Fair Exchanges

The president of Belarus, Alexander Lukashenko, a Putin ally, is considering joining the attack on Ukraine. He is already allowing Russian troops to use his country as a launching point. Railway workers have coordinated an effort to sabotage lines to prevent the flow of supplies to Russian troops, and hackers are also attacking the system. If he makes the move, may he suffer the same carnage Russian forces have. (From a foxnews.com article by Danielle Wallace, in my own words.)

For a change I didn’t look forward to the floating book shop. The cloud cover and icy wind took all warmth out of the air. Since conditions rarely have anything to do with business, it’s not surprising that today’s return was well above average. The session was made in the first few minutes, as Gonzo bought ten more titles to help fill his new book case: Shattered Minds by Laura Lamb, The Shelters of Stone by Jean Auel, The Premonition: A Pandemic Story by Michael Lewis, America Liberty by Stephen Coonts, Treasure Hunt by John Lescroart, 206 Bones by Kathy Reich, Defending Jacob by William Landay, and The Code: The Unwritten Rules of Fighting and Retaliation in the NHL by Ross Bernstein, Marty McSorley, et al. My thanks, and also to Jim, who purchased Before You Quit: Everyday Endurance, Moral Courage, and the Quest for Purpose by Doug Gehman, Tanzer Kaye, et al; Earn It!: Know Your Value and Grow Your Career in Your 20s and Beyond by Mike Brzeinski and Daniela Pierre-Bravo, and Exchanges by yours truly; and to the young woman who took home Lies Women Believe: And the Truth that Sets Them by Nancy DeMoss Wolgemuth, and Delivered from Distraction: Getting the Most Out of Life with Attention Deficit Disorder by Edward M. Hallowell and John J. Ratey; and to Wolf, who donated three works of non-fiction; and to the woman who delivered another Reader’s Digest compilation of four condensed novels; and to Marty, NYPD retired, who brought two bags full of best sellers. I am blessed. And there was a bonus, as Occupy Jack showed. The Israel-born anti-Zionist was true to his contrarian form, siding with Putin. I didn’t argue, forgoing the exercise in futility.

Exchanges has now broken even, strictly through street sales. The publisher never paid me royalties for the 40 or so copies, counting Kindles, that sold on the web in its original incarnation. When he passed away and new print copies were no longer available for sale, I was unable to reach anyone who might have taken over his endeavor. I decided to take action, retitled the novel Open Outcries, and self-published it through Amazon. It has sold only one e-copy since, but at least print copies are again available to anyone interested in it. Anything involving the trading floor mentioned in the book actually occurred, as bizarre as it may seem. Here’s an excerpt. Charley is the supervisor of the Silver market:
The butterflies rose and quickly faded within him, as the market opened to light trading. The range was only two cents as 8:30 approached. All eyes were on the information board, which was affixed to the wall to the right, just below the fans, which were blowing even though it was the dead of winter. The heat generated by so many bodies amassed together was often stifling. In the summer the air-conditioning was negated by mid-day.
Charley began bouncing nervously on his right leg as the secondhand approached the half-hour. The rise in the Consumer Price Index was slight; consequently, the price of Gold and Silver, which rose according to increases in inflation, fell a bit. Brokers scrambled momentarily to resolve or establish a position, and the market quickly stabilized.
“Looks like a long day,” said Charley, not entirely unhappy about it.
No matter how slow or fast the market moved, he was constantly glancing at the clock, counting down the time to his first break, his second and the close. Even though he’d been here 18 years, he still experienced anxiety during hectic trading. No matter how well he might have done to this point, he knew that if one of the more powerful brokers lost a great deal of money over a short period and decided to raise a stink about the performance of Exchange personnel, he would be deemed responsible, even if the broker were unjust in his accusations. Brokers often vented their frustrations on Exchange staff, citing alleged incompetence as the reason for their own losses. He wouldn’t be fired, he knew, but a shift to another ring where there was less action and less envelope money at Christmas time was a distinct possibility. It’d happened to several supervisors in the past. Burnout was common in the industry. Strangely, there were times when the market, the screaming, yelling and pleading, seemed simply a big, silly joke and he wasn’t at all tense. Mostly, he regarded it with grimness.
