buying and selling of stock options generates half my already depleted monthly income?
My monster is terminal?
I’m speechless. A ball of frozen numbness grips my feet and rises throughout my entire body. Like once when I was kid and ate a twenty-four-count box of grape Popsicles in two hours. Must be a full minute before the air-conditioning pops back on, jarring my icy brain back into activity.
“Sorry,” Gerry says. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
My monster and his trophy wife Kelly look worried, and I realize the color must have left my face. Indeed, I notice my breathing is shallow and I feel wobbly just sitting. “I’m so sorry…I don’t know what to say.”
Gerry holds up his left hand like he’s directing traffic. “There’s nothing you can say. And Kelly and I didn’t come here for sympathy. I wanted to let you know so you can begin cleaning up my trading positions…turn the options and speculative stuff into cash. And I wanted Kelly to meet you so it’ll be easier for her later dealing with my estate. As you know, Austin, it’s a lot of money.”
Boy, is it ever. I close my eyes and imagine Gerry’s pages in my client book. Five million in tax-free bonds. Another five million in blue chip stocks. Maybe half a million in stock option trading positions, half a million in cash.
“I should tell you I’m seriously thinking about cashing in everything, transferring the funds to my bank,” Gerry says. “Let their trust department manage the money for Kelly. She doesn’t know a stock from a bond.”
I’m not often at a loss for words. Salesmen without a bent toward blab do not survive. But staring at my round and friendly New Jersey-based cowboy, those bushy eyebrows underneath the Stetson, I can’t conjure a single word of advice. All my brain sees is numbers. Twenty thousand shares of this, five hundred contracts of that. The thousands in back child support and alimony I owe my ex-wife Susan.
“Austin?”
Some career being a broker. I push numbers to get people on the telephone. To sell them stuff, I tell my clients about all kinds of numbers—earnings, yields, and price-to-book ratios. And when I do make a sale, I write numbers on the trade ticket, enter commission numbers in my book. Pretty much the whole damn business is numbers, numbers, numbers.
And Gerry’s account is big numbers. My very biggest. My monster.
I stand up behind the desk, walk around to the front edge, and lean my butt against the mahogany. The measured smile is a standard technique to convey intimacy, straight talk. I have no idea what I’m going to say yet, but a little silent reflection is okay. It warns people that my words will be important.
“Are you okay, Austin?”
I stare through the conference room’s glass at my associate Walter Osgood. Walter sold pots and pans door-to-door before his wife convinced him to try stocks and bonds. Now he lives in a forty-room mansion on the Navasquan River, owns three Mercedes. What would Walter say?
“Austin?”
“Maybe you’re about to make the same mistake a lot of husbands make,” I say. “You’re trying to protect your wife from the responsibilities associated with handling her finances.”
I’m not totally sure where I’m going with this, so I pause to assess. Gerry is shaking his head negatively. Kelly on the other hand seems to like what she’s just heard. Her breasts are sm iling at me. No, I mean her lips are smiling at me. Vulnerable. That Marilyn Monroe “help me” look. Stockbroker instinct tells me to keep pressing. Maybe even pour it on.
“The truth is, Gerry, Kelly is still a young woman. She’s going to be rich for a long time. Is it really your belief she doesn’t have the desire or the intellect to handle her own money?”
Of course I’ve gone too far. I made it sound like he thinks his wife is stupid. Not only that, I’ve reminded him the pretty redhead is going to be around doing damage to men’s heads long after he’s
My monster is terminal?
I’m speechless. A ball of frozen numbness grips my feet and rises throughout my entire body. Like once when I was kid and ate a twenty-four-count box of grape Popsicles in two hours. Must be a full minute before the air-conditioning pops back on, jarring my icy brain back into activity.
“Sorry,” Gerry says. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
My monster and his trophy wife Kelly look worried, and I realize the color must have left my face. Indeed, I notice my breathing is shallow and I feel wobbly just sitting. “I’m so sorry…I don’t know what to say.”
Gerry holds up his left hand like he’s directing traffic. “There’s nothing you can say. And Kelly and I didn’t come here for sympathy. I wanted to let you know so you can begin cleaning up my trading positions…turn the options and speculative stuff into cash. And I wanted Kelly to meet you so it’ll be easier for her later dealing with my estate. As you know, Austin, it’s a lot of money.”
Boy, is it ever. I close my eyes and imagine Gerry’s pages in my client book. Five million in tax-free bonds. Another five million in blue chip stocks. Maybe half a million in stock option trading positions, half a million in cash.
“I should tell you I’m seriously thinking about cashing in everything, transferring the funds to my bank,” Gerry says. “Let their trust department manage the money for Kelly. She doesn’t know a stock from a bond.”
I’m not often at a loss for words. Salesmen without a bent toward blab do not survive. But staring at my round and friendly New Jersey-based cowboy, those bushy eyebrows underneath the Stetson, I can’t conjure a single word of advice. All my brain sees is numbers. Twenty thousand shares of this, five hundred contracts of that. The thousands in back child support and alimony I owe my ex-wife Susan.
“Austin?”
Some career being a broker. I push numbers to get people on the telephone. To sell them stuff, I tell my clients about all kinds of numbers—earnings, yields, and price-to-book ratios. And when I do make a sale, I write numbers on the trade ticket, enter commission numbers in my book. Pretty much the whole damn business is numbers, numbers, numbers.
And Gerry’s account is big numbers. My very biggest. My monster.
I stand up behind the desk, walk around to the front edge, and lean my butt against the mahogany. The measured smile is a standard technique to convey intimacy, straight talk. I have no idea what I’m going to say yet, but a little silent reflection is okay. It warns people that my words will be important.
“Are you okay, Austin?”
I stare through the conference room’s glass at my associate Walter Osgood. Walter sold pots and pans door-to-door before his wife convinced him to try stocks and bonds. Now he lives in a forty-room mansion on the Navasquan River, owns three Mercedes. What would Walter say?
“Austin?”
“Maybe you’re about to make the same mistake a lot of husbands make,” I say. “You’re trying to protect your wife from the responsibilities associated with handling her finances.”
I’m not totally sure where I’m going with this, so I pause to assess. Gerry is shaking his head negatively. Kelly on the other hand seems to like what she’s just heard. Her breasts are sm iling at me. No, I mean her lips are smiling at me. Vulnerable. That Marilyn Monroe “help me” look. Stockbroker instinct tells me to keep pressing. Maybe even pour it on.
“The truth is, Gerry, Kelly is still a young woman. She’s going to be rich for a long time. Is it really your belief she doesn’t have the desire or the intellect to handle her own money?”
Of course I’ve gone too far. I made it sound like he thinks his wife is stupid. Not only that, I’ve reminded him the pretty redhead is going to be around doing damage to men’s heads long after he’s
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