Beans & Stuff
For those keeping score at home, headline from foxnews.com: “10 dead, 65 shot amid bloody Chicago weekend.” Sounds like a broken record.
Here’s an excerpt from what was formerly titled Exchanges, now Open Outcries. It takes place in 1988, when trading was conducted on the eighth floor of 4 World Trade. The novel is divided by the months of the year. This is from July, about a five-minute read:
“Will somebody please tell me why we’re followin’ the beans,” said Charley, leaning over the podium.
“Because the by-products are used in the making of metals,” said a light-haired young man standing directly below him.
Charley was stunned. The response made sense.
“Thanks, Hank. At least somebody out here has a brain.”
Henry Schiller, a Jerseyite, graduate of Duke, was one of the most intelligent and honorable men in the ring. He kept a low profile, trading for himself and going home to his family. Of Arian descent, he was dubbed “Hitler Youth” by Forza, the latter’s cleverest quip to date, as Schiller did seem suited for work as an extra in any film about Nazis. Forza often drew swastikas on Henry’s freshly laundered white work jacket.
No group or individual, however revered, was exempt from sarcasm at the Exchange. Nothing seemed sacred except money. No event, be it the Holocaust or the most brutal incident of child abuse, no affliction, however unfortunate, escaped lampooning. Jokes were made of anything of significance in the news, of anyone who died, the more tragically the better. When Natalie Wood drowned, the quip was: “What type of wood doesn’t float?” When Marvin Gaye was shot to death by his father, the gag was: “What’s his favorite drink? — a shot of ‘Old Grandad.’” When Linda Blair visited the trading floor, many growled the famous line from the The Exorcist at her: “Your mother sucks cocks in hell.” She stood up to the abuse well, laughing. A handsome television actor wasn’t as fortunate. A tall, pot-bellied Gold broker asked him if he’d met the “Big Guy.” When the young man said he hadn’t, the broker seized him by the back of the neck, forced his head to the crotch and said: “Say hello.” Uproarious laughter rising about him, the young man was stunned, to say the least.
Such was commodity humor: broad, crass, irreverent. Cruelty and lack of conscience were deemed imperative by many and became acquired traits.
Since soybeans did not begin trading until ten-thirty, and since silver had no momentum of its own at present, the market was sluggish in the early going. As the moment of truth approached, the ring filled and all eyes sought the monitors positioned in a circle inside the railing at the bottom of the pit.
“Watch the beans, the beans,” Juan again shouted, a hand covering his mouth.
Forza made loud panting sounds, mocking everyone, especially those in his vicinity he hated most.
Soybeans apparently had stabilized, as the market opened slightly lower. Many groaned. “The party’s over,” Mickey sang. Charley was relieved. The market had been busy every day for nearly a month. It was time for a rest. Some of the reporters were disappointed as well, worried that Christmas gifts would not be as generous as last year. Charley was not sure the extra money was compensation enough for the added stress. And he did not enjoy seeing the brokers making so much more money than he.
Then why don’t you become one? he thought, irked at himself, at his acceptance of mediocrity.
Here’s a pic of the floor post-trading:
I don’t know what it is, but I can’t seem to remember to take water with me on hot days. I have a frozen bottle of Poland Spring in the freezer for times like this. I was gonna close the book shop early because I was so parched, but young Bek had business in Chase and I asked him to bring me a cup of water and he obliged, good kid that he is. That enabled me to put in a full session and catch the lovely teenager who bought The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini, The 5th Wave by Rick Yancey, and Paper Towns by John Green. My thanks, and also to the gentleman who purchased a book in Russian in the early going, and to whoever took the time to read excerpts of my books at Amazon, about 70 pages in all. Best of all, as I returned to the neighborhood the prime parking spot was open, beckoning “Come to Papa.” No travel, wasted time, the next three days.
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