Dear Money by Martha McPhee

Author:Martha McPhee [McPhee, Martha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

From the glass palace Win took me to the pit. His office, the mess I imagined I'd find at a place like this, of papers and books and computers, also had a glass wall, but this one was transparent, not smoked, offering a clear view onto the trading floor—an empire in itself, as large as an ice rink or basketball court, with a high ceiling beneath which were rows upon rows of desks, open to allow for the easy flow of information. Each desk was occupied by a man (there were few women) busily working phones and monitoring computer screens, tapping away on wireless keyboards, the steady hum of electricity, the ring of phones. In the center of the room was an empty space above which, suspended from the ceiling, was an enormous box of screens showing the same figures and graphs and charts and information that had been on display in Radalpieno's office. Also the news—in case disaster strikes, I was told. On the morning of September 11, 2001, for example, the instant news on these screens was how all the traders understood to freeze trades immediately. The noise was constant but not loud, the steady rhythm of money being generated. The overhead lights were bright and seemed to extinguish any natural light that forced its way onto the floor.

"It's fascinating," I said, "like a machine." When Win shut his office door, the sounds of the dealing room vanished, but he could see everything. Win's office overlooked the East Side as well, and though it was only ten stories below Radalpieno's, the view seemed less spectacular, more chaotic. Helicopters that I had not noticed zipped about like flies. From here the city was not as calm, and it seemed the powers above wanted it just that way—energy igniting energy. I opened the door fast just to hear the sound again. Then shut it swiftly. Win looked at me, amused. A big old-fashioned gumball machine stood guard outside the door, filled with the colorful balls.

"I have no idea what you do," I said to him. "We're in a fine mess. Or I should say, you are. Either this is an enormous joke or you're a complete fool." I opened the door again. "It's a beehive, all those busy bees making so much delicious honey." I closed the door.

"That's a workable metaphor. You'll learn what we do. The good news is, you don't have to understand the whole picture—just what you do specifically. No one understands the whole picture, not really, not these days. Not even Radalpieno, upstairs in his sanctuary. Actually, he probably knows less than anyone down here, and for that reason he has time on his hands, can play a fine game of golf for all his practice. But it doesn't seem to matter too much."

He told me to sit down—an old leather chair, comfortable. "The business is simple. There's only one equation. Profit and loss is what the trader is all about. See those guys?" He lifted his head to look onto the floor, but he did not point.

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