The Day Trader

“Why am I here?” Ron asked himself as he stood and looked at the bungalow before him.

To describe the bungalow as nondescript would have been to waste breath on describing it at all. It was in a north end Edmonton neighbourhood and Ron did not like the north end. It was also at the end of a very long bus ride.

In one hand, Ron had a note pad on which he scribbled the addresses and phone numbers of potential customers. In the other hand, he had a bag of knives. The one advantage of this particular sales gig was that if a workday went really badly, you had the means at your disposal to kill yourself.

“Why am I here?” Ron asked again. Then he answered his own question. “I’m here because I’ve got no fucking choice.”

The sales gig he was on, RazorSharp knives, worked via a system of referrals. You had two days of training. On the second day, after you’d mastered the product knowledge and role-played “demonstrating the benefits of RazorSharp,” which consisted, in part, of cutting the lid off of a can of beans with the RazorSharp Everything Knife and also cutting a quarter in half with the RazorSharp scissors – after all that, you compiled a list of everyone you knew.

“Those are your first customers!” shouted Mitch, the trainer, enthusiastically.

Mitch was six foot seven, very skinny, and had acne. He did not seem charismatic but he had been Ontario’s lead salesperson for two years running and was now out in the west to teach westerners how to do it. Ron listened to Mitch always with a mixture of hope and dread in his heart. Hope, because if someone like Mitch could pull down an income of five grand a month, then surely anyone could. Dread, because, well, Ron’s father always said if something sounded too good to be true then it generally was.

And lo, it was!

In any case, on day two of training, you were asked to call at least three people on the everyone-you-know list and arrange to come to their homes and sell them knives. Ron had called Aunt Jeanette, Peter Samsberg – a former high school teacher and a super nice guy who couldn’t say no even to the Mormons – and lastly, Dick Chambers, the richest guy in the neighbourhood, who sort of knew Ron’s parents. To his relief, all three consented to sit through his sales pitch.

“But no promises, kid!” Dick had laughed, in his cigarette-smoky way.

Kid? Ron was twenty-two. But what did it matter? You sold your dignity the second you first delivered the RazorSharp sales pitch. “Other knives just don’t cut it!” The point was, by some circuitous system of referrals from those very first customers, Ron now found himself here. At the crappiest house he’d visited so far. Who had been the original link to this dive? He could not remember. He had no head for this anymore.

Ding dong, the bell chimed in response to Ron’s tentative touch. He wished the bell didn’t work. He wished the customer, a certain Sam Smuckers – like the jam – could have forgotten all about this appointment and gone out instead. But no, here was Sam Smuckers coming now. You could hear creaking footsteps behind the faded wooden door. That was the weird thing about this gig. No customer was enthusiastic about Ron’s visits and many of them purchased nothing and simply smiled at him sympathetically as he strained to cut yet another quarter. But no one had ever missed an appointment. Ever. The only person who had been obliged to call off an appointment was Ron himself when he got lost one time in Mill Woods.

Stupid Mill Woods.

And stupid Sam Smuckers. Here he was.

“You’re Ron! Come in!”

It was one of those happy types. The type to maintain the charade that this could be a real swell time.

“I’m Sam,” said Sam Smuckers.

He gripped Ron’s hand and shook it vigourously. Ron looked up into a pair of clear blue eyes. The eyes narrowed as if making a character appraisal.

“You’re a good lookin’ kid,” said Sam Smuckers. “Jeez. Where’s my girl, Sharon? I’ll hafta to lock her up!”

Ron looked around to see if this Sharon girl existed. Sam Smuckers laughed – very loudly – but in a way that seemed controlled. Rather like a well-rehearsed stand up comedian might laugh at his own jokes.

“Come in, come in,” said Sam. “Do you want some coffee? Hot out there, eh? Why don’t you take off your shoes? Maybe a cold glass of coke is better? Do you like coke? Or Diet Coke? Gotta watch the weight as you get older. Look at me. It’s catching up with me.”

Sam Smuckers, as he hurried up his own hallway, drew distant enough for Ron to get some perspective on his size and shape. In short, this was a big man. Six two or three, and at least two hundred and twenty pounds. Some of that muscle. Maybe most of it muscle. He was the big-boned type and his big clothes hung from him in a way that made further judgments impossible. But big. Definitely big. Some advanced sales techniques he’d looked into online informed him about categorizing customers, and physicality played into that. Customers who could be confident in their own skin were tough sells. They felt less compelled to buy stuff to compensate for their insecurities, so the logic went. However, they could be sold on things if you appealed to their vanity. But with knives, it seemed to Ron, vanity didn’t enter the equation.

