Sunday Prose: Buried in Paper

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We all knew this was not going to be a typical day before we even reached the trading floor. Absent were the usual back slapping ‘hey’s’ or ‘how’s the family’ questions, the normal tired, post commute, ‘I just need a coffee and a crueller’ conversations, shuffling through the line at the American Stock Exchange commissary that Monday morning. No, the noisy, collegial and sometimes locker room style banter was eerily missing and anyone who had come back from their posts, to grab some quick breakfast, those who knew, had creased brows and tight lips.

I remember one clerk rushing past me up the stairs saying, ‘Hold on to your fuckin’ hat, dude!’, as the coffee from the two cups he was clutching, splashed his blue trading jacket. But us clerks were always in a hurry, hell, it was written in black and white, right there in the job description.

Today, his was definitely a different kind of hurry.

He’d been a clerk for years, a one man show, deftly manning a phalanx of phones at his trading desk in the shadowed, second mezzanine level, where the scores of other phone clerks had a perfect, panoramic view of the entire trading floor. He was well regarded by his firm, all his floor brokers trusted him with their lives, a misunderstood or mistaken hand signal could cost them bigtime. My post was just below his, right in the middle of this sprawling, cavernous cave of a room and with two years under my belt, I was still a rookie in this fraternity of longtimers. He was always cool under pressure, always freon in his veins unflappable, normally.

Not this morning though, his eyes were buggin’ out of his head, doublestepping out of sight.

When I finally hit the floor, normally polite, dough bellied brokers whizzed by at speeds no one thought were possible, careening like pinballs off one another, unapologetically, fat hands and oversize pockets stuffed with trading slips, leaving criscrossing, hazy blue contrails in their wake, their bifocals exaggerating their own bugeyes. Yeah, we all had that ‘busy’ gear, the lightspeed adrenaline shot, that whooshed through our veins and hustled our pace when volume picked up, whenever the market decided to move. You didn’t survive very long if you didn’t and honestly, you didn’t survive very long if you didn’t love it, or learn to.

But whatever this was, I hadn’t seen before today. None of us had.
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It was ninety minutes before the opening bell, I quickly found my trading jacket from a drawer, inside our round, fortlette of a trading post to head off to the DK room, where all the previous days’ trades were reconciled, or not. If there was a price, quantity or time disagreement we couldn’t resolve, us clerks would say,

‘Sorry, Don’t Know ya’, and off to arbitration usually went the trade.

That routine wasn’t happening this October morning, my boss Andy made that crystal clear,

‘No one leaves, fuck the DK room!’,

in a tone so deadly serious, so unlike him, it stopped us all dead in our tracks. Andy was the specialist, was awarded the rights to trade the options of Apple, Ford and a dozen or so other stocks. Tall and lanky, he was well liked, had a sterling reputation on the floor and was as good a boss as he was a market maker. He never ridiculed us when we made mistakes, he was more than generous with bonuses and we were the only post that had two women clerks. Dianne and Susan were given every opportunity to advance, and they did. They were the best clerks among us, by a long shot.

‘Hand me the buys.’,

The traders and the clerks, all hands on deck were standing with their backs turned away from the floor, heads down, hovering over the small work areas and all I kept hearing was,

‘Where are the buy orders?’,

‘Jesus Christ, where are the fucking buy orders!?’

It was normally the clerks’ pre market responsibility, the six of us Kevin, Diane, Susan, Jack, Mike and me to timestamp and match up the 4″x 5″, Buy or Sell paper trading slips, to what we had on the ‘Book’, the inventory of option orders our post specialized in. This morning, we were shoulder to crowded shoulder with all the traders, the market makers who we worked beside but the too few desktops were not designed for this many people, the design did not anticipate this many hands, reaching frantically for so much paper. It was if a small Bobcat had come along and plop…… emptied it’s load. There was paper everywhere. We were buried.

Being ‘buried’ was slang for getting swamped. We would need a new slang word after today.

The clock was glanced at out of habit, we prided ourselves on always being ready for the open, even on a normal day the adrenaline did a little number on your heartrate as you waited for the opening bell to ring. The brokers were still flying by, throwing the slips at us now, there were no ‘sorry’s’, there was no time. Trades were scattered in small piles at our feet, we all realized the bell was going to ring and there was just no way, no freakin’ way, we were going to be ready. The communal panic was palplable.

‘We’re so fucked!’

‘What are we gonna’ do!?’

‘Holy shit, these are all market orders for the open, what the hell!?’

Every so often we’d get a Buy or Sell market order at the open, they were mostly from small investors and they were usually the last to be filled, at the worst price of day. But the market orders that were piling up, that kept coming in and piling up, wave after wave, were not from any small investors, these were the Goldmans’, the Lehmans’ and the Morgan Stanleys’, the big money boys and they were all selling at the open, all begging to get out at any price.

‘Any Buys!?’

