No matter what, “nor sleet, nor shine”, you can count on the U.S. postal service to deliver your mail on time, Canadian Mounties will always get their man and the folks at GE are constantly bringing good things to life. Now what about traders..? What are they notorious for? True Wall Street traders will seize any and all opportunities to kick a fellow trader when he’s down, then sit back smugly and watch him as he burns… It’s fantastic. Sure it sounds deranged, but that’s just what we do.
“It looks like Tony’s at capacity. Since he’ll never admit it, let me keep piling more shit on him until he blows up – then I can blast him for fucking up in front of everyone.”
Yep that really happens. Every day. It’s part of the culture. In this industry, when somebody you like is drowning, out of respect for the poor bastard’s ability, its standard procedure to pretend not to notice him struggling. Putting ego before practicality, an overwhelmed trader would rather die than ask for assistance.
The fun starts when a thick-headed trader, bogged down with too much flow, begins to sink. Initially, they miss a few bids, then while they’re playing catch up – they compound the problem by falsely acknowledging simple instructions or a limit change… and before you know it their caught up in the middle of a shit storm.
Overwhelmed traders are true masters of the lights are on but nobody’s home technique. When you yell over to a sinking block trader to give him instructions, he will always look you right in the eye and say, “Got it!” or “Understood!” Now, if you weren’t paying attention, you would think he actually heard you and your order was in capable hands. Guess what? He didn’t hear a fucking thing you just said and you would be better served talking to your tape dispenser.
Any seasoned sell sider can sense vulnerability fast approaching and knows that it’s nearly time to attack. Once the trader makes the fatal mistake (and they all do) of getting cocky and copping an attitude (like it’s your fault he can’t keep up) -that’s the green light to throw him an anchor, pile even more shit on him and watch him drown. Then… while he’s still discombobulated, it’s time to blast him over the top about how he fucked up, how the client will probably never call back again and how he should of asked for help. This is especially rewardng during bonus season in tough markets or when the boss is walking by.
The bottom line is that if you’re going to survive in this industry you had better have thick skin. The pressure’s high and if you’re the emotional type, frazzle easily or get affected by other people’s moods – then you’re in the wrong business. Wall Street traders are pricks. All traders (buy side and sell side) are always just one trade away from becoming complete assholes. It’s almost supernatural. Like a cursed werewolf that’s been exposed the full moon – they can’t help themselves.
For the buy side, the type of trades that trigger the transformation are the ones that could have gone better. Since the market itself is a living, breathing and an extremely volatile organism, just about anything can happen. Perhaps the market reversed on economic data, maybe Reuters reported Apple’s Steve Jobs is having more health problems or maybe the customer just sucks at picking spots. Whatever the reason, one thing is for certain – It’s the sales traders fault. There’s no sense fighting it because the second something runs amuck, the first thing your typical client does is give you the hand, pop in their superior buy-side You’re An Idiot ear plugs and cancel the order anyway.
And on the sell side, if your client’s having a bad day, you’re having a bad day. Sometimes shit days come from having little or no order flow. It’s days like that when you sit there bored out of your mind contemplating how you add no value to the real world. Non what-so-ever.
You get the point. It’s a tough crowd. A fast paced environment where survivors become hardened, cynical and eventually not only learn to function, but appreciate and thrive in Wall Street’s high pressure, cut-throat, locker room atmosphere. There are no Boy Scouts here. Those who do well would be happy to throw even their closest friends under the bus if it helps get them paid or land a new account.
However… there is one exception. Meet squeaky-clean Jack McCormick. Jack indisputably holds the award for maintaining the best personal hygiene within the financial community and probably the entire tri-state area. Jack can’t go to the dry cleaners without ironing his shirt, polishing his shoes and clipping his nails. Every morning like clock work, Jack sits down with his perfectly parted hair (that he gets trimmed every week), opens his neatly organized drawer, realigns his pencils and removes one of his four bottles of rubbing alcohol. He then spends five full minutes disinfecting his “area”. Jack wipes down his desk, telephone (even the buttons) and after realigning the tops of his monitors (that were straight to begin with), Jack cleans and disinfects them as well.