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,” Mitch had said once during a one-on-one just-checking-in-on-things meeting. “Vanity plays a part with knives. What if their friends bought the knives? Well surely they are just as good as their friends, no?”

Sam Smuckers had led Ron into a living room. It was a dwelling space so sparse that it had almost a cheap hotel quality. There was a large TV, a coffee table, and a couch. There were no knick-knacks, books, plants, or other possessions. Although the surroundings were lackluster, they were quite clean. The whole house had a smell of Pine-Sol, as if somebody had just given the place a going over.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

Ron obeyed Sam Smuckers.

“I’m gonna get you that drink,” said Sam Smuckers, with a reassuring smile. “Then… then we’re gonna talk sales!”

With these words, Sam left the room. Ron already felt that his sales pitch, which obviously hadn’t even started yet, was nevertheless doomed. It wasn’t for the customer to set him at ease. It was for him to set the customer at ease. He was supposed to be the one in charge. But that seemed pretty hopeless in the presence of Sam Smuckers.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said Sam Smuckers, re-entering the room with a glass of pop. Ron took the glass with a thank you and as he brought it to his lips, the bubbles danced onto his nose.

Something strange happened. Sam Smuckers pulled the coffee table towards the couch and sat on it. This meant that he was sitting mere inches away, directly opposite Ron. You could smell the cologne. The proximity of the table as well as Sam’s robust frame being on top of it were highly detrimental to Ron’s sale pitch. He cleared his throat.

“I might need the table in a minute,” he said in a half choke.

“This table?” said Sam, slapping the table.

“Yes,” Ron struggled to reply.

“You won’t need it,” said Sam Smuckers.

This was news to Ron.

“You won’t need it because we’re going to talk sales,” said Sam Smuckers. “Like I promised. But before we discuss sales, we’re gonna discuss buys. Right? You can’t have sellers without buyers, right?”

Behind Sam Smuckers’ head, there was dust floating in the air, perfectly pixellated in the morning sunlight. This is where Ron mostly focused, even though he knew he should try and look his customer right in the eyes.

“I guess so,” he said.

By this point, he should be unzipping the knives and laying out the full set so that Sam Smuckers could touch them and handle them and “fall in love” with them. But this event seemed more and more of a remote possibility by the minute.

“I’m a buyer, you’re a buyer. We all buy things. That’s how the world goes around. You can’t come here and expect to sell without also expecting me to buy. Right?”

“Sure,” said Ron, prepared to face the lecture coming his way. You could tell this man was a talker. Some customers were talkers and you just had to listen. They’d been nice enough to let you into their homes, what else could you do? Trudie, a friend of Aunt Jeanette’s, had gone on for almost half an hour about why she wanted to assassinate the premier of the province. You wouldn’t have expected it of a sixty year old. Of course, she was kidding. But in the presence of so many knives, “one did get ideas.”

“So Ron,” said Sam. “I hope you’re not disappointed, but I’m gonna tell you right now, I’m not gonna buy any of your knives.”

Sam moved his face even closer and pursed his lips. It was as if he were daring Ron to slap him. Which of course would never happen in a million years unless Ron wanted his ass kicked.

“OK,” said Ron. “You don’t even want to—”

“See the product? No, I don’t even want to see the product. You know why? Because I never cook, Ron. I never cook myself a square meal because a) I am too goddam busy and b) I don’t like to cook because I’d rather pay someone else to cook for me. Is that a crime? I don’t think so! In any event, because you are probably a busy person just like me, I’ll cut right to the quick. Buyers and sellers, that’s what we were discussing. You can’t have one without the other. We need both. I am both. They are flip sides of the same coin. Now, what makes this all go around, this system of buying and selling?”

Ron was watching the dancing dust. This was a little like getting taken hostage. Being subjected to unusual punishment like this.

“Ron, you’re not going to get the answer when your thoughts are a million miles away!” said Sam. He snapped his fingers. Holy shit, that was uncanny. Ron blinked. That was really uncanny. “Are you with me, Ron?”

“Yes,” said Ron.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Ron.

“I have a daughter called Sharon, like I told you, and she never listens. But she is only seventeen. She’s going to be a writer. Writers don’t need to listen to anyone. They just pour out whatever is in their heart, and people pay to read it. Some people, anyway. That’s Sharon. And I love her. But Sharon isn’t us. You and me, we are salesmen. And we salesmen, we need to listen. Right?”

