The Buy Side

by Turney Duff

  “I just have one question,” I say. “How ’bout the analysts cherry-pick their own trades—maybe they should only put their best ideas in the portfolio?” Krishen’s face turns red. He steps back into the room and pounds his fist on the table.

  “How about you do your job and I’ll do mine!” he screams. I’ve been with Argus for almost five years, and for most of that time I’ve been the golden boy. I couldn’t do anything wrong. As Krishen walks out the door, I realize that I no longer hold that lofty position.

  And things go from bad to worse. In June, during options expiration, I forget to check all of our positions at the end of the day, something I’m supposed to do every third Friday of the month. Every month options get exercised into equity positions or become worthless. When I realize it on Saturday, I know it won’t be a problem—I’ll just fix it on Monday. But on Sunday night I get a text from a friend, Smart Carl, about a company buying another company for an extremely high valuation. The deal is dilutive. Analysts on the Street think the company is overpaying to acquire the other. Not good for the price of the stock. Since I didn’t perform my duty correctly on Friday, we actually own 100,000 shares of the company acquiring the other. When the stock opens on Monday morning, it’s already down ten dollars. My error costs the firm a million bucks.

  Three days after my colossal blunder, I can’t work. I look like I’ve been crying all night. I don’t even stop by the trading desk. I walk directly into Krishen’s office. I know with my puffy eyes, sunken face, and trembling hands, he’ll understand. “Jenn had a miscarriage last night,” I say. Krishen doesn’t say anything other than “Okay.” He knows I’m not working today. I turn around and leave. I don’t say a word to anyone on my way out.

  Then I start losing money trading in my own account. The next week a pipe bursts in the apartment and I have to take another day off. The week after, I get pinkeye and call in sick again. I have the worst luck. I stop trading proprietarily. It’s impossible to make money this way. Krishen wants me to fail. Why else would he limit the names I can trade? I get a call from Jesse telling me the rapper we’re producing took a felony gun rap and is going to spend the next five years in jail, and our horse will no longer be racing. Too many last-place finishes. The Fatburger store in Jersey City is barely breaking even, and the plans to open the second one in the Borgata in Atlantic City might require more money. Money I don’t have. Can things get any worse? At home, Jenn barely talks to me. When she does, it’s mostly accusations: “You come home drunk from business dinners all the time,” she says. The only good in my life is my daughter. She says her first word as she reaches to me from her crib: “Up.” She’s crawling all over the apartment. When I look at her, I feel peace. Her hair is growing, her eyes are China blue, and her enormous cheeks are the color of rose petals. One night, Jenn and I decide to rent the movie Walk the Line, the Johnny Cash story. Lola is still up, so we set her on the couch with us. We’re both tired and almost ready to turn it off and finish the movie tomorrow when Joaquin Phoenix begins to sing the title track. Lola sits upright and starts to wiggle her shoulders. She does a shimmy. The thought makes me smile, even today.

  In July, I decide to take Jenn to Greece. We’ve moved so far apart over the past months, and maybe it will bring us back together. Jenn’s mom agrees to watch Lola. When I tell Krishen I’m taking a vacation, he says it’s unacceptable. He says a trader shouldn’t be out during earnings season, the quarterly period when the bulk of companies report their earnings to the Street. It’s too late to cancel, I tell him. I already bought the tickets. I have to go, for Jenn’s and my sake.

  We stay at the most gorgeous hotel on the island of Santorini, called Katikies. The rooms are in the side of a mountain. It feels like a cave. They overlook the spectacular submerged volcano surrounded by a turquoise sea. One night, while walking through the quiet town, we find a jeweler. There Jenn sees a beautiful ring, a vibrant blue topaz gemstone. The next night, when she’s in the shower, I run to town. We have dinner reservations at the hotel. Before we head down to the restaurant, we drink a glass of wine on the veranda overlooking the water. I get down on one knee and ask her to marry me. She says yes, and we both cry.

  When summer is over, Lola enrolls in her first class—Bilingual Birdies, an English and Spanish mother-and-daughter musical class. I start planning her first birthday. I decide to charter a cruise ship for 150 people to circle Manhattan a few times. We’re going to cater it with a Sunday brunch, hire a band. After a few days of securing everything and making phone calls and putting down deposits, most of the party is planned. I tell Jenn after dinner I’m going to meet some guys out and I’ll be home later. But I’m not back till six a.m. and then I only have time to shower and put on my work clothes.