He’d spent the past ten years in Silver, five as a reporter, three as an Assistant Supervisor and two as Supervisor. He wanted to stay here. He did not like the atmosphere of the Gold ring, where the pressure was even greater, and the day was ten minutes longer. A move to Copper, which was referred to as the country club, opening at 9:25, closing at two, would be acceptable, although there would be a lot more dead space to fill each day. He was often torn. Low volume would result in a meager bonus and less envelope money, yet market stability meant that inflation was under control, which was to the benefit of the rest of the country, which seemed more important than personal gain. And it would certainly mean less stress. Besides, any extra money he would earn might be eaten away by the rise in the cost of living that inflation would engender. Only the brokers would be unaffected, as they would earn more than enough to outdistance it.
Since the market was slow, practical jokes were perpetrated to pass time. A reporter would snap his fingers or clap his hands to snare attention, then turn away or give the finger as he was looked upon. Two would join and pretend to talk about those at the podium and feign innocence when questioned, then laugh heartily as the ploy was realized. These were all directed at Charley. No one bothered Brian, whose sense of humor at times disappeared and whose demeanor was intimidating. Charley would blush and lower and shake his head, having fallen prey for the umpteenth time. He had his own tricks, smirking whenever a reporter gave a print that was already on the board, waving at anyone who fell into a stupor, asking that the statue be moved to the park. If a reporter should yawn, he would whip out the giant imaginary phallus from above and feed it to the gaping target, an old trick of Tom’s.
The tapping of a shoulder had become an art form. Some brought long thin shafts of cardboard to work so they could tap from a distance with impunity. Only the most disciplined willed themselves from reacting, turning. A few were always gullible. If one’s name was called, it was likely that no one would be waiting when one turned to respond. Verbal abuse was constant. If a particular weakness was detected in another, it was exploited ruthlessly. Obesity, facial features, attire, heritage, mannerisms, drug and alcohol abuse were often targeted. Two of the brokers had a slight lisp and were frequently imitated. Christians mimicked Orthodox Jews, crying: “Two bit” rather than “Two bid.” Grover, one of only two black traders in the ring, was hounded, bombarded with paper balls, tapped, shoved and insulted. Most of it was done in jest, but, without doubt, prejudice lay behind the attacks of a few. Strangely, the other black, Billy Howard, a long-termer, was not subjected to uncommon abuse. In fact, he occasionally participated in the abuse of Grover, whom he teased for being so cheap as to have an above-ground rather than in-ground pool. Grover somehow restrained himself from retaliation, although he was frequently warning those who annoyed him most. Fortunately, he was congenial and patient. He might have been doomed by a feisty temperament. He often went about, unbeknownst to himself, with tiny paper darts in his short hair, which seemed to hold them like a magnet.
Currently there were no women trading Silver regularly. There’d been a few in the past. One had been ousted for fraud; one had left to raise a family; one was now trading oil. Most women brokers were working in the option markets, where the action was not as intense or physical. Many clerks, who were employed by individual firms or brokers, were female.
Reporters, who were employees of the Exchange, a non-profit organization, were often physically abused, whacked on top of the head by a broker with a trading pad, hair pulled, neck slapped, body pummeled like a punching bag. They were at the mercy of aggressive men working in a confined area. With nothing to do, their energy was channeled into physical and verbal mischief, and the reporters were the most accessible targets, less valuable to them than their own clerks, whose work brought gain and who might not stand for physical abuse. Clerks were not exempt from verbal abuse, however. Many were openly humiliated upon commission of an error that cost a broker money.
“Guess who has to go to the bathroom?” said Brian.
It was 8:45.
“Mario,” said Charley, waving in frustration at the reporter in question. “Go ‘head.”
In five minutes Matty would go and, five minutes later, Stevie. It was the same each morning. Each reporter had a specific time, outside of his breaks, when he left the ring. Some did so more than once a day. Those who had an early break waited until eleven to request leave. It was a full proof method of malingering — one could not be denied the right to relieve oneself. It peeved Charley, as he knew these were simply ploys used to escape for a time. He didn’t mind as much when a full crew was present, as no area would be left uncovered should the market suddenly move. There were times when those who most abused the privilege insisted on leaving even if it left the crew shorthanded. They knew they would not be blamed if trades were missed while they were away. The onus would fall upon the supervisors. Lately, the married men had come up with a new ruse. Each had his wife call in the afternoon, which provided another excuse to leave the ring for a few minutes.
