The Buy Side (34 page)

“I’m getting nervous,” I say. She tilts her head sideways, curious, and puts a little more salad on her plate. “We’re spending like twelve grand a month before we even put food on the table.”

“So we’ll cut our expenses,” she says. “We can cancel the cleaning lady, we can get rid of all the movie channels, we won’t eat out, and we don’t need to go on any vacations.”

Though my experience tells me everything will work out—it always has—I’ve done the math in my head and know what’s happening on the Street. I can’t help but feel anxious. “With all the bills, property taxes, and a six-and-a-half-percent mortgage, it’s still gonna be tight,” I say. Jenn lights a cigarette but hides it from Lola; she blows the smoke toward the house. In the yard, the fallen leaves crackle under Lola’s princess footsteps.

“Well, if we can’t afford to live here, then we’ll just sell this and move to a smaller place,” she says.

“Yes, that’s what we’ll do,” I say, smiling. But I’m not sure that’s even possible.

It’s November 1, 2007, and Jeff is already in the office when I get there. This rarely happens. Before I get to my desk, he yells to me about a report by Meredith Whitney. I don’t know who Meredith Whitney is, let alone what he’s talking about. I boot up my IM and send a message to Gus to ask if he knows, but he’s not in yet. No one is in at this hour except some of the international traders around the Street. Initially I find out a few things about her: she’s hot, she’s a cougar, and she looks like she’d be fun to roll around with. Then I find out Meredith is an analyst at Oppenheimer and the report she’s put out has Wall Street electrified. Jeff begins yelling to me to sell SPYs and QQQQs. What he wants me to do is to short the whole
market. I haven’t read the report, but there’s no denying the urgency in my boss’s voice. The market doesn’t open for hours, so I start selling both the SPYs and QQQQs on my Instinet machine. The pricing isn’t great, but at this point I don’t think Jeff cares about my execution; he just wants to sell as much as he can. In just an hour or so, I have us short fifty million dollars, and in just a few hours the firm is net short and it looks like we’re going to be for the foreseeable future.

Whitney’s report, it turns out, is a scathing assessment of the very solvency of Citigroup, the biggest bank in America. The impact of it rocks Wall Street like an earthquake. Banks such as Citigroup have been considered impregnable castles where the masters of the universe live. But in the weeks to come, when their vaults crack open, only worthless pieces of paper spill out. Whitney times her report to go along with the Fed meeting, which warns of slowing economic growth. Good night. It’s over.

That weekend I strap Lola into the car seat and drive the short distance to the center of Huntington Village. On the way to New York Avenue, I see a house with a For Sale sign in front, then another, and another. I follow New York Avenue to Main Street. Huntington Village is a quaint little town and one of the reasons we bought the Queen Anne Victorian. The sidewalks are red brick, and iron gaslight fixtures hold the streetlights. Main Street is the perfect setting for a homecoming parade. But on this day, I see that several stores are empty or going out of business, and I wonder to myself: Why haven’t I noticed this before?

SIX P.M
. It’s snowing. I hear the melodious plucking of a harp. At first just a few tiny, wispy flakes dance and flutter to the triumphant sounds. The flakes’ graceful descent is spectacular. The scene is dreamlike. The curtain of snow grows thicker. The music becomes louder, faster. I can feel the excitement building in my stomach. It’s like I’m seven years old again and have just found out it’s a snow day. The melody lingers in the air as the final snowflakes parachute to the ground.

The mound of cocaine rests on a polished mahogany coffee table, next to my American Express card, a glass of scotch, two packs of Newports, my lighter, and a remote control. I’m holding my cell phone as I hit Dial. I stand up to pace the deluxe suite at the Fitzpatrick Hotel. This is the hardest part. I need to call now so I can start my night. But is it too early to say good night to Jenn and Lola? Jenn never tried to be my parole officer; she wants what’s best for me. She knows how much the commute is killing me, so we’ve worked out a
deal for me to stay in the city once or twice a week. She thinks I’m at Gus’s, though, not in a four-hundred-dollar suite. When she answers I try to act casual but tired. She’ll believe tired. “How’d you do today?” she asks first thing. It’s a question she’s been asking a lot lately. Now the whole world knows what’s happening to Wall Street.

