Thirty-five and single. For a woman – it’s time to panic and the end of their biological clock ticking world. For a man – Well played. Unfortunately for our kind, there aren’t too many men who make it to thirty-five and single without having been put through the divorce court ringer. If you are on the short list of survivors then good for you.
Meet Johnny Wall Street. He’s thirty-five, single and by most of America’s standards, makes a very respectable living. He works on my trading desk where he focuses on small cap stocks and new issues. Johnny is always extremely well dressed, in good physical condition and not bad looking for a dude. This guy should have life by the balls, a turnstile for a front door and living like a rock star – but he’s not.
Johnny’s been with my firm five years now, I’ve been out with him a dozen times and it’s always the same story. I guess it’s a matter of the grass is always greener because the only thing Johnny wants to do is find a steady girlfriend who he can eventually marry. Sadly enough, Johnny hasn’t been able to find even one girl who’s willing to go on a second date. Why is that?
One thing that jumps out at me is that Johnny is a complete dildo and social misfit. Once you take him out of the trading room, he’s fucking retarded (not that he’s performing any miracles inside the trading room). Clinically Johnny has what’s referred to as ‘I’m a really important big shot wall street trader douche who thinks I am cooler than the rest of the world because I use trading lingo and can’t help myself syndrome.’ He’s one of those guys that make us all look bad.
Johnny loves his trading lingo. But unfortunately for us all, he loves it way too much. Johnny doesn’t order lunch – he’s involved in “lunch prints”, when one of the hot sales assistants walks through the trading room, – Johnny’s “a large buyer” and he’d “put that on the tape” in a heart beat. He’s got a buddy interviewing for a job on our desk who’s “stopped somewhere else.” With Johnny people and places are either “Buys” or “Shorts”… Dude, shut the fuck up you . You’re an annoying little prick trader who’s average at best.
Now believe me, I understand that occasionally, when the time’s right, it’s OK to slip an industry term into the real world. I get it. I do it myself sometimes. But for people like us (normal people), it’s once in a while and always amongst other people in the business who understand what you’re fucking saying. For Johnny the lines are blurred and he never stops, he can’t help himself. Olga, the barmaid in our local watering hole, has no idea what it means, but she she knows that little annoying Johnny likes his Bud Light “on the hop!” He actually says that. He’s such an ignoramus.
Just to make matters worse, the dopey bastard has got the kind of chronic dragon breath you’ve only read about in fairy tales. I think maybe he had the Porter House at Bobby Vans ten years ago, a piece of grizzle must have gotten lodged under the cap of one of his bottom molars and has been fermenting there ever since. There’s no better start to the day than having this empty suit come over to your desk, lean in, violate your personal space, share his worthless market color and pollute your air with the foul stench of putrid dead-meat. Fuck off. All I want to do is drink my coffee and look like I’m making my calls.
Last week after the close, Johnny and I stopped out for one. As they usually do, one drink turned into two, two turned into five and before you knew it, it was 2am and after one more tequila shot for the road (never a good idea), I was in the back seat of a town car, my head was spinning and I was trying to remember what exit I was on the expressway so the annoying little Korean man who couldn’t even pronounce my name could program his GPS. Anyway… back to Johnny.
Giving credit where credit is due… Johnny did teach me something interesting. He calls it the “MOC”, or the “Market on Close”. In Johnny’s too big for his own britches world of having no rap at all, the MOC isn’t about trading imbalances at 4pm. It’s about planting your ass at the bar until last call just to see if any drunken women are left standing, look vulnerable, broken hearted or if there’s anything else you can drag out of there before going home empty handed. It’s your time to shine Johnny.
Stop being such a douche, start chewing Dentyne’s breath freshening gum and try talking to people like they’re people.
Gimme a done for day,
Dopey
