Free! I love you David
Please feel free to disseminate and read the entire collection!
Stacey McGowan and Kristy Irvine
https://www.vinyl-magic.com/blog/911-stacey-mcgowan-kristy-irvine-ryan-sting-and-me
Bruce Simmons
https://www.vinyl-magic.com/911-bruce-simmons-herman-sandler-sting-and-me
Here’s David’s obit from his family:
David Rice was the student with the grade point average of less than 2, who was voted most likely to succeed in high school. He was constantly in trouble. He would do things like rent a warehouse in Oklahoma City, hire a rock band, charge $10 a head and make thousand of dollars before the police broke up the party.
Still, as a teenager in Oklahoma City, he read biographies of Donald Trump and told his family that that was the kind of entrepreneur he would be. At age 31, David was an investor in bonds at Sandler O'Neill & Partners, in the south tower. "He drove his clients crazy but they loved him to death," says his younger brother, Andrew. "He was a pistol."
His life was marked by huge turnarounds. He had hit bottom in his early 20's from alcoholism and drug use. He dropped out of college. Then he began his recovery. He became a Fulbright scholar in Zimbabwe and South Africa. He earned a master's degree from the London School of Economics. Last February he transferred to New York from Chicago, where he had lived for 10 years.
"He was very real," his brother says. "He wasn't perfect but he was so wise for his age."
Here's the original Herman Sandler post....
Herman Sandler was a founder of Sandler O'Neill, a financial services investment bank. Along with his partners, he ran a very successful and lucrative practice. Herman was also a benefactor, who gave generously to the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra and The Rainforest Foundation. He looked like Daddy Warbucks: shaved head, glasses perched on the top of his forehead, fit and disciplined like the US Army Captain who had served his country in Vietnam. He was tough and he did not suffer fools, and I was lucky to work for him and his talented team of bankers, salesmen, and traders on the 104th floor of 2 World Trade Center until I left in May 2000.
In November 1999, Sting was playing four shows at the Beacon Theatre in New York City. One of my clients was a big Sting fan and asked if I could get tickets. Tickets were at a hefty premium since the venue was so small - only 3,000 seats vs. Sting's normal Madison Square Garden gig with 20,000+. I bought tickets through a ticket broker and asked Herman for backstage passes, since Herman was friends with Sting and his wife, Trudie Styler, and served with them on the board of The Rainforest Foundation. Herman said, "No problem." Everything was no problem with Herman, even his boat was named "No Problem." Herman secured the backstage passes the next day and handed them to me. No problem.
Sting backstage pass - Beacon Theater, New York City
The night of the show, I met the client and her trading assistant for a quick dinner at the Ocean Grill on the upper West Side. They were very excited to see Sting. We finished our meal and headed over to the Beacon. The backstage entrance is near the loading dock, so we flashed our passes and we were escorted in. A roadie told us that there was no real backstage area, so we could stand along the wall or go to our seats. I looked at the wall. That didn't look very promising and it was too early to go to our seats. 'Lets try this again,' I told the clients, 'Follow me.' We went back to where we came from and an elevator door opened. Another roadie got off. We got on. Taped to the elevator wall was handwriting: Sting 6, Costumes 5, Band 4, Catering 3. This was helpful. I pressed 6 and up we went.
Outlandos d’Amour (1978) signed by Sting, Andy Summers
The elevator opened on the 6th floor into an anteroom where Sting had his back to us. He was being interviewed, speaking into a mic attached to a large tape machine. I walked by Sting, nodded, and my clients followed me and stood in the corner. Actually, they cowered in the corner, they were so star struck. The interview concluded and I greeted Sting. I told him that I worked for Herman Sandler. "Herman is a great friend and a good man. We're doing some great work together on the Rainforest Foundation," Sting said as he signed a couple of his albums. I asked him if he would take a picture with my two guests. He agreed. I coaxed them out of the corner and they flanked Sting as I took a picture. No iPhone in those days, I relied on a throw away camera just purchased at Duane Reade. I took the picture, no flash. I stalled, 'Hey Sting, we got everything working now,' I promised as I took another picture. No flash again. Sting laughed, "You got everything working except the camera!" Then he shook everyone's hands and left. We headed back to our fourth row seats and watched Sting put on a great show. My clients were very grateful that they got to meet Sting, less so when my pictures got developed and came back blank.
Regatta de Blanc (1979) signed by Sting, Andy Summers
Tragically, Herman Sandler died on September 11, 2001, along with sixty-six of his Sandler O'Neill colleagues and some of my best friends. Sting later performed his song "Fragile" at one of the World Trade Center benefits and dedicated it to Herman's memory. I miss Herman Sandler, David Rice, Frank Salvaterra, Bruce Simmons, Howard Gelling, Tom Clark, Tom Collins, Doug Irgang, Stacey McGowan, Kristy Irvine Ryan, Mike Edwards and all the other Sandler O'Neill colleagues who senselessly died that horrible day. Although the years pass, their loss is a wound that never fully heals.
Synchronicity (1983) signed by Sting, Andy Summers
Bonus content:
Armed with a Master's Degree from Harvard Divinity School, Andrew Rice is an accomplished author and poet - a veritable renaissance man. Recently, Andrew started a podcast - storiesfromnowherepodcast.com - with an eclectic and fascinating mix of guests, including the founders of Die Jim Crow Records (DJCR), a label which helps artists incarcerated behind bars, Great Britain based clinical psychologist Sandra Barefoot, Programme Development Lead for The Forgiveness Project, and Church Goin' Mule, a Cleveland, Mississippi based artist influenced by the outsider art of Howard Finster and Bill Traylor. and the delta blues of Robert Johnson, Howlin Wolf and Blind Willie McTell.
Several months ago, Andrew called me and asked if I would contribute to his podcast and speak about his brother. I was deeply touched and gladly accepted. Andrew said, "We'll just have a conversation and see where it goes." There were no notes, no preparation and no guardrails. It was just two brothers united in their recovery and grief trying to make sense of the senseless. There were tears and laughter as we talked, remembering the indomitable spirit and force of energy that was our brother David Rice, his by blood, mine by choice. For me, It was a glorious afternoon, recalling the profound and profane, in short, the human condition which infuses and informs all of our lives.
As stated on its website, the purpose of Stories from Nowhere "documents unconventional conversations, details human connections, presents the questions and mysteries we all face, from anywhere, out in nowhere, and everywhere…" I am so humbled and honored to be included. Thank you Andrew for the opportunity. While I mostly bend and stumble toward the light, in words and deeds, you live an exemplary life of love and service. David would be so proud.