Goldfish Sachs
The offices of Lundquist Capital were always buzzing with activity. The bullpen of cubicles was a seemingly endless depressing row of gray and beige walls in front of beige desks where the fervent soldiers of capitalism duked it out in the trenches.
Phones were constantly ringing. The endless scroll of ticker symbols and prices circumnavigated the office space like a train. The price of pork commodities would fly from one end to the other, while the Nikkei index towed behind. For those who worked there, the barrage of numbers became second nature. It said so right in the “Employee Handbook”.
“At LCG (Lundquist Capital Group), we pride ourselves on giving clients the best service possible, which means providing the most accurate, up-to-date information as possible. Executives will bask in the neverending glory of these numbers until their observation becomes reflexive, thus maximizing efficiency.”
LCG had a lot of policies that were implemented in the name of “efficiency” despite the fact it bred a culture that directly undermined that efficiency. “Number of hours worked” was a currency to be traded, bought, and sold. As far as many of the execs were concerned, it was the next best thing to a measuring stick. 70, 80, and even 90 hours a week were bragged about often amongst the staff.
The first years – or grunts as they’re called –– had it even worse. On average, a grunt worked 95 hours per week, but it wasn’t uncommon at some firms for grunts to work 110 to 125 hours in a week. LCG prided itself on “giving clients the best service possible”. So while it legally couldn’t order you to work beyond your allocated hours, it was “strongly suggested” to be a “team player” during your grunt years.
Most didn’t last. It turns out that making $175k per year is a pretty useless incentive when you only have 40 hours of free time per week. The extreme demands of grunt work broke many. It wasn’t uncommon to see a grunt hysterically crying, laughing, or both. To make it through as a grunt of Lundquist Capital meant that you weren’t like everyone else. You were an elite financial warrior. A zealot of the almighty dollar. A made man. Untouchable by the ebbs and flows of “the market”. Succeeding at LCG meant never having to succeed at anything else ever again. Most alumni went on to be founders of some of the most influential companies on the planet. Others retired at 35 and invested in movies. Others fucked pornstars and developed horrible cocaine problems. It didn’t matter - with that amount of money and the letters “LCG” on your resume, money became a sport, not a necessity.
This is why the late nights and early mornings never really bothered Max Stevenson. He understood the “pay your dues” philosophy and while he couldn’t ignore the glaring hypocrisy of a place touting the virtues of efficiency while simultaneously promoting sleep deprivation and high stress as pre-requisites for the job, he figured that all he needed to do was make it through this first year and the rest would be smooth sailing.
Unfortunately for Max, the Nikkei opened 10 points down against the DOW and the S&P500 barely scratched even marks, while the big boys like VTBX and FIAX shit the bed entirely. The volatility meant that at 5 am, Max was strewn out across his desk, snoring into a pile of his own drool which sat amongst empty cans of Red Bull and chip crumbs. Even the goldfish he kept on his desk, seemed content to rest near the plastic treasure chest at the bottom of the bowl, even as the red glare from the passing train of numbers diffracted across the water.
A loud clanging jolted Max awake. “Rise and shine shit for brains.”
Max turned with a loosened tie and beat red eyes to find his supervisor standing at his cubicle with a pot and a wooden spoon.
“Fucking Grunt, thinks 5 AM is early and that he doesn’t have to work? Too bad. Now what’s the GIC doing? If it’s down 19% move 32% into SPXX, if it’s down 20 then burn that fucker to the ground and pick winners. I want to jump on this. You got that?”
“Uh-yeah-yes, yessir.”
The supervisor rolls his eyes and BANGS the pot and pan again.
“Wake the fuck up grunt! What the fuck did I just say?”
“Uh at 19 go 32 into SPXX, sell at 20-”
“And?”
“Pick winners.”
“Fucking right. You’ve shit the bed three nights in a row and I don’t think I have to tell you what happens to Grunts who shit the bed three nights in a row.”
Max perked up. He did not need to be told. An unwritten policy at LCG was that if a grunt suffered three nights of losses in a row, they were “benched” aka given data entry maintenance for three months. It was where they put the cows out to pasture before slaughtering them.
“No sir, you don’t.”
“Good. Clean this shit up and get back to work.”
Max turned on his computer screen and sighed. He started clicking through different trades and analyzing different charts.
“No, no, no GODDAMMIT!” He slammed his fist on the desk, stirring the goldfish awake. Max put on his glasses and mumbled to himself.
“Down 12%...down 28%...down 47%?!”
He sat back and ran his hair through his hands, exhausted.
“How the fuck am I supposed to know when to buy and sell when I can’t even keep my fucking eyes open!”
Max shook his computer violently. “NONE OF THIS SHIT MAKES FUCKING SENSE!”
It was at that moment that Max looked over at the fishbowl to find his goldfish behaving most peculiarly. The fish swam in big loops, erratically breaking the surface with its tail and backflipping out of the water before splashing back in. Over and over again the fish leaped from the water, even splashing some water onto the desk.
“What the hell…did you just– splash me?”
The fish continued swimming, faster and faster. Max ignored it and turned back to his computer screen. As he scrolled through different prices and charts, he noticed the goldfish out of the corner of his eye, swimming faster, slower, higher and lower as he clicked through. Just to test it, he clicked slowly and watched. As the fish swam to the top of the bowl, the number on the screen began to rise. When Max clicked through to another ticker symbol, the fish swam to the bottom of the bowl and the number began to fall.
“Holy shit… I really must be losing my mind.”
Max must have scrolled through 20 prices each one correctly rising and falling per the fish’s movements. Suddenly, Max was filled with something that he believed to be long gone – hope. He cautiously popped his head over the cubicle walls to make sure that no one was watching him.
“Alright buddy, let’s see what you can do.”
Max cracked his knuckles and entered a dizzying array of trades. Put calls, options, short sales, market orders, limit orders, etc. Growth values going up 10 sometimes 20% while penny stocks shot by 50, 60%! The money poured in hand over fist. Other traders took notice. Some even left their cubicles to watch the wizard at work. Soon, nearly the entire bullpen had gathered outside of Max’s station, oohing and ahhing with every big trade until the final seconds ticked away until the closing bell.
“3…2…1,” the crowd counted down, erupting into applause as the markets closed. Max leaned back and put his hands behind his head, beaming with pride. The applause soon subsided as his supervisor made his way over with the fakest smile in the world.
“There he is! Max my boy, I always knew you had a gift. On behalf of Mr. Lundquist himself, I wanted to thank you and personally deliver this $4M bonus check. Congratulations, son.”
The supervisor extended his hand. Max looked down at it for a moment before unzipping his pants and pissing into the supervisor’s open hand. The crowd stood slackjawed and in awe. Max smiled as he shaked and finished.
“Who’s the grunt now shithead?”
The crowd goes wild. A symphony of applause and cheers fill the office space as Max is hoisted onto a colleague’s shoulders.
“Max! Max! Max! Max! Max!” they cheer, the sound drifting further and further…
“Max? MAX!”
Max jolted awake to the shouts of his supervisor whose face had returned to a signature scowl and whose hand remained dry.
“You’re shouting in your sleep. Get your ass up and get back to work.”
“Sorry, sir. Yessir.”
“Oh and flush that thing.”
Just beneath the surface, the goldfish sat belly up, lifelessly floating as the silhouette of symbols and colors danced on.