The Buy Side (29 page)

On the first warm evening in February, Jenn, Lola, and I head out with the stroller to get some dinner. We walk in silence, not the comfortable kind. We’ve been struggling recently. After a few blocks Jenn starts to cry. I ask her what’s wrong. She tells me how hard it is, dealing with this new life of stay-at-home responsibility, how each and every day is difficult. “Your life went back to normal,” she says. Nothing could be further from the truth, I think. But I don’t say a word. I go to hug her, but she stiffens. Then I notice a serious face with a pair of eyes watching me. It’s a tall man with a square jaw; very fit and clean-cut. He has white hair and a Baltimore Orioles hat on. It doesn’t suit him. He looks like a politician who wears the home team cap when he wants everyone to think he’s a regular guy. I saw him behind us a few blocks back. He couldn’t be following us, could he? He looks right at
me, a lingering glance, and then looks away. I push the stroller faster. Jenn struggles to keep up.

A few days later, I call in sick to work again. “Food poisoning is the worst,” Melinda says when I show up the following day. My complexion is still pale. My hands shake as I set my phone and keys down on my desk and turn on the computer. When Krishen arrives, he asks me how I’m feeling, but his words lack any sincerity. The hours struggle by. When I leave work, I see the white-haired man again. This time he’s not wearing the hat. And this time I stare at him. For a second, I can see some kind of recognition in his eyes. I’m positive he’s watching me. He slowly turns and walks away. It takes a few weeks for me to forget about him. Though I keep my eye out, I don’t see him again. Maybe I scared him off. Or maybe he knows I’m onto him.

In late April, Rich and Krishen are already in the conference room when I come into work. Krishen tells me he wants me to go to the doctor. He thinks something must be wrong with me. “You’ve been sick way too much this year,” he says. At first I protest, telling him that I’d told Melinda I had to take Lola to the doctor yesterday. “I know,” he says. “But you keep having issues, so I think you need to get checked out.”

I’ve missed a few days, but he doesn’t understand how difficult things have been at home. I have to get Krishen off my back. So I tell him I’ll go to the doctor next week. But my health issues aren’t the only reason for our meeting. He wants to discuss our proprietary trading. “I want you guys to only trade healthcare names we’re not involved with,” he says. “Some of the analysts think you only cherry-pick their best ideas for your own trading account.”

What the fuck is he talking about? That’s what I do. I make us
more money because the analysts don’t know how to trade. It makes no sense to trade only names we aren’t involved in.

“They think the reason your trading account performed better than our other funds last year is because you only pick their winners.”

When I pick them, they aren’t winners yet, Krishen—that’s a skill.

I want to scream. Krishen stands up, I guess to let us know the discussion’s over. As he heads out of the conference room, I call to him.

“I just have one question,” I say. “How ’bout the analysts cherry-pick their own trades—maybe they should only put their best ideas in the portfolio?” Krishen’s face turns red. He steps back into the room and pounds his fist on the table.

“How about you do your job and I’ll do mine!” he screams. I’ve been with Argus for almost five years, and for most of that time I’ve been the golden boy. I couldn’t do anything wrong. As Krishen walks out the door, I realize that I no longer hold that lofty position.

And things go from bad to worse. In June, during options expiration, I forget to check all of our positions at the end of the day, something I’m supposed to do every third Friday of the month. Every month options get exercised into equity positions or become worthless. When I realize it on Saturday, I know it won’t be a problem—I’ll just fix it on Monday. But on Sunday night I get a text from a friend, Smart Carl, about a company buying another company for an extremely high valuation. The deal is dilutive. Analysts on the Street think the company is overpaying to acquire the other. Not good for the price of the stock. Since I didn’t perform my duty correctly on Friday, we actually own 100,000 shares of the company acquiring the other. When the stock opens on Monday morning, it’s already down ten dollars. My error costs the firm a million bucks.

Three days after my colossal blunder, I can’t work. I look like I’ve been crying all night. I don’t even stop by the trading desk. I walk
directly into Krishen’s office. I know with my puffy eyes, sunken face, and trembling hands, he’ll understand. “Jenn had a miscarriage last night,” I say. Krishen doesn’t say anything other than “Okay.” He knows I’m not working today. I turn around and leave. I don’t say a word to anyone on my way out.

Then I start losing money trading in my own account. The next week a pipe bursts in the apartment and I have to take another day off. The week after, I get pinkeye and call in sick again. I have the worst luck. I stop trading proprietarily. It’s impossible to make money this way. Krishen wants me to fail. Why else would he limit the names I can trade? I get a call from Jesse telling me the rapper we’re producing took a felony gun rap and is going to spend the next five years in jail, and our horse will no longer be racing. Too many last-place finishes. The Fatburger store in Jersey City is barely breaking even, and the plans to open the second one in the Borgata in Atlantic City might require more money. Money I don’t have. Can things get any worse? At home, Jenn barely talks to me. When she does, it’s mostly accusations: “You come home drunk from business dinners all the time,” she says. The only good in my life is my daughter. She says her first word as she reaches to me from her crib: “Up.” She’s crawling all over the apartment. When I look at her, I feel peace. Her hair is growing, her eyes are China blue, and her enormous cheeks are the color of rose petals. One night, Jenn and I decide to rent the movie
Walk the Line
, the Johnny Cash story. Lola is still up, so we set her on the couch with us. We’re both tired and almost ready to turn it off and finish the movie tomorrow when Joaquin Phoenix begins to sing the title track. Lola sits upright and starts to wiggle her shoulders. She does a shimmy. The thought makes me smile, even today.