Ron nodded his head. Then, in an attempt to regain some lost footing, he said, “What kind of sales are you in, Mr. Smuckers?”

“Good question. Obviously, you were listening! I sell stocks and shares, Ron. I’m a day trader. I’m plugged into a coupla guys in New York who move things for me quick. On the stock market. I do trades for myself and I do trades for other people.”

Just then, there was the sound of a door opening. Ron heard a burst of sound from the summer outside – the squawk of a magpie. Then a girl appeared in the room. She wore a pair of shorts and a bikini top. This must be Sharon. She didn’t look seventeen. She looked about twenty-two. She had a knowing smile. As soon as she looked at Ron, he knew that she knew he wanted him. Not that this would’ve taken a genius to figure out. It was simply the subtlety and speed with which all this was acknowledged, with the tiniest crease of the lip. All this led you to believe she might have been in the game longer than seventeen years.

“My daughter, Sharon,” said Sam. “This is Ron. He’s come here to sell knives.”

“Knives?” said Sharon.

Ron nodded. He didn’t know what to say without feeling foolish.

“I just came to say your cell phone called while I was out,” said Sharon. “It was somebody called Mr. Vargas. I said you’d call back.”

She handed a cell phone to Sam Smuckers and then elegantly departed the room leaving a faint odour of hairspray. Afterwards, there was silence. It was obvious that they had both been in the presence of deeply carnal beauty and just as obvious that neither party should acknowledge the fact.

“Did you notice the trick with the phone?” said Sam Smuckers, after a respectful moment had elapsed. “Did you notice that my daughter fielded a call for me on my cell phone? Does that not strike you as odd? Why is it that my cell phone – something that I could keep here on my belt all day – happens to be with my daughter?”

Ron shook his head.

“Because I’m too important even to answer my own cell phone,” said Sam Smuckers, then smiled broadly, clearly at his own expense. “Ever notice how all the busiest people in this world have other people to answer their calls… even their cell phone calls, half the time? I took pains to notice this. So I give my phone to my daughter, my wife – even my little niece, Judith, who is ten. It doesn’t matter who answers it. People get a kick out of it. They always know Sam Smuckers is that guy who usually has someone else answering his phone. That’s just the league of men he belongs to. Crazy, eh? But let me tell you something important.”

Sam Smuckers held up his finger to signal something very important.

“I always call back within an hour, and I always apologize for missing their call. I apologize a lot. I’m a good guy that way. I want people to know me as a good guy. Of course, deep down, I am a good guy. But if you’re a good guy, you need to give people the opportunity to know that you’re a good guy. And the missed call – especially if it’s your snookikums niece who answers it – plus the apology afterwards? Nothing says all around good guy like that.

“I work from home, by the way.”

Ron concentrated on the dancing dust. Something was happening. A lecture that had started as bullshit now had a whiff of something novel about it. He was paying attention despite himself. And it seemed that Sam Smuckers genuinely liked him and wanted to talk. That was already an advantage over the usual uncomfortable ritual that passed as a typical sales visit.

“I see,” said Ron.

Sam gestured around him.

“Not much of a home,” he replied. “You’re afraid to say it, but I’ll say it. This isn’t an attractive home. It’s a cheap home, even by Edmonton’s standards. But let me say two things about the home. Firstly, I predict that this home will triple in price in under ten tears. No lie. The oil sands will be heating up, Ron. I watch these things. I’ve got my long-term investments in oil. When I sell this, I’m going to make a killing. And the second thing is… Why buy a nice home, anyway? This is Edmonton! Don’t you think it makes more sense to make a killing and get out while the going’s good and get something real fucking hot in interior British Columbia somewhere? Or how about Spain?”

Ron nodded. Yes, he could see the logic to that.

“Let me tell you, in money terms, my home is being built right now – a deluxe villa with a swimming pool. It’s being constructed in the bank as we speak.”

Ron nodded again. Sam took a deep sigh.

“I’m bragging,” he said. “I’ll shut up about that now. I’ll get to what I was going to say. Here goes, Ron. I want you to listen to this carefully. Ron, if you have about five hundred dollars on hand, I want you to give it to me.”

Sam leaned back. It was the first relinquishment of his urgent posture since the departure of beautiful Sharon. He tapped his knee with his fingers lightly. He smiled. Then he laughed.

“You think it’s crazy, right? To give me five hundred dollars?”

