The Black & The White (6 page)

“
But to answer your
question, no, he doesn’t care about the money. Who would in a
matter of life and death? Every man wants to make sure his family
is taken care of, even if your wife is a bit loopy”—he paused—”like
Stephen’s.” Andrew circled his index finger around his ear. “She’s
cuckoo.”

“
He’s married?” I asked. How
could he have been married? He didn’t seem much older than Dani.
What was more, Stephen certainly didn’t seem like the marrying
kind. I didn’t know what the marrying kind was exactly but I knew
it was something closer to Andrew than to Stephen.

“
Yup, and he’s got a kid
named Gaige,” Andrew said.

“
Like the instrument that
measures pressure?” I asked.

“
Yup, but spelled
differently. He and his wife were both physics majors in school and
thought it was funny to name their kid Gaige.” Andrew shrugged his
shoulders. “His wife is somewhat of a lesbian. They get into all
sorts of threesomes, so you better watch it, Isabelle. You may be
their next prey. I saw how Stephen was looking at you.” Andrew
chuckled as he wagged his finger at me.

“
No way! Gross!”

“
His wife’s a real bitch.
Born and raised in Connecticut right near where they live now. A
complete snob. She bosses him around like you wouldn’t believe.”
Andrew shook his head.

I couldn’t believe that anyone could
boss Stephen around. Despite his awkwardness, he emitted strength
and confidence.

“
Boring as hell as well. She
doesn’t do anything but shop, play tennis at the country club, take
Gaige on play dates, and talk about other people. Liz is the
biggest busybody in town. She’s just so obnoxious. I don’t know how
he puts up with her.”

“
Well, I am sure he likes
her for some reason. I mean, why would he marry her if she wasn’t
great?”

“
Because she comes from
money. He doesn’t. He kind of felt good that he could belong to
that society or some shit like that. When they were dating, she was
nice to him. Now, she treats him like shit and with absolute
indifference.”

When I heard Andrew explain, I felt
bad for Stephen.

“
All women are like that.
They treat you like kings and give you blowjobs but only until you
put a ring on their finger.” Andrew smiled. “Then it comes to a
screeching halt.”

I was not used to him using such crude
language. This was new, strange, and sudden.

Andrew quickly went back to talking
about business. “Get ready for the phones to start ringing. Big
number today. Let’s try to clean our prop book today.” He pointed
to the Bloomberg screen and started to test my knowledge of the
markets.

“
Alright, Isabelle. If the
curve flattens, what happens to the bonds?” He looked at
me.

“
If the curve flattens, then
one of the shortest bonds in the basket will become the Cheapest to
Deliver and the net basis of the current CTD will rise,” I said
apprehensively.

“
Okay. And?” Andrew
continued. He wasn’t impressed with my answer.

“
And”—I paused—”And…um…well,
I guess in a rally of more than 60 basis points, the trade will
lose money. And we will make money in a smaller rally and any
sell-off.” I continued hoping my answer was sufficient, but it
wasn’t.

“
Okay. So what is that
called?”

“
It’s like a straddle,” I
said.

“
Good. You’ve been reading
up.”

I smiled at him. His comment was
validating. I wanted to impress my boss.

We crossed our fingers in anticipation
of the data. Like all traders, Andrew also had his superstitions,
preferring to wear his brown leather Bass shoes each time the
unemployment numbers came out. Some traders never wore red as it
had certain money-losing characteristics. Some wore the same shirt
twice in a row. Our two-year note trader wore his watch on his
right hand when the payroll numbers were announced. I had yet to
develop my own ritual.

When the economic data came in, the
phones began to ring. The whole floor went into an
uproar.

“
Call the floor and buy the
95 strike call option on the front contract 1.51!” Andrew demanded
of me.

I pushed the “Floor” direct button and
asked for the trade.

“
You’re calling the wrong
exchange, dearie. You need the Options Exchange,” the voice said
before he hung up immediately.

There was cacophony in the background.
Numbers were being rattled off, people were screaming and
cursing.

What the hell had I just called? I
wondered.

“
You get any done?” Andrew
asked. I shook my head. He seemed frustrated and picked up the
phone. I placed mine down.

“
The fucking market is
moving here. What the fuck is going on down there. BUY THEM BUY
THEM. Okay! Did you get them done? BUY MORE! Shit. Buy it, buy it,
buy it! How much all day? Don’t fucking let anyone in front of me.
I am the first buyer at this level. Do you hear me?”

Andrew slammed the phone down. He was
clearly upset, looking into the Excel spreadsheet with a
concentration I had not yet seen.

I was shell-shocked, paralyzed at the
commotion.

The “Options” button rang
again.

“
All day, you have done
forty-nine calls. Will call back for levels.”

I repeated this to Andrew. He heard
but did not acknowledge me.

“
Who the fuck is squeezing
this repo market? Anyone know?”

The five-year trader responded. “Rumor
has it that it’s the prick.”

Everyone seemed to know who “the
prick” was except me.

“
Andrew, who’s the prick?” I
asked. He ignored me, consumed by the commotion.

The five-year trader responded instead
of Andrew. “There’s always one of them in the industry. I’m sure
you’ll get a chance to meet him.”

The phones continued to ring in mad
hysteria.

Stephen called at the end of the day.
Andrew picked up the phone. Stephen asked to speak to
me.

“
Oh, is that how it’s going
to be from now on?” I heard Andrew say good-naturedly.

“
How are you handling things
over there?” Stephen asked me when I picked up.

“
Am surviving, but barely,”
I replied.

We talked about the hysteria a bit
before he asked me out for a drink to celebrate my “first day in
the life of hell,” as he described it.

“
Not sure I can get out,
Stephen. It’s a bit crazy and I don’t know what our position is
right now.” I then looked at Andrew who was apparently
eavesdropping.

