On the morning following Tyler and Tasya’s barbecue, I got to experience my first serious Southern California rainfall. It woke me just ahead of 6:30 am, slapping enthusiastically against my big windows, reverberating off the decks, pouring down the cliffsides. For a few minutes, I just snuggled in bed, wide awake and listening to the weather manifest itself on my little world. It was oddly comforting and frightening at the same time, the coziness of my little apartment, the anger of the passing storm.
By 6:30 on the nose I was fully awake and I realized that, in another and recent life, the opening bell would just have sounded and I’d be settling in for the trading day: it was 9:30 in New York. For the first time since my little exodus, I felt curiosity about some of the securities I’d been tracking and a small pang in the place where my adult identity lived. I realized that I missed the feeling of being connected to the larger-than-life presence of the stock exchange. I felt the way a weatherman at the top of his game might feel if denied access to meteorological reports, or a farmer blinded to the condition of the crops. As I popped out of bed and headed towards my computer, I told myself that I just wanted to know.
That was how it started, anyway: that rainy Malibu morning. A day when I’d thought to take a jog up the canyon, but the weather closed off the option.
It took some time, bringing myself up to speed. A while before I even encountered enough information to make me realize it was Sunday and the domestic markets were closed. But by the end of the day — a day filled with instant soup and steaming cups of tea — I’d given myself an in-depth course on the stock market as viewed from a private home, as opposed to the millions of dollars worth of connectivity, hardware and source reports that had always been available to me as part of the trading team at a big brokerage.
It was a different world, it was true. If I wanted to get the kind of Level II quotes and market executions I was used to, I’d have to spend more money than I was currently willing to part with.
I opted instead to use a reliable discount broker. My trades wouldn’t execute as quickly as they would have had I been in New York. I told myself this probably wouldn’t matter: that was the price of not being in New York. And, anyway, the kind of trading I was planning on doing — and that was the first time I acknowledged it in that way: as a plan — that kind of trading wouldn’t require the split second timing necessary on some of the larger deals I’d made on behalf of clients in days gone by.
By the end of the day a full-scale plan — complete with account application forms filled out and ready to be mailed and pads scribbled with calculations — had emerged. Even after the car and my sojourn at the Beverly Hills Hotel and my furniture and computer shopping forays, I still had close to $150,000 cash on hand. That might sound like a lot — and in many ways, it is — but if you’re just taking from it and not adding to it, I knew it could dwindle pretty quickly. Sure: if I budgeted for five years, I could live on thirty grand a year before all that money would be gone. And five years is a long time. But it wouldn’t just be the money pouring out when it should have been seeping in, it would be the panic I suspected would approach as I watched my options — and my cash — dwindling.
The scribbles on the pad told me that, if I was careful and mindful and watchful, I should be able to make five grand a month easily — or $60,000 a year. I knew as well as anyone that “should” and “could” and even “would” as used in relation to the stock market can be completely dangerous words. Especially since all of your plans and schemes and calculations about the market must always be based on past performance. But if it was easy, mindless and obvious, everyone would be doing it. I was, in effect, planning on investing in my training, acumen and over 10 years experience as a broker for one of the top firms in the world. The investment was my life savings and my time. The stakes were, in one way, my peace of mind. The worst case scenario? I’d lose all my money and be forced to get a job.
I determined to put it all into motion quickly, before I had a chance to change my mind. In addition to an online trading account, I still needed to research various channels of information to get me to a speed that was in any way comparable to the things I’d always taken for granted at Merriwether Bailey. But by the end of that rainy Sunday I knew that Tyler and Jennifer’s comments had either been prescient or inspiring: I was going to be a day trader.
This news seemed momentous enough to demand sharing but I realized I didn’t have anyone to tell, which left me feeling pathetic again. I saw Jack’s face, jovial, welcoming, laughing as I’d so often seen it. I thought of calling my mother in Seattle, but since I’d just talked to her the evening before I ruled this out: she’s astute enough that a phone call like that would have made her realize how sad and needy I currently was. That meant calling my sisters was out, as well. A call to either of them would get back to mom which would put her on the alert. And, anyway, though I loved my sisters, it had been years since we’d had the type of telephone closeness that some siblings share.
I was sitting there, feeling sorry for myself, when the phone rang, nearly causing me to jump out of my chair.
“Carter,” I fairly shouted into the phone, reverting to habit in my uncertainty.
“Madeline?” It was a woman’s voice and I recognized it instantly. Realistically, there weren’t a lot of people it could be.
“Hey Emily, yeah it’s me.”
“Funny way to answer the phone on a Sunday night,” she said pleasantly.
“Old habits die hard.”
“You in work mode?”
“I guess. Yeah, I am.” What the hell, I thought. I’d been wanting to tell someone. “I’ve decided to do it: I’m going to be a day trader.”
“Ah… cool.” Which reminded me: the whole stock market scene is so not a chick thing. It’s why I’ve had so few friends outside of the industry over the years. A lot of people can’t align what I do with what I project. Like I should have close-cropped hair and wear lumpy pinstriped suits because I trade. “Anyway,” she continued, “work is not what I was calling about.”
