It was about 20 degrees when I left the apartment. I again set up shop on Bay Parkway. The sun made all the difference in the world. I stood with my back to the Chase Bank to minimize the effect of the wind, which had diminished considerably but was still icy. I gave it two hours and thank the two customers who bought in bulk, and Joanne, who brought me another bag full of popular books, although she'd been sure I wouldn't be crazy enough to be out there on such a day.
I worked at the Commodity Exchange in lower Manhattan for almost 25 years. I started about the time
Trading Places (1983) with Eddie Murphy and Dan Ackroyd was filmed. If you freeze frame during the rally that makes them rich, you can spot me. That was a comedy. I wrote a novel,
Exchanges, about my experiences while I worked the Silver market. At the time we were still at 4 World Trade. Here's an excerpt in which I tried to capture the madness of a Fast Market. Warning: the language is blue:
Suddenly there was commotion in the Gold pit. The Silver ring filled to capacity in an instant, as if a huge wave had pounded a beach. Brokers who’d been seated sprang up like Jacks-in-boxes. The metals were rallying. Orders flooded the ring. Hands stuffed with paper reached over shoulders and squeezed through cracks in the humanity. Brokers leaned heavily against one another, clinging to a patch of turf, swaying under the momentum of the strongest and heaviest. Many turned sideways to fit in. Others refused to do so. It seemed so silly, as there was room at the bottom of the pit. Some were unaffected by the shoving. Others were obviously pained. At times, during slow periods, a game was made of the pushing, of the domino effect, as the instigators enjoyed riling those annoyed by the roughhousing. This was no game.
CONY was so demonstrative in his offer his eyeglasses flew from his head and pens from the pocket of his shirt. APB, an overweight young man, was knocked down and lay on his back like a turtle, gazing at those above him, bewildered. He had to rise under his own power, as everyone else was too preoccupied to help him. A week ago, during a day that saw trading intense from start to finish, MOJO passed out and was unnoticed by everyone but his clerks and Nutty, who raced to get him a cup of water.
Charley was jostled repeatedly by clerks climbing onto the podium and shouting past his shoulder. Orders and trading cards were forced past his hip and fed into the time-clock for stamping. Despite the confusion, the suddenness of the move, he quickly found his rhythm. There were days he never found it, despite his experience. Today the market seemed second nature to him. He felt a sense of detachment, of lucidness, as if he were an impartial observer. He was not at all nervous, which was rare for him.
He cupped the speaking end of the receiver with his hand to shield out as much noise as possible. He paused briefly between each trade he relayed, depending on the number of moves required of the DEC to complete each. He followed the activity in three ways: listening to the bids and offers, scanning the field for hand signals, and watching Brian out of the corner of his eye, wary of duplicating prints, of wasting valuable seconds. The clapping of hands was frantic, as several of the crew demanded attention simultaneously.
"Cross three Sep at seven, 'Douche Bag,’" he said into the phone. He often made up names or phrases, as the initials of certain broker codes sounded similar over the line, especially with such ado in the background. The names or phrases had nothing to do with whether he liked the particular broker. They were merely meant as clarification and comic relief designed to keep the DEC loose and to perpetuate an "us against them" camaraderie.
"Sep seven-and-a-half. Deece five. Cross a Sep at seven, ‘Dry Fuck.’ Ten Sep-Deece eight-sixty. Ya with me, 'head? Okay? Sep eight, eight-and-a-half, nine, Sep oh now. Here we go. Hang with me, you child molester, you. What's that shit up there? Take it down, hurry up - FXLA Sep. Did you do that? Tell the moron to use three numbers, for Chricesake." He placed the phone against his chest. "Of course it's comin’ down," he shouted to a broker nearby. "You know it's a bad print. It's a dime off the market. Asshole," he whispered.
"Awright, 'headly? Fix the high in Sep to oh." He turned to the reporter at his hip, who was writing up cross-trades. For some reason a written record had to be kept of each, despite the fact that each was entered into the computer and available on a print-out. "Oh, it's you, Nutty. D’you cancel that shit? C'mon, bite those fingers. Wake 'em up."
"I'm doin’ it," he snarled, shoulders rigid, fingers chopping along tensely. One would think someone who had survived combat would not be made nervous by anything else, especially something as preposterous as the action of commodity trading.
"While we're young. Sep nine, nine-and-a-half. Cross a Sep at nine, 'Whore House.’ Thirty-two Sep EFP crossed, 'RAW.' Red Deece ten-hundred. Sep oh, Sep oh-and-a-half, one. Ah, shit." He seized the microphone. "Listen up, who traded Sep above oh? Stinky 's offerin' twenty at oh. Should I take it down, Bobby?”
He looked to the Floor Committee member, who moved a hand before his neck like a movie director.
“Sep oh, nine-and-a-half, and oh again," said Charley into the phone, driving the prints in question off the board, which displayed only the three most recent in each month. "Kill the oh-and-a-halfs, Nutty. Put Grandpa on 'em. And tell Dewayne to pitch in when he gets a chance."
Dewayne, who was standing to Nutty's left and busy writing up the cross-trades Brian was entering, laughed and offered his standard comment: "Let me tell you somethin'."
"Fix the high in Sep to oh, 'head, some time in the next hour if you can. Good. That's it. You're finally gettin' the hang of this shit after fourteen years. Deece eight, Deece eight-and-a-half." He turned to Nutty. "The oh's not killed yet?"
"There," said Nutty, striking the key emphatically.
"You're out. Go where Gary is; tell ‘im to come up here."
"C'mon, Charley."
"You're too slow. Get atta here."
"It trades oh-and-a-half!" the broker directly to his right shouted, lashing out with his trading pad, striking Charley's arm.
"Keep your hands to yourself, Teddy. I ain't deaf."
"Pay attention."
This was the broker's catchphrase, aimed at Exchange employees and colleagues alike.
The roar intensified.
"Set up the 'Fast Market,’ Gary, hurry up. Don't send it ’til I tell you. Fuck it, send it."
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