Exchange-Traded Scotsmen
The fierce wind on the other end of the line made it hard for Belatero to hear his best friend Eldon speak. At this particular time of the morning, Belatero sat comfortably reclined in a battered office chair, his attention torn between Eldon and the free porn site pulled up on his computer screen.
"That's crazy dude," Belatero said into the phone, "just crazy."
"You haven't listened to a damn word I've said, have you?" replied Eldon.
"Oh, sorry about that. I'll turn the porn off now."
"Look man," said Eldon anxiously, "you have to listen to me. What I've been trying to say is you need to liquidate whatever you had in Hyperpoor, in the next five minutes if possible."
"Huh? Hyperpoor did you say? I had a sell stop order on Hyperpoor that already kicked in last week. Dude, can you go inside? You sound like you're falling through the sky right now for godsake."
"Sorry about that. Is this better? So, it turns out the economic recovery package had more of an effect on the market than anybody predicted. Unprecedented gains dude, unprecedented in all of history. Jesus!"
"That's terrific! Right?"
"Sorry, what was that?"
"I said that's terrific!" snapped Belatero. "Do you want to just call me back when you get inside?"
"Nah, I won't be available then," replied Eldon. "Listen, it's terrific for everybody except for the people holding the hypershort funds. Hyperpoor moves four times inversely to the S&P."
"Four times?! Damn, that's nuts. Wait a second — does this mean you still have shares of Hyperpoor?"
"Yes dude," lamented Eldon, "damn near my whole portfolio."
"What? Your whole portfolio, are you crazy?!"
"Can you blame me? Hyperpoor was up fifty perc— over the — alone."
"Uh, hey, you're breaking up a little bit."
"Let me — didn't — sleep deprived — cheap—in — need grocery money now."
"Huh? Did you say you need grocery money?"
"Tell my woman— her. Don't —get, give your kids —g for me."
"What? What are you doing, dude?"
"To— good —o die."
By now the combination of the interference and the wind noise made Eldon's words completely unintelligible. A roar of increasing intensity through the speaker, punctuated by intermittent breaks of complete silence, and then a beeping tone indicated the call had been dropped. Belatero's pulse suddenly quickened. He sat frozen, clutching his phone tightly, daring not to even look away from it until he received a call back.
During those anxious few moments, Belatero suddenly found himself reflecting. What made investing in stocks any different than gambling in Vegas? How could anybody know which way the market would turn in the next week, next day, next few minutes? It was all subject to the whims and caprices of its traders, wasn't it? At least in gambling you had some certainty of the odds, even if they were against you. You had the certainty.
His reflection ended with a message beep from his phone. The message was a picture that Eldon had just taken of himself. Eldon always sent shots of himself, the photogenic bastard. And in this one, Eldon looked just as good as ever: his hair impeccable, his jazznik glasses the latest fashion, his Bluetooth headset perfectly positioned on his ear.
Except this picture had a few things different about it. The first was that the skin on his face didn't rest right; in fact it looked like it was flapping. The second was that Eldon's necktie came straight toward the camera. The third, and most peculiar, was the background, which appeared to be an overhead view of downtown San Francisco. Behind Eldon's dapper visage Belatero could make out Union Square on the corner of Stockton and Geary; the Four Seasons Hotel casting its grand shadow over Market Street; the top of the skydome of San Francisco Shopping Center.
It was the look on Eldon's face which put it all together — the unmistakable expression of endless, endless sorrow. And at that moment, Belatero had certainty about one thing: that Eldon committed to making his demise even more exotic than the investment vehicle he put his whole life in. You just had to respect that.
"That's crazy dude," Belatero said into the phone, "just crazy."
"You haven't listened to a damn word I've said, have you?" replied Eldon.
"Oh, sorry about that. I'll turn the porn off now."
"Look man," said Eldon anxiously, "you have to listen to me. What I've been trying to say is you need to liquidate whatever you had in Hyperpoor, in the next five minutes if possible."
"Huh? Hyperpoor did you say? I had a sell stop order on Hyperpoor that already kicked in last week. Dude, can you go inside? You sound like you're falling through the sky right now for godsake."
"Sorry about that. Is this better? So, it turns out the economic recovery package had more of an effect on the market than anybody predicted. Unprecedented gains dude, unprecedented in all of history. Jesus!"
"That's terrific! Right?"
"Sorry, what was that?"
"I said that's terrific!" snapped Belatero. "Do you want to just call me back when you get inside?"
"Nah, I won't be available then," replied Eldon. "Listen, it's terrific for everybody except for the people holding the hypershort funds. Hyperpoor moves four times inversely to the S&P."
"Four times?! Damn, that's nuts. Wait a second — does this mean you still have shares of Hyperpoor?"
"Yes dude," lamented Eldon, "damn near my whole portfolio."
"What? Your whole portfolio, are you crazy?!"
"Can you blame me? Hyperpoor was up fifty perc— over the — alone."
"Uh, hey, you're breaking up a little bit."
"Let me — didn't — sleep deprived — cheap—in — need grocery money now."
"Huh? Did you say you need grocery money?"
"Tell my woman— her. Don't —get, give your kids —g for me."
"What? What are you doing, dude?"
"To— good —o die."
By now the combination of the interference and the wind noise made Eldon's words completely unintelligible. A roar of increasing intensity through the speaker, punctuated by intermittent breaks of complete silence, and then a beeping tone indicated the call had been dropped. Belatero's pulse suddenly quickened. He sat frozen, clutching his phone tightly, daring not to even look away from it until he received a call back.
During those anxious few moments, Belatero suddenly found himself reflecting. What made investing in stocks any different than gambling in Vegas? How could anybody know which way the market would turn in the next week, next day, next few minutes? It was all subject to the whims and caprices of its traders, wasn't it? At least in gambling you had some certainty of the odds, even if they were against you. You had the certainty.
His reflection ended with a message beep from his phone. The message was a picture that Eldon had just taken of himself. Eldon always sent shots of himself, the photogenic bastard. And in this one, Eldon looked just as good as ever: his hair impeccable, his jazznik glasses the latest fashion, his Bluetooth headset perfectly positioned on his ear.
Except this picture had a few things different about it. The first was that the skin on his face didn't rest right; in fact it looked like it was flapping. The second was that Eldon's necktie came straight toward the camera. The third, and most peculiar, was the background, which appeared to be an overhead view of downtown San Francisco. Behind Eldon's dapper visage Belatero could make out Union Square on the corner of Stockton and Geary; the Four Seasons Hotel casting its grand shadow over Market Street; the top of the skydome of San Francisco Shopping Center.
It was the look on Eldon's face which put it all together — the unmistakable expression of endless, endless sorrow. And at that moment, Belatero had certainty about one thing: that Eldon committed to making his demise even more exotic than the investment vehicle he put his whole life in. You just had to respect that.
posted by Row of Streetlights at 2:40 PM
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