Free Final Option by Gini Hartzmark Page A

employer’s recent demise. His concentration was absolute as he made his trades, holding both hands over his head, palms outward, signaling his desire to sell.
    Physically, the pits are a despicable place to work. The noise is nothing short of amazing, and over time it takes its toll. Old-timers develop a mild form of deafness known as pit hearing, and their voices grow raspy from years of screaming out their trades. The physical contact is grueling as well, close and constant, like a day-long game of basketball. At times the trading becomes so frenetic that the pits themselves actually sway under the heaving momentum of the traders.
    The pits are a male place where there is advantage to being strong, large, and loud. The jargon of futures is unabashedly sexual as well. Traders try to “make the market,” to “get a leg up,” and to “short the wings on a butterfly spread.” They try to “pump,“ “goose,“ “ride,” or “massage” the market. But they all know that if you go up against it, chances are you’ll be screwed if you don’t pull out fast.
    The pits are a stripped-down, single-minded place where traders have no room for niceties. In the mono-maniacal drive for profits there is no time for handshakes or thank you’s or pardon me’s. Traders push, elbow, slap, punch, and step on toes. Screaming, they spray each other with saliva. Angry, they thrust and parry their pencils like sabers.
    And yet for some people the pits are more than just the ultimate arena, more than a place where machismo is measured in dollars earned and lost. The pits are the place where men like Bart Hexter come wondering what they are capable of... and stay to hear the market tell them what they are worth every minute of every day.
     
    The first thing you noticed when you walked into Bart Hexter’s office was the Bengal tiger that faced the door, crouched as if preparing to spring. Hexter had shot the beast on safari and had him stuffed. The message to visitors was clear: If I wasn’t afraid of this tiger, do you think I’m going to be afraid of you?
    Barton Jr. addressed the assembled employees of Hexter Commodities from behind his father’s desk. The reasons for the choice were both symbolic and practical. We wanted to drive home the message that a Hexter was still in charge at Hexter Commodities. Removed from the constant barrage of the price boards and the ringing of the phones, it was also the only place large enough to accommodate everyone.
    Barton Jr. looked older today, his face set in grim lines of endurance. With his jet-black hair combed back from his face, he looked so much like his father that I’m sure I wasn’t the only one to shiver at the resemblance.
    He spoke with the casual assurance of the lecture hall, his voice unhurried and with enough practiced volume to carry to the back of the room so that everyone, including the gold-jacketed runners who stood on tiptoe halfway out the door, was able to hear. He told them what they had already read in the newspaper about his father’s death and urged cooperation with the police. He spoke with quiet sincerity about the value of their loyalty and his family’s commitment to keeping Hexter Commodities in business.
    I stood at Barton’s side while he spoke, pleased with the grace with which he tackled a task for which I knew he had little heart. Tim Hexter listened from the front row, looking miserable. He was the only child of Bart’s older brother Billy, and he, too, bore the physical imprint of the Hexter family. The men all followed the same basic blueprint—big as bears, with hands like paddles. While Bart, and to a lesser extent, Barton Jr., translated their size into a strong physical presence, Tim had turned his size into a liability—he was big and slow, lumbering, and not too bright.
    Futures is a tight-knit, clannish business where fathers and sons, uncles and cousins all trade shoulder to shoulder, tied together by the iron bonds of blood and