It smells in here and it’s because of Fat Dave. Fat Dave wears a blue smock and has some kind of mineral deficiency that makes his armpits, ass or feet smell like decomposing bodies. Most of the guys in here are used to it. My eyes are burning. In addition to smelling horrible on purpose, Fat Dave is a nightmare to deal with. He’s easily the most infuriating bastard on the floor. Lucky for me, I brought Fat Dave a sandwich, which is known to change his whole outlook on life. He eats all day long and you can bribe him with food. So when I was down in Venue getting my coffee, I got a pesto chicken sandwich, stuffed it in my pocket, and I just handed it to Fat Dave.

Fat Dave says, “All RIGHT, man,” and starts scarfing it down.

It really was that easy, it was like typing in FEED FAT DAVE A SANDWICH while playing Zork on the Apple IIe. Meanwhile, I have credibility in the pit, because I know how to keep Fat Dave quiet, which everyone else appreciates.

“Thanks, bro,” says Richard, who migrated here from MSFT with me. He won’t consume anything unless it comes from Jamba Juice.

“Don’t mention it.”

Richard looks back at the clerk and then at me. “What’s the matter with your clerk? He makes me uncomfortable.”

I smile. “He’s an assassin. He’s Jason Bourne.”

“When are you going to give him a badge?”

“It’s the subject of much debate at JLS right now.”

“Should be a slam-dunk, right?”

“He doesn’t take clerking very seriously.”

“Would he take trading seriously?”

I think about this. “Yeah.”

“So give him the badge.”

“Yeah.”

We’re looking at the screens.

“What’s your plan?” he asks.

“For what?”

“For the spinoff, dummy.”

“Oh. TRE told me to get on the wheel and not do anything crazy.” I told him.

“Okay.”

“So.”

“So.”

“So what are you going to do?” I ask.

“I’m not going to take a view on anything. Hedging all the deltas. The edge in here is insane. There’s no reason to try and grow a brain.”

“Okay.”

“Dude,” Richard says, “don’t try and be a hero today. There are going to be a lot of millionaires and a lot of body bags. This is a career, not the fucking lotto.”

“Okay.”

He looks at me, chortles. “Ah, shit. You’re gonna take a shot.”

I nod my head slowly. “I am gonna take a shot.”

* * * *

My mom drove me to the airport. She had kept quiet most of the weekend.

“Your father loves you.”

“Whatever.”

“He wants what’s best for you.”

“He wants for me what would be best for him.”

She drives in silence.

“He doesn’t like the money thing,” she says.

“What is a ‘money thing’?”

“You know. Trying to make money.”

I laugh, but I’m pissed. “He’s never had to worry about it. He gets a government check. Does he think we should all get government checks?”