“We’re doing better than most,” I tell her. “We’re still up on the year.”

“I’m glad,” she says. “We need you to be up.” I ask if I can say a quick hello to Lola. Jenn calls her, but she doesn’t want to get on the phone. Then Jenn starts talking about Lola’s preschool, but I’m not listening anymore. I’m staring at the mound of cocaine. I need to get off the phone.

“I’m gonna crawl into bed and watch a movie,” I say. “I might fall asleep, so if I don’t talk to you again, have a great night. Kiss and hug Lola for me.”

“Okay,” she says, but she sounds a little annoyed. Did I cut her off? Did she have more to say about Lola’s preschool? Or is she suspicious?

But my questions are quickly displaced by the harp music that begins to play again. I roll a twenty-dollar bill and gather enough cocaine with my American Express card to form a hefty line. I order my first porn movie with the remote. I light up a cigarette. I snort the entire line and the rush immediately flushes to my head and then all over my body.

It’s maybe a few days later, I can’t be sure. I’m at work, though, and I get an email from Gus. It’s a picture of a two-dollar bill taped above the Bear Stearns logo at their corporate headquarters. That’s how much J. P. Morgan paid for Bear’s stock, a stock that was worth $171 just a year before. I look around our office. The analysts are sitting silently, glued to their screens. Heather, the other trader, has a worried look on her face as she slumps low in her chair. Jeff looks like
he hasn’t slept in months. I imagine all of Wall Street looks the same. It doesn’t matter: sell side, buy side, fixed income, equity, or private equity, we’re all screwed.

I send an IM to James, with whom I started trading a few months ago.
Let’s meet at 4:15
, it says. Our code. Since 4:20 is synonymous with smoking weed, we thought meeting at 4:15 was only appropriate for cocaine. I trade a ton with James today, all day. After the market closes, I’m on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette. Midtown is already a sea of people heading to Grand Central, nearly all of them with a cell phone pressed to their ears. I can hear their conversations: a woman with a thick Long Island accent, a guy whispering to his sidepiece, a boss screaming at his secretary. Across the street from me is a bike messenger. His bare legs are purple with tattoos; he wears a locking chain across his chest like a slave. When I look at him, he looks away and begins touching his nose, and I know it’s some kind of a signal. I’m convinced he’s watching me. Just then, James comes waddling up Third Avenue. I hand him my pack of Newports and he puts it into his coat pocket. “Fucked up out there, dude,” he’s says. “All my accounts are freaking out.”

“I know, I know,” I say. “Fucking brutal.” But all I can think about is the bag he’s surreptitiously sliding into my cigarette pack. James asks about my plans for the night. I tell him I have a dinner with some research guys. “I need this,” I say, as I hold up the Newport box he just handed me, “just to get through the night.” He laughs at the thought of my being all jacked up sitting around some Wall Street stiffs. As I begin to turn away, I feel another bolt of paranoia. “This is just between you and me,” I say. No one can know, not even Randy or Gus.

“No problem,” he says. “I’m a vault.” I search his face for any sign of deceit. His eyes dart away from my assessing glare. I give him a gentle fist bump to his shoulder and walk away.

And then I’m in a room in the Fitzpatrick again. Hank Paulson is on the television screen. I pour out the coke onto the coffee table in front of me. I rip a line, hit mute on the remote, and watch Paulson’s lips move for a few moments before I order porn.

It’s after work, a week later, maybe two. I go to an informal charity event at a bar in Midtown. It’s to raise money for Wounded Warriors. When I walk in, a few people call out my name—they’re surprised to see me. I go to the bar to order a Coca-Cola. “I don’t drink anymore,” I tell the bartender. He didn’t ask, but he tells me I’m probably better off. I stand with my back to the bar, looking out at the crowd. All of a sudden it dawns on me: they’re all younger than I am. My ten years on the buy side flash before my eyes, and I think of Galleon with Gary and Raj. I ran into Raj at one of these charity events not too long ago. He acted like he didn’t even know me. I laughed at his phoniness. I guess I was dead to him. The last time I saw Gary was at a fortieth birthday party for a mutual friend. They had Usher play for the entertainment. I alluded to the MDRX trade with the courage of cocaine within me. I said that I didn’t know who said what, but I was sorry for my part. He looked me in the eye and shook my hand. I think he thinks I was apologizing for something, but that was fine with me. I believed it was behind us.