I looked at Andy for a second, his head was bent slightly zeroing in, lazerlike at his screens. His perpetual tan had given way to a sickly grey, veins stretched across his thin skinned temple and his fingers were tapping away at a furious speed….clickety, clickety, clickety, clickety. Diane, a tough, wise ass, Brooklynite, the only clerk he trusted to trade when he was away from the post, was next to him trying in vain, to make sense of the piles of paper. Her mouth hung open as he said through lips so tight they didn’t move,

‘There are no fucking Buy orders.’

His voice was that of someone who suddenly divined his future, his fate was screaming at him in phosphorescent green digits.

“What?’, Dianne asked, her mouth still agape.

‘I said there are no buy orders.’

No one said a word, none of us clerks could quite wrap our panicked, adrenaline soaked brains around what that really meant to us, what our responsibility was when there were no buyers. The market makers knew exactly what he meant.

”Jesus, are you shittin’ me!?’

finally coming up for air, Palsie, the market maker I clerked for looked at Andy and all the blood drained from his face. They held their stare for what seemed like forever and then the bell rang, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!

‘Feed me the orders, Palsie.’

and I did. Everyone was his pal, everyone was Palsie but I’d never seen him look any way but bloated and happy until this moment. I thought he was going to throw up all over me as he bought every sell order I handed him. So did Andy and all the other market makers at our post because that was their responsiblity, among others, to be the buyers of last resort. They made markets and were responsible for keeping an orderly market when things got busy and they all profited handsomely, most days.

Not on this day though, Monday, October 19 1987, the Dow would plunge 508 sickening points.

There was a huge outcry, an enormous expulsion of bottled up anxiety when the bell rang but shockingly, it didn’t last very long. It got quiet in a hurry and on a day like today, on a day we thought we were going to be in the shit until the closing bell, we weren’t. The sells were bought, the option prices adjusted accordingly and after a few hours we were finished with our work, the carnage was almost complete just after lunchtime. We all finally turned around and started to shake out our tensed muscles, began breathing again.

The trading floor was a ghost town, absolute dead quiet except for the occasional, quiet sobbing.

It stayed that way for the rest of the day as the Dow just continued to fall, eventually shedding over 22% of it’s value. No one said very much, a few expletives were heard, no one moved very much either except to glance up at the huge monitors scattered around the ceiling. It was the ugliest day anyone had ever experienced, even the longtimers were in shock and the alchohol started flowing well before the close, at the clubby restaurant downstairs.
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There were a lot of traditions in this tribe and they were expected to be honored, you followed them if you wanted to fit in. It was acceptable to talk honestly about your losses but it was always considered bad form, to speak about your profits.

Palsie lost a third of his net worth that day, Andy closer to 40%.

Mike, the clerk who worked next to me was pretty animated that Black Monday, much more than usual. He was an odd bird, he was quick with the quotes and rarely made mistakes but he was a little off, never quite meshing with the tribe. Though we had that ‘otherness’ in common because I never really fit in either, he was hard to like. Mike didn’t say much, kept to himself and didn’t have much of a sense of humor either. I didn’t talk very much but I could always crack people up with my one liners. Humor was a valuable commodity on the floor and if you could make people laugh, you were golden.

Mike had a thick body and a very small head, slim, dry lips and beady eyes, and eyelids that seemed to be compressed by the gravitational pull of his heavy forehead, covered with a very small, toupee like mat of dirty, blond hair. He came in the next day and had a grin plastered on his face and as hard as he tried to contain it, he just couldn’t. Finally he fessed up, he had made a ton of money on options that Black Monday, a quarter of a million dollars to be exact, buying cheap, out of the money Puts, the further the market tanked, the more money he made. While Andy and Palsie were licking their wounds and tallying their losses, he announced a plan to buy a big, new house with his windfall.

Andy, seething a little asked him,

‘So… Mike, are you going to tell us how you knew the market would tank?’

‘Well, you know my brother works for Morgan Stanley, he called me Friday afternoon and told me Morgan would hit the market huge, with programmed sell orders on Monday morning. So I bought all the cheap Puts I could find, last Friday. Hey, they just wanted out.’

We stood there stunned, Mike had committed some cardinal sins and he either didn’t know it, or didn’t care because that grin never left his mug. Andy pounded his screen so hard, it’s hard to believe it didn’t blow up, told Dianne to watch the post and walked away.

After spending weeks trying to make sense of trades that didn’t, the piles of paper that landed in the DK room, Mike and I and hundreds of others were laid off. The DK room was ugly those few weeks, the last 2 words a trader, whose livelihood was on the line, wanted to hear was.

‘Sorry, Don’t Know ya.’

Sunday Prose: The Walk Away

The Walk Away
Even a casual observer watching me on that last day of high school in 1972, might have easily surmised from my body language alone as I hid in the shadows on that bright sunny morning, awkwardly standing there feeling insecure and listening to classmates talk about their college plans, plans I didn’t have, that my journey from that day forward was going to be a difficult one.