Ron shook his head.

“I don’t know. I don’t understand.”

“Of course not. Look, I’m a day trader, right? It’s 1999. Do you know the killing people are making on the market right now?”

“I’ve heard,” said Ron.

“And you’re not a part of it, are you,” said Sam.

Ron smiled sheepishly. The shame of it was, no he wasn’t.

“No harm in that. I knew you weren’t part of it because you’re selling these knives. And that’s OK. You need capital. But I’ll bet that selling knives is seeming like a tough row to hoe right now, eh? I mean, how many of these knives will you have to sell before you can buy some good stock on the stock market?”

Was this another rhetorical question? There wasn’t even a goddam chance of buying stock on the stock market. Ron had busted his butt the last three weeks to get money for rent. Now he needed food and bus money. Things were desperately tight. It was weird that Sam Smuckers had asked him for five hundred dollars because that was almost the exact sum he had in the bank right now. Take a chance on the stock market? Not a hope in hell!

“I’m a long way from that,” Ron admitted.

Suddenly, Sam Smuckers jumped to his feet.

“But you’re not,” he said. “You are not.”

He paced to the window and looked out. He became just a large silhouette to Ron.

“Let me explain, Ron,” said Sam Smuckers. “It only takes five hundred dollars to start out. If you give that to me, I can practically guarantee you it will be six hundred by tomorrow. I’m watching a certain stock quite closely. It’s a good one for you. A precious metals firm has found a gold mine in Indonesia. A literal gold mine – you know, with gold in it. This is a Canadian firm. They’re good guys. I actually know the son of one of them. He played university football with my own son, Vince, who isn’t here right now. Too bad, that, because you two would’ve got along. In any case, a few of us are putting money in this and the speculators are getting in on the deal too. See, they’re betting that this gold mine, when it moves into full production, is going to be the highest producing gold mine in the world. Future contracts are changing hands like hot little potatoes. Everyone wants a part of this. If you’re a hedger or a speculator, this is a market for you, Ron. It really is.”

This talk was dizzying for Ron and he had lost track a while ago. But he didn’t say anything.

“Your friends talk about this kind of stuff?” said Sam.

As it so happened, some of Ron’s friends did talk about this. Even some of the folks at RazorSharp talked about it. The stock market was a major discussion point everywhere, it seemed.

Ron nodded.

“The smart ones will be the ones who buy in. They say what goes up must come down, and this is the truth, Ron. I’m an optimist – perhaps the most optimistic person you’ll meet – but I still believe the old logic. Soon the stock for this gold mine is going to become overpriced and only the richest of investors will be able to get in on it. I’m so glad I got in this year. This is so big. This stock has the biggest potential of any I’ve ever had.”

Ron nodded. The swerve into speculation talk had lost him, but this sounded a bit more like plain talk.

“Lucky you,” he said, trying to grin.

Sam turned from the window. He was still a silhouette, but his bright blue eyes just about shone through despite the fire of summer behind him. He looked like some kind of Egyptian god – all two dimensional.

“Lucky you,” Sam repeated, throwing it right back at Ron. “Seriously. I’m hitting the jackpot here, but when I look at someone like you – almost my son’s age too – I think to myself, here is someone who should share in the good fortune. I mean, you came all the way here and I’m not buying anything. Right? It’s a big bust. But if I can turn five hundred bucks into six hundred bucks – and that in just a day – then that’s a start, right? You can’t be unhappy with that. Then, if you’re pleased with that result, maybe you’ll try again. We’ll turn six hundred bucks into seven hundred bucks. Maybe more. Maybe we’ll take a hit of fifty bucks somewhere along the line.” Sam Smuckers shrugged. “It happens. But you know what? You get right back into the saddle the next day and do it all over again. It’s a sport, Ron. It’s a sport. And I tell you what, it’s a sport for young men like you because you’ve got the nerve for it. So what do you say? You got five hundred bucks?”

“What, right now?” Ron asked.

“Yeah, right now!” Sam laughed. “I’m a day trader, not a tomorrow trader.”

“How does all this work? I don’t understand.”

“I put that money into the futures market. I call some guys in New York. They talk to some guys and round about four o’clock our time, we cut a deal and sell. That’s in six hours. Not a lot of time to wait.”

“But I don’t have five hundred on me.”

“That’s OK,” said Sam. “Perfectly OK. You drive to the bank and get it.”

“I don’t have a car. The nearest bank is at Northgate, I think.”

“You don’t drive, Ron?”

