and Associates.”
“You quit your job of eleven years to be a day trader?” he asks, astonished.
“Yes.” Vincent’s amazement only makes me more proud of my decision. He’s teased me for years about being too risk-averse and it’s satisfying to see newfound respect in his expression. You don’t surprise a friend of more than twenty years very often.
“That’s incredible. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“But don’t you need money to—” He interrupts himself and a dark cloud drifts across his face.
Vincent knows that Melanie and I lived paycheck to paycheck, and he’s assuming I’m going to use the insurance proceeds to fund my day trading adventure. Worse, as he bites his lower lip—the way he always does when he’s uneasy—I sense that down deep he’s worried I might have had a plan.
“A couple of weeks ago I made a bunch of money on a stock market investment,” I explain. “On a company called Unicom. I used some cash Mom left me when she died to buy the shares. In one day I made almost eighty grand on a ten-thousand-dollar investment.” If I had been able to invest the insurance proceeds from Melanie’s policy in Unicom’s IPO, I’d have grossed almost eight million dollars. I couldn’t resist doing that math last night.
“Wow.” His expression brightens. He seems relieved by my explanation.
“You should stop by Bedford sometime,” I suggest. “People are crazy, yelling and shouting all day on the trading floor. It’s capitalism at its—”
“Can you do it again?” he interrupts.
“Do what?”
“Can you keep making money fast like that in the stock market?”
“Sure.”
“Do you have a system or something?”
“Yeah,” I say hesitantly, “a system.” So far my “system” consists of one lucky roll of Internet dice, but I’ll never tell Vincent that. Besides, now that I have some money banked I think I can do pretty well. You have to have money to make money in this racket, and I’ve learned a few tricks with all the studying I’ve done.
“How did you figure out all that stock market stuff?” he asks.
Like Russell, Vincent considers the stock markets—numbers in general, really—a mystery. He’s always claimed that it’s because they bore him, but I know the truth. They terrify him. I’ve never seen Vincent physically frightened of anything. I’ve seen him take on three men his own size at the same time and crush them—he has a volcanic temper that can explode without warning due in part to the steroids he takes to maintain his muscles. But numbers are a different story. He almost wasn’t accepted into the University of Virginia because his math SAT scores were so low. I tutored him every night for a week before the fourth and last time he took the test, and he finally got a decent score.
“I studied everything I could get my hands on, and I’ve been running a ghost portfolio for the last twelve months,” I explain, swallowing more scotch.
“What do you mean, a ghost portfolio?”
“I gave myself a hundred thousand dollars of Monopoly money to play with, then pretended to buy and sell stocks with it. I would spend hours every night figuring out which stocks to add and which ones to dump.” It’s occurred to me maybe that’s one of the reasons Melanie started working late. “I kept precise records, even charging myself brokerage commissions when I made believe I had bought or sold shares.”
“How’d you do?”
“I quadrupled my money in a year.” The portfolio’s performance was really closer to a three-bagger—I almost tripled its value—but one of the things I’ve learned about the financial world is that everyone exaggerates. Performance inflation is standard operating proedure. If you don’t juice your results, you’re only shortchanging yourself because you better believe everybody else is stretching the truth.
His eyes widen. “Quadrupled? Really?”
“Yup.”
He takes a slow sip of gin, eyes fixed on mine.
“You quit your job of eleven years to be a day trader?” he asks, astonished.
“Yes.” Vincent’s amazement only makes me more proud of my decision. He’s teased me for years about being too risk-averse and it’s satisfying to see newfound respect in his expression. You don’t surprise a friend of more than twenty years very often.
“That’s incredible. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“But don’t you need money to—” He interrupts himself and a dark cloud drifts across his face.
Vincent knows that Melanie and I lived paycheck to paycheck, and he’s assuming I’m going to use the insurance proceeds to fund my day trading adventure. Worse, as he bites his lower lip—the way he always does when he’s uneasy—I sense that down deep he’s worried I might have had a plan.
“A couple of weeks ago I made a bunch of money on a stock market investment,” I explain. “On a company called Unicom. I used some cash Mom left me when she died to buy the shares. In one day I made almost eighty grand on a ten-thousand-dollar investment.” If I had been able to invest the insurance proceeds from Melanie’s policy in Unicom’s IPO, I’d have grossed almost eight million dollars. I couldn’t resist doing that math last night.
“Wow.” His expression brightens. He seems relieved by my explanation.
“You should stop by Bedford sometime,” I suggest. “People are crazy, yelling and shouting all day on the trading floor. It’s capitalism at its—”
“Can you do it again?” he interrupts.
“Do what?”
“Can you keep making money fast like that in the stock market?”
“Sure.”
“Do you have a system or something?”
“Yeah,” I say hesitantly, “a system.” So far my “system” consists of one lucky roll of Internet dice, but I’ll never tell Vincent that. Besides, now that I have some money banked I think I can do pretty well. You have to have money to make money in this racket, and I’ve learned a few tricks with all the studying I’ve done.
“How did you figure out all that stock market stuff?” he asks.
Like Russell, Vincent considers the stock markets—numbers in general, really—a mystery. He’s always claimed that it’s because they bore him, but I know the truth. They terrify him. I’ve never seen Vincent physically frightened of anything. I’ve seen him take on three men his own size at the same time and crush them—he has a volcanic temper that can explode without warning due in part to the steroids he takes to maintain his muscles. But numbers are a different story. He almost wasn’t accepted into the University of Virginia because his math SAT scores were so low. I tutored him every night for a week before the fourth and last time he took the test, and he finally got a decent score.
“I studied everything I could get my hands on, and I’ve been running a ghost portfolio for the last twelve months,” I explain, swallowing more scotch.
“What do you mean, a ghost portfolio?”
“I gave myself a hundred thousand dollars of Monopoly money to play with, then pretended to buy and sell stocks with it. I would spend hours every night figuring out which stocks to add and which ones to dump.” It’s occurred to me maybe that’s one of the reasons Melanie started working late. “I kept precise records, even charging myself brokerage commissions when I made believe I had bought or sold shares.”
“How’d you do?”
“I quadrupled my money in a year.” The portfolio’s performance was really closer to a three-bagger—I almost tripled its value—but one of the things I’ve learned about the financial world is that everyone exaggerates. Performance inflation is standard operating proedure. If you don’t juice your results, you’re only shortchanging yourself because you better believe everybody else is stretching the truth.
His eyes widen. “Quadrupled? Really?”
“Yup.”
He takes a slow sip of gin, eyes fixed on mine.
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