  Things get so much worse. An hour later, I’m standing on the corner of Bleecker and Lafayette. Rich answers my call at the desk. “My friend from college tried to commit suicide last night,” I say, sniffling.

  “Um,” Rich says. “Um, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

  “I have to fly to Ohio,” I say. “Can you tell Krishen I’ll be at work on Monday?” When I hang up the phone I see the white-haired man again. At least I think it’s him. I’m not sure. I only see him for a moment before he disappears around a corner. Instead of walking back to the apartment, I walk south. Jenn and Lola are still sleeping. I just want to be alone. When I get home that afternoon, I tell Jenn about my friend in Ohio. She wants to know if I’m okay. She’s worried about me. She thinks I should fly there, but I tell her I spoke to him and he’s doing all right. I just need to rest.

  Five days after Lola’s birthday party cruise, I limp into the office lobby, soaking wet. I’m bleeding and have holes in my suit pants. It’s almost seven a.m. The security guard gives me a bewildered look. I look away and flash my ID card. I drag my right leg along as I make my way into the elevator bank. I need to hold my body up with one arm against the wall. My breathing is erratic. It’s hard to stand. I get on the elevator, thankfully alone.

  I’m not sure how much farther I can go. Each time I take a step, my right leg throbs in pain. I use each desk in the office to take a mini break to catch my breath. Then I poke my head around the glass wall to see Melinda and Rich at their desks. They look up and then glance at each other. It isn’t the usual Turney’s fucked up again on a Friday look. They’re scared. I try to muster some words, but can’t. “I got mugged,” I finally say. Rich and Melinda continue to look at me and then at each other. “I need to go to the hospital … my leg.” I turn and start limping out of the office.

  Rich gets up and follows me. “If you need anything, just call us,” he says. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  I get a cab. I tell the driver “107 Rivington Street.” I text Jenn and tell her I fell in a puddle going to work. Then I text her that I’m going to get my knee checked out and I’ll call her later. I know she’s not up yet. I’m shaking in the backseat. I roll the window down. I roll it up. I blow a few deep breaths out of my mouth. I turn around to see if anyone is following my cab. I look down at my knee—it’s still bleeding. My palms are raw. There are tiny pebbles lodged underneath my skin. I pull my wet shirt off my shoulders.

  The Rivington Hotel lobby is dark. I hand over my license and credit card. I tell them I need a room. They look at me suspiciously but don’t say a word. Why did the concierge just go in the back? Maybe I should just leave—but they have my credit card and license. I wait. This isn’t good. What’s taking so long? “Here you go,” the gentleman says as he hands me my stuff back with a hotel key. “Take the elevator to the fourteenth floor and then take a right.” I grab it and hurry to the elevator.

  Once inside my room, I quickly take off my shirt and pants and throw them on a chair. I find the remote and order porn off the television. The bed is all white. I’m afraid to get blood on it. I empty my pockets and put everything on the nightstand: my keys, money, credit cards, phone, and two eight balls of cocaine. I empty one of the ba
gs on the nightstand. I want to cry, but I can’t.

  Last night started so harmlessly. After work I went out for a few cocktails. I called a dealer around ten p.m. I was home by midnight. Jenn and Lola were sleeping. I was just going to have a few more bumps before I went to bed. Then I couldn’t stop. I never can stop anymore. I don’t have an off button. I just kept going back and forth from the couch to the bathroom. I realize I’ve been up for three days. This started on Wednesday. Fuck. What’s Jenn going to say when she sees my text? I look at my still bleeding knee. I can’t believe I told the people at work I got mugged. I was out of excuses.

  I’m so full of shit. I didn’t get mugged.

  TWO HOURS EARLIER

  The cab drops me at the corner of Fifty-Fourth and Park. It’s not even light yet. The black sky spits the last of the rain that’s left from the storm the night before. Scaffolding fronts my office building like a huge exoskeleton. The city has that just-before-dawn, post-apocalyptic feel. I’m the only one alive, and just barely. Cocaine trickles down the back of my throat as I practice my speech. I have to go to work, and they’ll fire me if I do. I stand there on the street corner nearly comatose from two nights of drugs and alcohol.