“Unless you were hoping for a hot stock tip, I didn’t think so anyway,” I grinned.
I could hear her smile back. “So you and the kid want to do a movie next week?”
“Completely. Jennifer said just to let her know when. And I have virtually nothing scheduled in my life right now,” which was amazingly true, “and, as far as I know, Jennifer has no essential business meetings in the evening, so you can pretty much name a day and time.”
“Cool. I was thinking Thursday night. That new space movie is playing at Mann’s. Since you’re the new kid in town, I thought you might appreciate the chance to play tourist.”
Mann’s Chinese Theater! I was dismayed to discover I actually felt somewhat thrilled at the thought. “That sounds like a lot of fun.”
“You guys want to go for dinner first? There are about a million options right in that area. Well, half a million, since the kid is underage.”
“Sure. Name the spot.”
We agreed to meet the following Thursday at seven o’clock at a restaurant walking distance from Mann’s that Emily felt sure Jennifer would know.
I found myself looking forward to Thursday, a shot at playing tourist and the opportunity to deepen my relationship with my first California friends. It felt as though, since I’d lost Jack, I’d been looking in the wrong end of a kaleidoscope and, despite the fact that I was doing everything I could to turn it around, I had seen my world protracted in a way that was out of my control.
And now? Well, I couldn’t quite see all of the bright colors I’d once seen, but with the rough sketch of a career plan and an upcoming outing with friends, I felt a little bit closer. Something in my heart opened slightly. It eased.
Chapter Five
By Thursday morning I was five days into a new routine. I woke each day at five-forty-five, put on the coffee and went for a run. Invariably, Tycho — an earlier riser than his family — joined me as we pounded up
and down the canyons, the fresh sea air putting a lie to the dirty metropolis just a few miles down the coast.
By six-fifteen, Tycho and I were back at my place. He had started spending so much time there, I had food and water out for him so, after a run, I’d replenish his water. While he drank noisily I poured my coffee. By six-twenty we were in position: me at my computer, after a while so focused on my screen I barely noticed the beautiful drama unfolding outside my window; Tycho stretched out flat-sided in the middle of the living room, the occasional snore the only thing reminding me of his presence.
I wasn’t trading yet. Not really. I was preparing. And preparations were going well. I’d established what I was now calling my “pretend portfolio,” tracking an increasing number of securities, marking purchases in as buys and sells on a special program I’d installed for the purpose, calculating in brokerage fees and all fluctuations just as though I were actually trading: only I wasn’t. There was no money behind these trades. So far. That, I’d told myself, would change the following Monday, which would coincide with the activation of my online trading account. The trading I was doing at present was a trial run. And, if the trial was any indicator, my plan for solvency was going to go pretty well. I was delighted to note that, based on what I’d done so far, it would be a piece of cake to exceed my expectations. I mentally splashed cold water on my face, though: the best laid plans were likely to go to hell where the stock market was concerned.
Just before the closing bell I “sold” a couple of securities that netted me what would amount to a half year’s wages in my new world. Or, rather, would have had the trades been real. I knew that, once I started trading with real money, I was likely to be a little more conservative than I was being with my pretend portfolio. But I also knew that I was ready: I’d spend Friday at my computer for good measure, but Monday was D day. I was going live.
One of the things I’d been doing during market hours this week — aside from continuously refreshing my quotes to see how the stocks I was watching were doing — was to evaluate various news sources of information in order to keep my finger on the market’s pulse.
It’s not enough to track your own securities or those that catch your interest. You also have to keep a close eye on what’s happening in the world at large. Especially financial news: what the Federal reserve is up to, what’s happening with consumer spending and so on. Even things that might seem unrelated to the stock market can affect it quite deeply. Keeping up with it all means a lot of reading.
So I’d been scouting for sources of reliable newsfeeds: some of which I then set up to come to me directly in e-mail. Others were at websites I’d determined deserved various degrees of watching. I knew from experience that how much of this stuff I actually read on a daily basis would depend on how hectic the rest of my day was and how much I needed new blood in the form of securities I hadn’t looked closely at before. But having the source of it all in place was important.
By the closing bell I felt like I’d done a good day’s work and I looked forward to unwinding with Emily and Jennifer. This, I told myself, was going to be a whole new chapter for me. A lifestyle, not just a life. Like millions of disenchanted Americans before me, I’d come to California to find myself… and — though it was early to say — I was perhaps was on the path to succeeding.
After the bell, I showered in preparation for my evening out and was just pulling on black pants, a light sweater with a deeply v’d neck and black boots when the phone rang.
“Hey Madeline,” Jennifer’s voice. “I’m in Santa Monica: I hooked up with friends this afternoon and ended up going shopping. Can I meet you guys for dinner?” The plan had been for the two of us to drive in together, but I told her I’d find my way and — with a few basic instructions — I was set.
Dinner was fun. For me it was a little like coming home: having grown up with two sisters, the company of women is easy and welcoming for me. The banter that erupted very naturally between the three of us reminded me of being with Miranda and Meagan: we always had a lot to say to each other, even if it wasn’t about anything that anyone else would find remotely interesting. We had a lot to say, and all three of us seemed to find the other two vastly amusing.