At the Wounded Warriors party, I see a friend of mine from Credit Suisse walk in. Stephen looks like he just got off a beach. He’s tan and his long hair seems highlighted by the sun. He grew up in a Wall Street family, but surfing is more important to him than his job. He gives me a big hug and asks how I’m doing. When he notices the soft drink in my hand, he smiles. “I’m proud of you, man,” he says. I know the remark is genuine, but I’m a phony. And then we’re surrounded by four or five young Wall Streeters who know Stephen. “My boy Turney here is legendary,” he says. “His parties were epic.” He tells them about
South Beach and Susquehanna: “His skin was green when he came back from that trip,” he says to peals of laughter, but the laughter recedes to a subtle soundtrack of memories. I think of September 11 and the Twin Tower Fund’s party and my birthday bash. I think about all the money I spent and all the money I’ve made just by being myself, or who I thought I was. Who was I, anyhow? How far away my childhood and Maine seem now. An image of my father comes to me, him shoveling the driveway, not nearly keeping up with the heavy flakes that keep piling higher. And yet he works on, and on, until the day runs out of light. As I look around the room, I wonder who in this crowd came from where I did, and who has the same path ahead of them. And in that instant, I feel sorry for myself. As the memories fade and the moment again comes into focus, the laughter has ended. This pending doom on Wall Street has everyone feeling sorry for themselves. A pall hangs over us. It’s like a party after a funeral. No one is smiling.

But Stephen continues to talk about me. He tells his audience about the time I gave his coworker Brian a hundred thousand shares for doing a cartwheel on the trading floor. “Brian turned his ankle and was limping around for a week,” he says. The young traders look at me with eyes wide with wonder. But Stephen’s words of admiration sound to me like a eulogy. I excuse myself and tell him I’ll be right back. And that’s when I see James standing in the entrance of the bar.

It’s six a.m. the next morning, or maybe it is the following week. I’m staring down at a toilet in the office bathroom, which is filled with puke. I can taste the scotch I drank the night before. I throw up again, nothing but bile. I grab some toilet paper to wipe both sides of my mouth. I flush and sit on the toilet, trying to catch my breath. When I stand, the floor spins beneath me. When I look at myself in
the mirror, I’m repulsed. My face looks raw-red, and the blood vessels in my nostrils are inflamed. I resemble a guy who just ran out of a burning house. I splash some cold water on my face and stare again, hoping I’ll magically look presentable. I look the same. Somehow, I get back to my desk. Heather asks me if I’m okay. I tell her I’m sick, I might have the flu. She tells me I should go home. “Go,” she says. “Take care of yourself.” But I shake my head no, playing the brave man. It feels like an eternity for the market to open. When it does, my screen goes bloodred; everything is down. I feel something drip from my nose, water from the sink or perspiration, I think. Then I see a red drop between the letters
K
and
L
on my keyboard. Another falls to the exact same spot. There’s blood on my keyboard.

On Thursday, Gus is watching
SportsCenter
when I get to his apartment on Seventy-Fifth Street. His girlfriend, Lori, is in the kitchen. She’s somber and orderly, the opposite of Turbo. Gus’s place reminds me of my apartment on Sixty-Seventh Street, a high-rise cookie cutter with two bedrooms. I can’t afford to stay at the Fitzpatrick anymore—besides, I’m constantly worrying that Jenn will open my American Express bill and see that I’ve been staying there instead of at Gus’s. Lori waves at me. She feels sorry for me. She thinks I was crazy to buy a house so far away from the city, a house that’s about to drown in a mortgage, with payments that are set much higher than what the house is worth. I throw my overnight bag into the guest bedroom and join Gus on the couch. He wants to talk about the market.