To his chagrin, Charley’s role was chiefly that of babysitter. And most of the whining of the crew came from its senior members, who believed they were entitled to special consideration. If they arrived an hour late, they expected to be marked on time. He was amazed at how often some of the married men were absent. They exceeded the limit of sick days considerably and were not compensated for that time. He could understand such irresponsibility from the single men who lived with their parents, but not from the married or those who supported themselves. His complaints were minor, however. He was happy with his crew. When pressed they worked efficiently. And he wasn’t plagued by the internal squabbling and backstabbing that occurred in other rings. He realized that each reporter was different, that the level of ability, diligence and character varied from one to the next and was not likely to change. He accepted the nonsense, the quirks, to a point. Fortunately, he did not have to be firm very often.
Mario, a large, paunchy, dark-haired man with a roman nose, paused at the podium and put his arm around Michelle, the ring’s lone female reporter, who, along with Gary, was handling the corrections this morning. Michelle spent most of her time at the podium, as Charley allowed. The ring was crowded, the pushing and shoving often intense. It would be foolish, even though she was sturdy, to place her where she might be hurt. Years ago she’d been punched in the abdomen by a broker who’d blindly lashed out at whomever he believed had tapped his shoulder. In a meeting, the man pleaded ill-health and promised her football tickets. Michelle and her father, who was employed as a clerk, were so appalled at the man’s pitiful behavior they left the office without filing a formal complaint. She never received the tickets.
Mario leaned his weight, which was in excess of 250 pounds, against Michelle, who was unable to shrug off the load. He pledged his undying love, although he was married. He was always hanging on to people, whispering into an ear, kissing a cheek.
“I thought you had to go to the bathroom,” said Charley.
Mario sprang erect and broke into the theme song from Gunfight at the OK Corral. Everyone at the podium burst into laughter.
“See it last night? It was on the cable. The Untouchables too.”
He went into an imitation of Walter Winchell: “Ness and Rossi were waiting for the shipment to come down from Canada. Ness knew….” And he hummed a few bars of the theme music. His face, which featured a high forehead that tilted toward his hairline, glowed as his audience was in stitches.
“Awright, get atta here,” said Charley, chuckling.
Before leaving, he took his comb from his rear pocket, covered most of it with his fingers, placed the exposed part under his nose, raised his right arm, and gave his rendition of Hitler. His impressions were often silly and inaccurate, but they were delivered with such unabashed energy one could not help laughing.
“Ever call his house?” said Charley to Gary and Michelle. “What an act he’s got on his answerin’ machine. I’ll give you the number. You gotta hear it. He does The Godfather doin’ the play by play of the Met game too. What pep for a fat man.”
“Too bad he doesn’t use it on the job, “said Michelle.
“I remember when he was a hundred pounds lighter. He wasn’t a bad ballplayer when he was straight. Let Matty go to the bathroom, Gary.”
“They don’t want me there anymore.”
“What’s this now?”
“I don’t know. Forza’s a jerk, what can I say?”
“Go in Dickie’s spot. Tell him to slide over for a few minutes.”
Gary, mild-mannered and intelligent, was a good reporter. He refused to be a puppet, to report a trade that was out of line simply to appease a broker. Some reporters did anything a broker demanded, however wrong, fearful that if they didn’t they would be excluded from the gift list at Christmas time.
“Oh, Ubangi lips,” said Matty, a tall, fair-haired man wearing wire-rimmed glasses.
“What’s up, Stickball Coach?” Charley returned, exchanging a high-five.
“You hear? They’re talkin’ comeback again. What d’you think?”
“I’m out. My kid’s in little league now. I’ll be managin’ his team. That comes first.”
“I’m in,” said Brian. “I missed not playin’ last year.”
“Ripper, Skipppy, Nellie — they’re all talkin’ shit. They want the Oil team. They won it last year.”
“Only because we didn’t play,” said Brian.
“We won the three straight,” said Charley. “What’s left to prove? Time to hang ’em up.”
“I know. No way I’m goin’ to meetings and callin’ everybody up, and then havin’ only five guys showin’ up for the practices. Let somebody else deal with that aggravation. I got my trophies. I’m drivin’ a cab at night now. I wanna buy a house, have a kid.”
Soon Mario returned, visited his area a moment, then re-approached the podium, tugging at the seat of his pants. “I gotta go back to the bathroom a minute, please, Charl — improper wipe.”

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