  My hands tremble as I light a cigarette and begin to walk around the block. Inhale desperation; exhale anxiety. I don’t know how I’m going to walk into the office in the shape I’m in. I flick my cigarette, not even half smoked, onto the sidewalk. It sizzles as it hits the wet concrete and ignites a convoluted idea that my cocaine-addled brain thinks is inspired. What if I just got mugged? I feel a chill come over me. For an instant, out of the corner of my eye, I see a shadow move suddenly toward me from across the street. Just as quickly it’s gone. I light another cigarette, and before I know it I’ve circled the block and I’m back where I started, where a huge puddle has formed in the street. I take a breath, close my eyes, and stand in front of the puddle. It’s time for my mugging.

  First attempt …

  My body refuses. I’m afraid of the pain.

  I stand up.

  Second attempt …

  The dive is halfhearted, but my knees dig into the pavement.

  My palms burn …

  I feel the slimy wetness on my face.

  Taste it in my mouth.

  Pants soaked and ripped.

  My shirt is dry.

  Again!

  Again!

  Again!

  It felt as if I was pushed. I hit the puddle with such force, my face stings as it smacks the water and then the street underneath. As I lift my head I see the shadow again. It hovers over the sidewalk where I just stood. Now I’m up again—I don’t even know how. I can feel blood running down my shins from the cuts in my knees—my hands are ripped and also bleeding. The shadow grows and forms into some type of being. And then I’m lying in the street water again. I can’t stop.

  Broken, bleeding, and out of breath, I lift my head and frantically search for my tormentor, but I see nothing, only the slick pavement and the tires of the cars parked on the side street. Somehow, I’m able to get to my feet. There’s no sign of the shadow, and relief displaces fear. I’ve accomplished my goal. As I enter the office building, cocaine continues to trickle down my throat, but now it’s mixed with a taste of blood.

  I can’t live like this anymore.

  I never had a friend try to commit suicide. A pipe never burst in my apartment—it was a leak. Jenn had a miscarriage, but it was two weeks before I called in sick. I’ve been sick almost once a week, but not the kind of sick I tell work about. I’ve been doing cocaine four nights a week. I tell Jenn I have business dinners and then rent hotel rooms to snort cocaine by myself. I tell my friends I’m busy with work dinners. I tell Wall Street friends I’m busy being a father at home. I thought I was going to be able to stop when Jenn told me she was pregnant. Then I knew I would stop when my daughter was born. But when Jenn and Lola fall asleep, I tiptoe out to the computer and watch porn and snort coke all night. I can’t stop. Just one more line.

  I’m so fucked. How’d I let it go this far? I knew I should have never taken the dealer’s phone number two years ago. I’m so fucked. Just one more movie and one more line and then I’m going to flush it. I’ll call work and tell them I’m still at the hospital and I’ll text Jenn and let her know I’m okay. Just one more line. Just one more. Check the peephole. One more line. Check the peephole. One more line. Check the peephole.

  I grab my phone. I have three texts from Jenn and two emails from Krishen. Jenn is worried. Where are you? What’s happening? Are you okay? People keep calling here. Krishen’s emails are less concerned: You’ve been too disruptive this year. We need to talk, call me. And then: You need to come in on Monday. We need to talk.

  I look up at the clock: 2:30 p.m. Porn is still playing. I’ve rented more than twenty movies. There’s one more line of cocaine left. I hear a voice. I know it’s coming from inside my head, but I can hear it. This is the last line of cocaine you ever have to do, it says. My entire body shakes. This is it. This is my last line.

  I’m so fucked.

  THREE HOURS after I leave the Rivington Hotel, I’m standing outside my apartment. I have my phone, credit cards, and my license—nothing else besides the clothes on my back. I see myself in the window of the coffee shop. I look exactly like what I am: homeless. Shortly after, Ethan and Jason pull up in a cab. They wear worried expressions and approach me with hesitation. “Man, are you okay?” Ethan says. I crawl into the back of the taxi. We’re going to Jason’s because Ethan lives in a studio in Brooklyn with his girlfriend now and Jason has a one-bedroom apartment. I spend the night on his couch and dial Jenn the next morning. I’m not sure she’ll even take my call.