I lingered well after most everyone else left, so I doubt anyone noticed my hippy hating English teacher grabbing my yearbook and flashing me an evil, little double eyed wink after she scribbled ‘good luck’ under the ‘least likely to succeed’ heading.

That was my final high school memory and as
little enthusiasm as I had walking into that
dreary building during those four years,
I wasn’t in much of a hurry to leave either.
Bushwick High School and The Public Library

That long, slow walk home was nothing more than a detour to somehow delay the inevitable, an aimless but purposeful distraction from the yawning unknown. I do remember tossing the cap and scratchy maroon gown in a corner trash can somewhere along the way but not much else, not the route or what time it was when I finally looked up and saw the familiar Roman font, the peeling, two thirty two handpainted in faux gold leaf and outlined in black on the inside of the thick leaded glass above the entry doors.

The graduation ceremony ended around 11am and it was dark when I finally, reluctantly put my key in the glitchy lock of the heavy oak door to our four story, walkup tenement building that breezeless summer night, standing there motionless, not really wanting to turn the key.

I was a 17 year old, long haired, half stoned hippy who wanted nothing more than to be an artist, trying to survive in a nowheresville neighborhood buried somewhere deep in the bowels of Brooklyn with no prospects, no plans, no money and not much of an education either.

Opening that door was the last thing I wanted to do.

I wasn’t given much to work with as a kid, on Welfare after a traumatic divorce when I was twelve and as hungry as we were the last week of every month, survival until the next check arrived was our sudden priority.

A decent student before my parents divorced, I never really recovered, not from the shocking move from our tidy, two cars in the driveway middle class life on Long Island and not from the shame that we were now on Public Assistance, which was polite talk for Welfare then. Trauma and hunger are a toxic burden for a kid, a terrible way to begin class in a brand new school in a neighborhood that bore absolutely no resemblance to anything I’d known.

Everything around me, the dirty, dilapidated neighborhood, the drugs, the alchohol and violence I and everyone else lived with, only confirmed a life most likely destined for failure. No one who knew me then at 17, my parents, classmates, friends or my English teacher would have been at all surprised if I joined most of my neighborhood friends who were either drug dealers, street addicts, in jail or dead by the end of that first summer following graduation.

Even Lola who was the valedictorian of our class and my loving soulsister during that last year, even Lola, the poet priestess who I wrote about in summer of sorrow, who recieved a full scholarship to Vassar took up with an alchoholic and never did attend Vassar or any college, breaking my heart twice by summer’s end.

There was not a single reason to,
but I had dreams of better days even then. Why?

I can’t explain why there was a spark, any spark at all in a soul that absorbed and witnessed as much I did or why I dared to believe my life might possibly be any different than anyone else I knew. Maybe it was the artist in me who dwelled in the imaginary, maybe it was the hallucenogins still in my system or maybe it was just plain fear seeding visions in my head after spending six years with a half empty belly, the fear of watching so many people with so much promise disappear into the muck.

People I knew daydreamed about becoming rich, I just wanted to escape my neighborhood alive.

Of course, this would have been a perfect time for a serious sitdown with a caring father, for a heart to heart talk between a dad and his son to pass on some wisdom, maybe some advice to put his rudderless kid on the right path. But I was already one year removed from deciding in court,not to ever see my father again.

He was happily, already long gone by graduation day.

The year prior, the Family Court judge mandated I spend a summer vacation with him in the house that still contained all our furniture he wouldn’t send us, the house he could somehow afford yet could never pay child support, the house we had to escape his death threats from, the house that reminded me of everything I never wanted to remember. I spent the entire summer walking as far away as possible from that house from the moment I woke up until late at night, when I would tiptoe back to my old bedroom.

He noticed my boots were completely worn out,
the soles had come loose so we went to a
local shoe store and he bought me a new pair,
and he complained about how expensive they
were as we drove home in his blue Cadillac
Coupe with them still in the box on my lap,
as I sank deeper into the white leather seat
with every word.

When I left quietly the next morning, the unopened box and my old boots were next to each other on the floor beside my bed. I walked barefoot that day, my first act of defiance in a life of submission and constant fear.

My father wasn’t educated but he was perceptive, perceptive enough to know when he turned on the flourescent light in the kitchen that night as I tried to slip into my bedroom unnoticed, as his veins began their slow bulge in his forehead. He knew when he looked at me with those raging eyes, as I held his gaze like I never did before unflinching as I stood my ground in my bare feet on the cool linoleum floor. He knew in that stare that seemed to last forever, that this encounter would alter the trajectory of our lives, that whatever was before was not to be again.

I was prepared to get pounded, he saw the determination in my eyes and that I was absolutely going to get back up and get back up again, if that’s what it took. How ever this was going to end, it was going to end that night with me being free from his tyranny, one way or another.

There was a tranquility that washed through me as l let go of the fear, I was there but not quite and I’m not sure if I would have felt pain in the state I was in, a lightness that I had never experienced before and it was evident, evident in my eyes and his that he knew I was already free.

He turned, flipped off the light and left me standing there in the dark as he walked away.