The Futures

“Good. Great. Things have been great. I’ve, um, been working on a few projects for Steve. He’s had me run some models for the macro group. And, uh…”

Michael nodded briskly. “Fine. And are you liking it? Is the work engaging?”

“Well, um, yeah, I would say it is.” Shit. This was exactly what I’d feared, coming across as some inarticulate hick with nothing to say. “It’s been really interesting, learning about these new markets, and—”

“All right. It’s okay, Evan. Relax. We don’t have to skirt around this. I know what it’s like, your first month on the job. It’s boring. You can admit that, okay?”

I laughed. I hoped it sounded confident, not nervous. “I guess.”

“I was impressed with you in our interview, Evan. I was. I admire your ambition. It’s not easy to get yourself out of a small town. Trust me, I know. What I want to know is what you’re looking to get out of this. Don’t get me wrong. Some people just want to do their two years, go to business school. They’ll do fine for themselves. Dip their toe in, then do the next thing. For some people, that’s just fine.”

Michael leaned back in his chair, his evening stubble catching in the light.

“You know, I grew up in South Dakota, on a farm in the middle of nowhere. Where I came from, people never left. You understand what I’m talking about.”

I sat up a little straighter. “I do.”

“People like us, we actually have an advantage. We remember where we came from. We work that much harder. Now, Spire gets its pick of who to hire. The best and the brightest. But it’s not often I have the chance to hire someone like you. Someone who reminds me a little of myself.”

A few blocks away, my coworkers were already drinking and laughing, off duty for the night. I felt a buzz and pop of adrenaline near the point where my spine met my brain. Just like at the beginning of a game, right before the puck drops.

“Evan. I think you’re smart. I think you’ve got huge potential. My question is, what are you looking for? Do you want to try for something bigger?”

“Yes,” I said. “I do.”

The tone shifted. Faster, more relentless. I was trying to keep up.

“I’ll tell you, first of all, there are no sure things. We always have to bear that in mind. Nothing is certain. But this is the closest thing to certainty that I’ve ever seen in this world. So. What’s the most important thing you learned about hedge funds when you decided you wanted to work here?”

“How to—how to exploit inefficiencies in the market?”

“That’s one thing. And some people may agree with you that it’s the most important thing, but that’s not the answer. The most important thing you need to know is the art of timing. Being first. Knowing when to get in and when to get out. Knowing the inefficiencies does you no good if you screw up the timing.”

“Right. Timing. I see.”

“And what does the right timing allow you to do? What’s the primary rule of arbitrage?”

“Buy low, sell high?”

“Exactly. If you can get it cheap and find a market for it at a higher price, then that’s all there is. Simple, right? And if you can time it perfectly, then you’re golden. So what’s the cheapest thing you can buy right now in this country?”

“Well, um…”

“You read the news. You see what’s happening with the housing market. We’re right on the edge of a complete collapse.”

“Housing? So buying up cheap housing? And then find—”

“No. Right track, though. Break it down into components, make it liquid. What do you need to build houses? What’s in demand when the market is booming? I’m talking physical resources. Something you can count and measure and ship.”

“Lumber?”

“You would think this would be a terrible time to bet on lumber, with the housing market cratering, right?”

“Right.”

“No one is going to touch it. No one with an ounce of sense. People go looking for an ark in a flood. Who goes looking for more water? So what does that mean, Evan?”

“It’s cheap.”

“Dirt cheap. And that’s where we come in.”

“You guys celebrating something?” Maria asked as she brought over another round, later that same night. We were at McGuigan’s, at our usual booth in the corner. Maria, our regular bartender, was just a few years older than we were. “The weekend,” Roger said loudly. “Why don’t you join us for a round, gorgeous?” Maria smiled with cool tolerance while she stacked our empty glasses. Roger had been leering at her for weeks. “That one’s mine, fellas. I call dibs,” he said when she was barely out of earshot.

I felt my phone buzz with yet another text from Julia. I was supposed to meet her at a party downtown, and my time was up. I went to the bar to pay for my drinks. Roger often laid down his card at the end of the night, picking up the tab like he was some big shot, but I didn’t like the feeling that I owed him something.

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