Emily said she had chosen a place she felt would appeal to all three of us, and she was right. The restaurant was cheerful without being chipper and colorful without the strain of irritating that can go with that. And the company was good. Emily told a lot of amusing stories about the almost famous people she’d worked with on the fairly low rent movies she’d worked on. I could see that Emily’s stories enchanted Jennifer, the would-be actress, because the girl seemed to hang on Emily’s every word.
I found myself watching Jennifer as she raptly listened to Emily’s stories. The teenager was a pile of contradictions. Not that this was especially surprising: it’s a condition that seems to arrive with puberty and not disappear altogether until around the time you get your first apartment. But it was interesting seeing it this way: from an intimate distance.
Over the course of the last week I’d seen Jennifer speak rudely to her father and deliberately walk away from him while he was in mid-sentence. I’d seen her ignore Tasya altogether. Yet to me she was unfailingly sweet and polite and she always seemed to have time to give Tycho a tummy scratch, even when she was running off to be with her friends. It was obvious she had issues with her father and stepmother though, from what I could see, they weren’t overlapping into the rest of her life.
Tonight she was enjoying the company of unrelated adult women as equals rather than from the position of a child we were watching, something that a girl who’d had a governess and other adult caretakers throughout her life would have been used to. She seemed to glow in our presence and I liked the way that felt: the big sister in me stretching to accommodate this newest sibling. And I loved the food.
“This is just so good,” I enthused over my veggie burger and sweet potato fries.
Emily commented, “Don’t they feed you up at your beach?”
But I was hungry. During this last week of being back in the market I’d fallen into old habits. Between following newsfeeds and watching securities rise and fall, there’s never enough time left over to eat. Tycho had watched me down a lot of coffee and the occasional rice cake or piece of toast, but food preparation? Forget it. And the markets drain you. After a day of trading — even pretend trading — I just don’t feel up to cooking. I’d been ready for a night out. And I’d been ready for some real food.
The movie was banal, predictable and completely enjoyable. The plot flew out of my head the moment we left the theater, but the joy at actually sitting in a building that was practically a national landmark, rubbernecking in case I saw anyone famous — though Emily and Jennifer assured me I wouldn’t — and just enjoyment at being in the uncomplicated company of my own gender — and not a stock in sight — was enough to put me in a great mood. Afterwards Emily suggested we go for coffee and I enthusiastically agreed.
“Not me. I’ve got school in the morning,” Jennifer said wrinkling her nose distastefully. “I think I’d better head home. Madeline you stay and have fun. Great evening, you guys! Thanks.”
“You still want to do coffee?” I said to Emily after Jennifer had left us.
“Are you kidding? Coffee can wait: age is no longer a consideration. I’ll show you the town.”
Los Angeles has clubs and bars the way other towns have gas stations and fast food restaurants. L.A. has those as well, but clubbing is a serious Angeleno activity and, that evening, Emily seemed determined to show me a lot of them.
The first three places we went to reminded me that Southern California is the center of the musical universe. No matter where we went, if there was live music, it was awe-inspiring, regardless of what was being played. The result, Emily told me, of the area being a Mecca for bands from all over the world. And while those bands waited to be discovered, they still had to pay rent. LA nightlife is the richer for it
.
There was no live band at the fourth and final club we went to. Club Zanzibar had an air of caution about it. Hesitation. And exclusivity. You practically had to know someone — or, at least, know someone who knows someone — to get in. Emily knew someone, and so we went.
Of the stops we made that night, Club Zanzibar was my least favorite, though that might just be because of the later association. The only part of Club Z I really liked was the ladies room. The attendant was warm and helpful, not judgmental or threatening. And the bathroom was beautiful, with a sort of museum-like quality to it — antiques and marble everything — plus linen hand towels and a big vase of lilies — stargazers — on the counter next to the sink. The scent was wonderful. Inviting. I think it quite likely that heaven smells just like the stargazer lilies at Club Z. The rest of the club was just as posh, just not as much fun. And if smelling lilies and drying your hands on linen is as good a time as it gets, you have to rethink your attendance at that particular club.
Emily liked it a lot — adored was the word she used the moment we walked in. She said she loved the leather banquettes, and the attractive, well-dressed waiters, and the music — a bit like dance with a touch of jazz. Ambient. Tonal. I agreed about the music, but found the atmosphere edgy enough to slice you.
We had barely found seats and ordered drinks when Emily hooked up with a guy she’d worked with on a recent film. He was tall but stout and wore his good suit badly, though the fact that I was already feeling out of sorts with the place probably didn’t help with my assessment of him. It wasn’t that I minded Emily dancing, but I did feel suddenly and oddly alien and alone. And uncomfortable. Like a flashback to high school, waiting apprehensively to be asked to dance.
I tried not to look self-conscious. And it wasn’t simple nonchalance. I hoped my look of bored disinterest really came across that way and didn’t just make me look like I was smelling something bad.
Madeline Carter - 01 - Mad Money Page 5