In July, I decide to take Jenn to Greece. We’ve moved so far apart over the past months, and maybe it will bring us back together. Jenn’s
mom agrees to watch Lola. When I tell Krishen I’m taking a vacation, he says it’s unacceptable. He says a trader shouldn’t be out during earnings season, the quarterly period when the bulk of companies report their earnings to the Street. It’s too late to cancel, I tell him. I already bought the tickets. I have to go, for Jenn’s and my sake.

We stay at the most gorgeous hotel on the island of Santorini, called Katikies. The rooms are in the side of a mountain. It feels like a cave. They overlook the spectacular submerged volcano surrounded by a turquoise sea. One night, while walking through the quiet town, we find a jeweler. There Jenn sees a beautiful ring, a vibrant blue topaz gemstone. The next night, when she’s in the shower, I run to town. We have dinner reservations at the hotel. Before we head down to the restaurant, we drink a glass of wine on the veranda overlooking the water. I get down on one knee and ask her to marry me. She says yes, and we both cry.

When summer is over, Lola enrolls in her first class—Bilingual Birdies, an English and Spanish mother-and-daughter musical class. I start planning her first birthday. I decide to charter a cruise ship for 150 people to circle Manhattan a few times. We’re going to cater it with a Sunday brunch, hire a band. After a few days of securing everything and making phone calls and putting down deposits, most of the party is planned. I tell Jenn after dinner I’m going to meet some guys out and I’ll be home later. But I’m not back till six a.m. and then I only have time to shower and put on my work clothes.

Things get so much worse. An hour later, I’m standing on the corner of Bleecker and Lafayette. Rich answers my call at the desk. “My friend from college tried to commit suicide last night,” I say, sniffling.

“Um,” Rich says. “Um, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“I have to fly to Ohio,” I say. “Can you tell Krishen I’ll be at work on Monday?” When I hang up the phone I see the white-haired man
again. At least I think it’s him. I’m not sure. I only see him for a moment before he disappears around a corner. Instead of walking back to the apartment, I walk south. Jenn and Lola are still sleeping. I just want to be alone. When I get home that afternoon, I tell Jenn about my friend in Ohio. She wants to know if I’m okay. She’s worried about me. She thinks I should fly there, but I tell her I spoke to him and he’s doing all right. I just need to rest.

Five days after Lola’s birthday party cruise, I limp into the office lobby, soaking wet. I’m bleeding and have holes in my suit pants. It’s almost seven a.m. The security guard gives me a bewildered look. I look away and flash my ID card. I drag my right leg along as I make my way into the elevator bank. I need to hold my body up with one arm against the wall. My breathing is erratic. It’s hard to stand. I get on the elevator, thankfully alone.

I’m not sure how much farther I can go. Each time I take a step, my right leg throbs in pain. I use each desk in the office to take a mini break to catch my breath. Then I poke my head around the glass wall to see Melinda and Rich at their desks. They look up and then glance at each other. It isn’t the usual
Turney’s fucked up again on a Friday
look. They’re scared. I try to muster some words, but can’t. “I got mugged,” I finally say. Rich and Melinda continue to look at me and then at each other. “I need to go to the hospital … my leg.” I turn and start limping out of the office.

Rich gets up and follows me. “If you need anything, just call us,” he says. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

I get a cab. I tell the driver “107 Rivington Street.” I text Jenn and tell her I fell in a puddle going to work. Then I text her that I’m going to get my knee checked out and I’ll call her later. I know she’s not up
yet. I’m shaking in the backseat. I roll the window down. I roll it up. I blow a few deep breaths out of my mouth. I turn around to see if anyone is following my cab. I look down at my knee—it’s still bleeding. My palms are raw. There are tiny pebbles lodged underneath my skin. I pull my wet shirt off my shoulders.

The Rivington Hotel lobby is dark. I hand over my license and credit card. I tell them I need a room. They look at me suspiciously but don’t say a word. Why did the concierge just go in the back? Maybe I should just leave—but they have my credit card and license. I wait. This isn’t good. What’s taking so long? “Here you go,” the gentleman says as he hands me my stuff back with a hotel key. “Take the elevator to the fourteenth floor and then take a right.” I grab it and hurry to the elevator.

Once inside my room, I quickly take off my shirt and pants and throw them on a chair. I find the remote and order porn off the television. The bed is all white. I’m afraid to get blood on it. I empty my pockets and put everything on the nightstand: my keys, money, credit cards, phone, and two eight balls of cocaine. I empty one of the bags on the nightstand. I want to cry, but I can’t.

Last night started so harmlessly. After work I went out for a few cocktails. I called a dealer around ten p.m. I was home by midnight. Jenn and Lola were sleeping. I was just going to have a few more bumps before I went to bed. Then I couldn’t stop. I never can stop anymore. I don’t have an off button. I just kept going back and forth from the couch to the bathroom. I realize I’ve been up for three days. This started on Wednesday.
Fuck
. What’s Jenn going to say when she sees my text? I look at my still bleeding knee. I can’t believe I told the people at work I got mugged. I was out of excuses.

I’m so full of shit. I didn’t get mugged.