“
Ha. Position? Let me tell
you, Little One, whatever position you’re in, I’ve got the balance
sheet to cover. That’s lesson number two.”

“
What is Lesson number
one?”

“
Come meet me and I can
educate you.”

I looked over at Andrew who was still
eavesdropping. I mouthed, “Drink with Stephen?” Andrew nodded and
gave me a thumb up. Before I left, Andrew reminded me that it was
part of my job to entertain his clients. “Stephen is our largest
client.”

“
Yes, you’ve mentioned,” I
responded.

Stephen and I met at Morrell’s again.
“I promise you, drinking is good medicine at the end of a tough
day. Why do you think half of Wall Street are
alcoholics?”

“
Or drug addicts,” I smiled.
“Or in therapy,” I added.

Stephen asked, “So what about you,
Isabelle? Tell me about you. Are you dating anyone?”

His casualness surprised me. Wasn’t
this a business meeting?

I nodded sheepishly before taking
another sip of my wine.

“
He doesn’t deserve you?” he
asked.

I slightly nudged him and smiled. “Not
nice. He’s a great guy.”

“
But he’s not as nice or as
great or as smart as me.” Cheekily, he smiled a toothy grin. I
rolled my eyes.

In my head, I agreed.

Before I left, Stephen again ordered a
car to take me home. He escorted me to the car and gave me a hug.
“Listen, if you have any questions about that”—Stephen pointed to
the 1,200-page book Andrew had given to me to study, which had
become my bible—”just let me know. I’m a good teacher, just ask my
employees. Actually, don’t. Some of them are idiots.”

That night, after three glasses of
wine, I fell asleep soundly, forgetting to call Dani to say
goodnight.

During the following weeks, I stayed
late in the office, trying to understand more of the broader
markets. I forced myself to learn about trade structures, yield
curves, options, and futures. I stayed at work until about ten each
night, working with the night trading desk. Often, I was too tired
to call Dani. When I did call him, our conversations were short. It
was hard for him to relate to my day, which frustrated me. We began
to have fights about it. I started to worry I was outgrowing
him.

“
You can at least call me
and let me know what you are doing,” he said. “You can’t be that
busy to not pick up the phone once in a while, haeti.”

One morning, I found Mr. Papagiorgio,
the landlord with a nub for a left arm bent over a straw broom,
sweeping the driveway as I was leaving. It was 6:10 and I was
always at my desk by 7:00.

“
Good morning, sir. You’re
hard at work,” I said.

He smiled a friendly smile, his mouth
curved at the ends. “I’m not young anymore. This is my job now.
Something simple, but I like very much. My kids are coming with the
little ones tomorrow. You want to see them?”

“
I would love to, but I have
to work today. Save me a baklava though, okay?” He had been
bragging about how much better his wife’s baklava was than his
daughter’s since I had first moved in.

“
Young people can no cook
these days,” he said. “You come in, you go out, you come in, you
work.” He waved his long arm in a demonstrative fashion. “Young
people work so hard now, they forget to live life. It’s important.
Family. You don’t forget that. I am old. I know.”

Mr. Papagiorgio loved to lecture. Even
on his own, he would still talk to himself as though he had a
captive audience.

That night, I arrived to see a piece
of baklava on a paper plate covered in plastic wrap on the empty
clay flowerpot that stood to the right of the door. I carried it up
to the apartment, which was empty, as usual. Someone had been home
recently as there was a styrofoam container of half-eaten Chinese
food open on the table in the living room. On the couch was a used
hand towel. In the bathroom, the toilet seat was up. The bathroom
had a mildew scent, and the bathroom rug was still wet.

Since moving there three months ago, I
had seen my roommates only three times. I left before they woke up
and was in bed by the time they came home. Even though we hardly
saw each other, I felt their presence. For one thing, there was
always dirty clothes, open bags of crisps, pasta-sauce encrusted
dirty plates scattered throughout the small apartment. I had
started to despise my filthy home.

I checked my messages. There were
two.

“
Baby! Happy Monday! It’s
Kimmie! You’ve been M.I.A. Don’t tell me you’re being a Wall Street
bore?! Listen. Call me! Let’s have a meet and greet this week. You
bring you and I bring funding.”

I laughed. She was so animated about
everything.

The second phone call was from
Dani.

“
Hello, haeti. Remember me?
I’m what you call ‘your boyfriend’. Don’t you have a cell phone
yet? Call me anytime tonight. I’m waiting….It seems like I’m going
to be here for another year. I need to hear from you.”

The clear, sugary liquid from the
baklava dripped from my mouth onto my cuffed office shirt. I
giggled and said aloud, “Oh, Isabelle, you’re a complete
mess.”

I called Kim first, knowing that my
conversation with Dani would take longer than I wanted and might
put me in a bad mood. Kim was always good for laughs.

“
Hey, baby, it’s me,” I
said.

“
Oh, my God! Sweetheart!
Long time no talk. I miss you!”

We talked about my boss, how much I
liked him, how much of a gentleman he was, and how powerful he
seemed.

I also told her about Stephen, how
interesting I thought he was, how he had ten phones and the large
sums of cash he carried in his man purse.

“
He sounds freakishly fun.
Sounds like your kind of man.”

“
What do you mean? I like
freaks? Dani’s not a freak! Speaking of, I have to call him.” I
sighed.

“
Dani’s a really nice guy.
Super great! But maybe not great enough…?”

I looked at the ceiling for a second,
pondering what she had just said. I smiled. Kim thought I was
great. Momentarily, I felt confident and somewhat
validated.

“
Let’s get dinner this week.
Don’t forget!” she said. “I miss you so much, and I’ve got to keep
showing you off!”