The Big Short: Inside the Doomsday Machine Read Free Page A

started to laugh. "He's sort of a prick in a way, but he's smart and honest and fearless."
    "Even on Wall Street people think he's rude and obnoxious and aggressive," says Eisman's wife, Valerie Feigen, who worked at J.P. Morgan before quitting to open the women's clothing store Edit New York, and to raise their children. "He has no interest in manners. Believe me, I've tried and I've tried and I've tried." After she'd brought him home for the first time, her mother had said, "Well, we can't use him but we can definitely auction him off at UJA." * Eisman had what amounted to a talent for offending people. "He's not tactically rude," his wife explains. "He's sincerely rude. He knows everyone thinks of him as a character but he doesn't think of himself that way. Steven lives inside his head."
    When asked about the pattern of upset he leaves in his wake, Eisman simply looks puzzled, even a bit wounded. "I forget myself sometimes," he says with a shrug.
    Here was the first of many theories about Eisman: He was simply so much more interested in whatever was rattling around his brain than he was in whoever happened to be standing in front of him that the one overwhelmed the other. This theory struck others who knew Eisman well as incomplete. His mother, Lillian, offered a second theory. "Steven actually has two personalities," she said carefully. One was that of the boy to whom she had given the brand-new bicycle he so desperately craved, only to have him pedal it into Central Park, lend it to a kid he'd never met, and watch it vanish into the distance. The other was that of the young man who set out to study the Talmud, not because he had the slightest interest in God but because he was curious about its internal contradictions. His mother had been appointed chairman of the Board of Jewish Education in New York City, and Eisman was combing the Talmud for inconsistencies. "Who else studies Talmud so that they can find the mistakes?" asks his mother. Later, after Eisman became seriously rich and had to think about how to give money away, he landed on an organization called Footsteps, devoted to helping Hasidic Jews flee their religion. He couldn't even give away his money without picking a fight.
    By pretty much every account, Eisman was a curious character. And he'd walked onto Wall Street at the very beginning of a curious phase. The creation of the mortgage bond market, a decade earlier, had extended Wall Street into a place it had never before been: the debts of ordinary Americans. At first the new bond market machine concerned itself with the more solvent half of the American population. Now, with the extension of the mortgage bond market into the affairs of less creditworthy Americans, it found its fuel in the debts of the less solvent half.
    The mortgage bond was different in important ways from old-fashioned corporate and government bonds. A mortgage bond wasn't a single giant loan for an explicit fixed term. A mortgage bond was a claim on the cash flows from a pool of thousands of individual home mortgages. These cash flows were always problematic, as the borrowers had the right to pay off any time they pleased. This was the single biggest reason that bond investors initially had been reluctant to invest in home mortgage loans: Mortgage borrowers typically repaid their loans only when interest rates fell, and they could refinance more cheaply, leaving the owner of a mortgage bond holding a pile of cash, to invest at lower interest rates. The investor in home loans didn't know how long his investment would last, only that he would get his money back when he least wanted it. To limit this uncertainty, the people I'd worked with at Salomon Brothers, who created the mortgage bond market, had come up with a clever solution. They took giant pools of home loans and carved up the payments made by homeowners into pieces, called tranches. The buyer of the first tranche was like the owner of the ground floor in a flood: He got hit with