  After the fake mugging and my hotel stay, I walked into our apartment filled with a mixture of anxiety and hope. I’d been struck, if you believe in such things, by something akin to divine inspiration—by the belief that I was on a path to freedom from my addiction. And the first thing I needed to do was admit what I’d done. I knew it would hurt, but I reasoned it was just like pulling off a Band-Aid. Just pull it, I told myself. I told Jenn everything, at least as it concerned my cocaine use. And I promised her I’d fix what I’d broken. I begged her to stand by me.

  I could see her putting the puzzle pieces together in her head. Things started to make sense. The countless sleepless nights, the manic behavior in the apartment, the continual business dinners, and the constant sick days from work started formulating a perfect picture in her thoughts. But I couldn’t explain to her why I kept doing it. I wish I knew. The only thing I know is that it starts with a belief the morning after that I’ll never do it again. Then later in the day it’s a confidence that I’ll control it next time. Finally, it comes in the form of a seven-year-old’s anticipation on Christmas. I have to have it.

  She was more upset than shocked. Tears streamed down her cheeks. I thought I hid my actions well—addicts always think that. But she’d lived the torment I’d caused. She wiped the tears from her face, which then took on a defiant expression. “I just have one question for you,” she said. “A month ago when I had to go to Atlantic City with my mom …” Please don’t ask, I said to myself. Please don’t. “When you were watching Lola alone on Friday night and could barely speak on Saturday?” Her eyes burned with accusations. “Were you?”

  I searched for an excuse, but I had no answer. My head hung as I stared at a spot on the floor in front of me. She grabbed her cigarettes and phone and left. “Get the fuck out” is the last thing she said to me.

  On Saturday when I call from Jason’s, Jenn answers the phone. I tell her I’m going to rehab. It’s a holistic place in Tucson called Cottonwood, I say. The anger from the day before is gone from her voice and is replaced by a kind of detachment. She tells me she’s not sure if she and Lola will be there when I return from Arizona.

  I spend the rest of the morning making my confessions over the phone. When my mother hears the word “cocaine,” she chokes
on her words. I’m worried she won’t be able to sleep. When my father comes on the line, he wishes me luck, as if I’m going off to college for the first time. “Let us know if there’s anything we can do for you,” he says. To a person, my non–Wall Street friends are shocked. One by one, I hear the same response: “You do cocaine?” None of them knew, but, having witnessed at least some of my odd behavior and unreliability, all of them suspected something was wrong.

  The first call I make to my Wall Street world is Uncle Tucker. He’s heard this type of story before but had no idea it was happening to me. He offers his assistance and compassion. Then I call Gus and Randy, both of whom seem upset. I’m not sure if they feel responsible, worried, or just mad that they’ve lost their best account. I call a few more Wall Street people and they all tell me not to tell anyone else. Keep it to yourself, they say. I can’t do that. There’s one place I must tell.

  That Monday is an unusually warm fall day. I stand on the corner of Fifty-Seventh and Park Avenue. As the New York City swarm passes, I tilt my head skyward and let the sun’s rays warm my face, like a kid on a sun-dappled playground. Drugs and alcohol have hollowed me out, but in the sun’s warmth I’m almost whole again. I want this feeling to last forever, and I promise myself I’ll never forget this moment of hope and light. It’s exactly then that a guy talking on his cell phone slams into my shoulder and knocks the files I’m holding all over the sidewalk. “This isn’t the beach, asshole,” he says over his shoulder, without breaking stride. I gather my things and head into my office building.

  The office is somber. I don’t know whether my coworkers are more embarrassed or sad. Whatever eye contact exists is brief, and a few glances even feel chilly. Might be me. I’m not exactly filled with confidence right now. Regardless of the emotion, the moment is real. I walk into the conference room to see Don, our CFO, seated with Rich and Krishen at the table. The murmur I heard at the door quiets to an uncomfortable silence. I stand there with my hands in my pockets; I catch myself looking down at my shoes. I hadn’t realized how dirty they are. The eye contact in the room is not much better than that outside. My gaze settles on a spot on the wall somewhere over Krishen’s head, as if I’m searching the horizon. “I want to thank you for everything you guys have done for me,” I say, peeking down at their reactions. It might not be my finest moment, but my words come from my heart. I tell them I know I caused them pain and brought chaos into the office. I tell them I’m truly sorry. I thought I had it under control. “I have a problem,” I say. “And I need help.” I tell them I’m checking into a rehab out in Arizona. “I fly out tomorrow.”