I am a partner of a hedge fund where I am also the head trader. I don’t get to enjoy being the head trader because the one guy who works for me happens to be the boss’s son. I am not one of those cool, in-the-loop, house in the Hamptons, dating a super-model kind of hedge fund traders – I’m the guy who works for his just-getting-by salary in shop that should have closed down three years ago. I used to be a sale’s trader on a middle markets desk for one of the larger shops (which has since closed down). We were the prime broker for a bunch of up and coming hedge funds. Some of the hedge funds were so small that I dealt directly with the portfolio managers… That’s how I met up with the genius who eventually hired me away to come work for him.
Hedge funds, hedge funds, hedge funds… three years ago that’s all you heard about. I should have realized it was a crowded trade and they’d all be chasing the same ideas but I got sucked in. This was my chance to be somebody. In 2006 hedge funds were still popping up like daisies, today more than half are pushing them. I’m such an asshole. This man couldn’t be consistently wrong more if he tried. It really is amazing. I should just sell his strategy as a contra indicator to other managers. I could make a fucking fortune. He’s wrong 90% of the time – the only thing he ever timed anything right was when he gave me partnership interest to stop me from leaving. It’s not even a big percentage, but when you consider there are no jobs around, it’s enough to keep me waiting and hoping for my “big pay day”. And the sad part is our fucking high water mark is up in outer-space. Even if a tsunami and the 100 year flood both hit Wall street tomorrow, I still wouldn’t see a fucking dime. It’s such bull shit.
Since we do such little business and pay hardly any commissions, I never get invited to any of the good golf outings and very rarely get invited to dinner. The only time do get invited is when a broker is hosting a group dinner and they need to fill a seat last minute. I’m not a total loser and I do have my pride – but still I go. But enough about me, let’s move on to my story.
I attended one of those group dinners I was talking about a month ago. I was one of 15 clients who came to the dinner. Every guest worked for a hedge fund… Some traded for more respected front page shops and others, like myself, worked for little no-name shit funds. Even though the dinner was shaped around the healthcare industry, the theme was arrogant douche bags and the man-whores who cover them. After introducing himself, thanking me for coming on short notice and a clammy handshake, my coverage guy ditched me like a two dollar hooker to go plant his mangina between two of his real clients. He never checked in with me after that… not once… not even eye contact. I guess I can’t complain. I mean – I get it, but it’s still a dick move. Anyway after everybody sat down, I was lucky enough to find myself sitting next to Johnny Question-for-everything. He was so smart. Even smarter than the industry analyst’s and the CEO from Merk who was presenting. He challenged everything… He had so many questions… “Why this?… Why do you say that?… How can you say that?… But what if?” He even asked questions that contradicted his own statements. It was a nightmare. I don’t know what this tool pays the street but nobody would dare get in his way. He was so busy asking questions he mistakenly took my dinner leaving me with the chicken he ordered. I hate Chicken Marsala… and that fat fuck didn’t even notice it was my steak he was scoffing down, nor did he care.
As dinner came to an end some people were starting to leave while others broke into small groups. It was pretty fucking clear that my coverage guy was headed somewhere else with his bigger paying clients. All of a sudden this fucktard who can’t even execute a 5,000 share order without moving the stock fifty-cents, was as stealthy as a Navy Seal planning a secret mission. Whatever… I was better off leaving anyway because I was the only one the desk the next day anyway. Just as I was reaching for my coat, my new friend Johnny Q nudged me with his elbow and says, “Hey Shooter – wanna get after it”. Get after it? What a dildo. I replied, “Get after what?” He said “We might as well hit the club, we’re already dirty..” Who was this guy? definitely not the kinda of guy I was going to hang out with socially. The dinner was over and I had my own life, my own friends and I knew I had to be on the desk early the next day – so naturally I agreed to go out for one. Who knows, maybe this pompous ass could somehow help me with my career. Since Johnny Q and I both live in Greenwich and we were headed out together, my fucktard broker ordered us one car to share.
We get in the car and he directs the car over to 20 West 20th Street. “What’s that?” I asked? He looked my like I was the fucked up one. For those of you who don’t know it’s the VIP club – a strip club. It was like walking into Cheers with Norm. The coat check girl muttered something into a walkie-talkie and some mobbed up looking dude in a tuxedo 2 sizes to small came out to hug Johnny Q and welcome him to the club. The host then walked us into the main room and seated us. Johnny Q introduced me to his gumba and we shook hands. They continued to small talk while I inspected the talent (which was rather impressive). This place was different. I wasn’t in Beamers anymore.
When the waitress dropped off our $22 (each) drinks, she looked me in the eye and asked if I wanted to start a tab. Since my new best friend was busy trying to pry loose some half-breed’s g-string with his lap, I gave her my card and despite the warnings from the little voice in my head, I told her to keep it open. Before long and like a little kid being escorted through the playground, Johnny was being led by the hand to a stairwell on the other side of the room. I continued to sip my drink while the girls came and went. 20 minutes went by… 45 minutes… then the goon in the tux came over to check on me. “Is everything OK?” he asked. I nodded and then he leaned in and said “I just wanted to make sure Johnny’s with you.” I replied, “He’s still upstairs, but yeah he’s with me.” He gave me a firm pat on the shoulder, said “OK” and walked away. Big Mistake. Apparently, “He’s with me” is strip club code for feel free to charge my card for anything my new degenerate healthcare trader douche bag friend can accomplish in here.
It was 3 hours later and two in the morning when a very disheveled, cheap perfume smelling, jaw grinding Johnny Q stumbled down the stairs. At that exact moment and with the precision timing of a surgeon, the host makes his way over to me with the bill, hands it to me and says, “Don’t worry about those drinks you had – they’re on me.” I was afraid to open it – I felt like a rattle snake might jump out and bite me on the face. What the fuck! $6,500!!!!!! SIX-THOUSAND and FIVE-HUNDRED DOLLARS!!!! What the fuck kind of farm animal festivities am I paying for? Six Thousand fucking dollars? Are you kidding me? I would have rather been bitten in the face by the rattle snake. I’m seeing red and this fucking Johnny Q fuck leans back with his hands behind his head like he’s some kind of sultan and says “C’mon sign that thing so we can get the fuck outta here.”
There was no talking to this guy on the way home either. He was passed out, curled up on the seat and grinning like the cat that just swallowed the $6500 canary. I seriously considered going though his wallet to try and get some of my money back – but decided against it. I regret that decision.
I’ve sent this guy multiple Bloombergs – no response. I even had a conversation with my fucktard broker. He tells me that he’ll say something to him – but I know he never will.
I blame all you brokers for the monster you created,
Shooter