Sharon came back into the room. She had moved so stealthily, Ron hadn’t noticed her approach. Just as before, she wore shorts and the bikini top. All that had changed was she had a book in her hand. Ron tried discretely to see the cover. Whatever it was, it had a glossy cover.

“I can drive you, Ron,” said Sam, not even glancing at his daughter.

“I need a second to—”

“To think?” said Sam. “Sure. OK.”

“Dad, if you’re going out, can you go to the library and turn this one in for another?”

“Sure,” said Sam Smuckers. He took the book from his daughter. “Who is this? Helen Fielding? I haven’t heard of her.”

“She’s got a new one out. The Edge of Reason. Can you pick it up? I checked, and the library has it.”

The girl looked at Ron. She smiled. Sometimes, there was a girl so perfect and yet so manifestly right in front of your face that it seemed like a bit of a miracle. This was that kind of girl.

“I hope your daily cash limit goes as high as five hundred,” said Sam to Ron.

“Of course it does,” said Ron.

“Well honey, I won’t be long.” Sam Smuckers was talking to the girl now.

“OK. I might not be here when you get back. Susan’s coming and we’re going rollerblading.”

Ron was picturing this girl, and another girl maybe just as beautiful, rollerblading. It was too much. Sam Smuckers turned back to him.

“So, Ron. A decision?”

“I just don’t know, Sam.”

“I know it’s a tough decision. But listen. I’m right here. I’m not a fly-by-night deal. I’ve got a business card.”

Sam Smuckers paced over to Ron, pulled a card from his back pocket, and handed it over. It said, Sam Smuckers. Day trader. Ron looked up from the card. Sharon had disappeared. There was that hair spray smell again.

“I just don’t know,” said Ron. “It’s too quick to make a decision.”

Sam shook his head.

“That’s an absolute misconception,” he said. “In this sport, all decisions are lightning quick. I make this offer today because you’re in my house and I like you. Tomorrow, I will be busy with other clients. But today, I’m here. I’m advising you to go for this gold mine. That’s free advice. I’ll show you the newspaper. The company is listed in the newspaper. But that’s all beside the point since trust isn’t the issue here. The issue here is risk. Do you have the nerve to take a risk? When you think of it, really, it isn’t that much of a risk. Granted, five hundred isn’t pocket change, especially to someone like you. But you’re, what, twenty years old? Do you think in the whole of a lifetime, with all the hundreds and thousands of dollars you’re going to make, that five hundred is anything more than a drop in the bucket? It’s nothing, Ron. I mean, it’s nothing if you lost it. But if this turned into the start of a great business partnership between us – I need someone young to learn the ropes, see, and sometimes, with all my clients, I can’t keep up – well if all these things turn out the way they should, suddenly that five hundred means something, no? It’s the five hundred you tell your grand kids about.”

Quite unexpectedly, Sharon was back again. Something very serious had happened in her brief time away. She had taken off her shorts. Now she wore only a bikini top and bottom. Ron felt himself losing grip of reality. This was unbelievable.

“Susan’s here right now,” said Sharon. “We’re going now. You don’t have twenty for some pop and ice cream from the Mac’s store, dad? Please?”

She held out her hand.

“I know it’s not gonna be twenty,” he said.

“I’ll bring back change,” she replied, then departed again, leaving in Ron’s mind a mirage of her miraculous appearance.

It was too much. It was all too much. The girl had short-circuited all his normal thought processes.

“I can’t do this deal,” he said to Sam, and he stood up in his bid to make the declaration final.

“You can’t, eh?” said Sam.

“I can’t,” said Ron.

“You don’t mean can’t, because I know you can. You mean you won’t.”

Ron shook his head.

“Just say it,” said Sam. “You won’t.”

This was the most terrible feeling.

“I’ll make you the offer one last time. It’s not every day a kid comes in here who I see as a potential business partner. Seriously consider this.”

“I can’t do it now. Can we talk—”

“Talk about it?” Sam Smuckers looked disgusted. “You’ve either got the balls to make a decision or you don’t. Which one is it?”

Ron averted his eyes.

“I can’t,” he said.

Sam had to be getting to the library, he said. On the front step, Sharon was putting on her rollerblades. Ron nearly tripped over her in his haste to get out. There was no sign of this friend she had mentioned. Maybe she was round the back, sun-tanning or applying lotion, or whatever girls of this calibre did. Ron cantered down the driveway and did not look back. He hated himself. He would never join their league at this rate.