Jack does not slouch. He sits straight and tall, dots every I, crosses all T’s and goes to church every Sunday. That probably why I’ve never had more than a five-minute conversation with the guy. He is what most would refer to as the Salt of the Earth, but also the type of guy who willingly buys tampons for his wife. Don’t get me wrong – Jack is exceptionally bright, great with numbers, never late for anything and extremely well liked in his own goody-goody circles.
We work on a trading desk, so naturally Jack shares the same bathroom with the rest of the traders. He has worked for the firm more than ten years and to this day has never made number two in the office. Never. Personally, I don’t see how that’s possible – but it’s a well-known fact. Ironically, Jack’s deep fear of bacteria has forced him to place his personal hygiene before that of his coworkers. He refuses to touch the lever and simply doesn’t flush after using the urinal. He just leaves his nasty golden pool of stench for the next guy. Then he’ll use paper towels to turn on and off the sink and another paper towel to open the bathroom door until he can get back to his safe little seat where he can douse his body in rubbing alcohol.
Where as Rainman could tally hundreds of matchsticks with a single glance, Jack has been gifted with the agility of a cat. Since there is no way in hell Mr. Clean would ever put his gloved hands on a pole or hang onto a strap, this gift comes in handy on the subway. This panic balance is actually quite common amongst the obsessive compulsive germaphobes. He doesn’t talk much on the subway either. I’m not sure if he’s just focused on his balancing act or if he’s actually holding his breath in order to avoid inhaling would-be-germs.
Men don’t talk to other men about their pet peeves. it just doesn’t happen. It’s like asking some dude you work with to go for a pedicure. But since Jack beats to his own sensitive tune, he’s OK sharing with the group. I guess that’s what happens when you think you work amongst friends in his sterile little world.
Jack appeared to be a little off one day and by lunch time I was having a tough time ignoring his sighs and pouting so I leaned in in, “Jack, you ok?” He replied “Yeah. Why do you ask?” Then I explained how he just didn’t seem himself. Jack reassured me that everything was fine and we went about our business. Another hour passed and it was clear that scout leader Jack was definitely not right. He was giving short answers, complaining about everything and occasionally slamming his phone down. “Jack , What’s wrong with you? Everything ok at home? You getting sick or something?”
Oh was Jack pissed. It was weird. He was clearly disturbed and his face was chafed. “You know What!”, Jack exclaimed. “That’s one of my biggest pet peeves.” I just stared at him with a blank I’m listening but don’t really care look and let him ramble. Jack went onto explain how nothing “irks” him more than when there’s nothing amiss and people continue to ask what’s wrong. I just shook my head. Those were the last words spoken that day, but the beginning of relentless torture that still goes on today. “So let me get this straight”, I thought to myself… If I want to ruin this guys day… all I need to do is ask how he’s doing a couple times? How great is that! That’s better then winning a Win For Life scratch-off.
I let a couple of weeks pass before I started administering Jack’s well deserved torture serum.
8:30 Phase I: Planting the seed.
“Morning Jack. Everything ok?”
11:30 Phase II: Getting under his skin.
“So Jack – You gonna tell me what’s bothering you or what?”
12:30 Phase III: The Final Straw.
The scenario always varies but it’s much more fun and effective when delivered by a third person. I’ll wait until somebody else wanders over to ask Jack some unrelated question and since there’s always a 15 second time lapse between Jack processing and answering any question, I have plenty of time to interrupt, “Oh you better leave Jack alone. He is in one hell of a rotten mood.” Naturally, the innocent bystander piles on, asks Jack what’s wrong and unknowingly helps me to push the cleanly choir boy over the edge and before you know it Jack’s back to overreacting and angry at the world. It’s beautiful. Clearly Germophobia is just the tip of Jack’s OCD ice berg which is clearly layered in childhood trauma.
Not only does it work EVERY time, but it never gets old and somehow he never catches on. I’ve consistently and proudly brought Jack’s buried tension to the surface at least twice a week over the past three years. I’d like to think that maybe in some small way it’s therapeutic and I’m actually helping him break out of his tense little sterile cocoon. Oh,who am I kidding? I just like aggravating the shit out of the little prima donna. It makes me happy.
-Dopey
