A. S. King is a novelist recently relocated from Ireland. This story, "How I Became My Father," was a finalist for a Glimmer Train Award in 2007.  Her work has appeared in Washington Square, Word Riot, Literary Mama, FRiGG, Eclectica, Amarillo Bay, Underground Voices, The Huffington Post, The Arabesques Review, Natural Bridge and other cool places. One of her novels, The Dust of 100 Dogs, is due from Flux in February 2009.

ATRADER’S LOT

Every morning for the past nine months, DavidSherwin had disembarked from the Hoboken ferry and joined the flow of people onthe walkway to the New York Mercantile Exchange. Chewing on an antacid from theroll in his pocket, he would shuffle along with the crowd, his mind on hismeager market positions.

But today, David didn’t reach for the tablets.Instead, he tilted back his head and inhaled the faint saltiness of the river,barely discernable under the stench of diesel fumes from the ferry. The flatgray strip of water stretched away to the horizon, where it merged into theovercast sky. For an instant David was back five years, to when he’d first metMalia and other things weren’t so important.

Heedless of the heavy mist, David walked with analmost forgotten energy—dodging concrete barricades and posts topped withsecurity cameras, threading through knots of traders, clerks, and Exchangeemployees—toward the fifteen-story concrete and marble box that housed the world’smost important trading floors for metals and energy. Everyone he passed wastalking about the same thing. “It’ll be there in two hours” … “The Hub wasevacuated this morning” … “Already Category Four.” David walked faster.

Hepassed three homeless men crowded under a concessionaire’s canopy, driven thereby an earlier downpour. Propped up against the storefront, one of them wore adiscarded trader’s jacket, the splash of yellow garish against the otherwiseunremitting gray. Although he usually didn’t give to street people, Davidstuffed a bill into the offered cardboard cup and wondered if the man was thejacket’s original owner.

I’llstop at Cartier on the way home. Malia had always wanted one ofthose watches, the kind with the twelve little diamonds around the face. Maybe I can get to the Porsche dealershipbefore it closes. David pictured a low-slung convertible—red, her favoritecolor.

“Up for this afternoon’s game, Dash?” The familiarvoice jarred David from his daydreams. “They’re playing the Dodgers.” MikeVigneri, a fellow trader in the natural-gas pit, came up beside him. Whenthings were slow, Vigneri sometimes ducked out before the closing to catch anafternoon game at Shea.

“Sure, if it’s quiet,” David said, knowing notrader would be leaving the Floor early today. Vigneri grinned at the joke.

David pushed through the revolving doors of themain entrance and strode across the marble lobby. He inserted his ID card intothe turnstile slot and walked through the metal detector.

The Exchange was located less than two blocks fromwhere the towers had stood, and security had been substantially increased sincethe attacks. In addition to the metal detector in the lobby, surveillanceequipment had been installed on the Floor and around the building perimeter,public tours had been discontinued, and cops in flak jackets accompanied bybomb-sniffing dogs patrolled the premises. On elevated terror-alert days, aCoast Guard gunboat armed with missiles sat offshore in the murky Hudson.

“This hurricane is sending gas to the fuckingmoon!” Vigneri said as they changed into their trader jackets in the lockerroom. He rubbed his thick hands together. “Gonna be some serious money madetoday.”

“Yeah,” David said. If Vigneri only knew. Hestuffed his pit cards and trade pad into a pocket of his bright blue jacket.Except for the color, it looked like a med student’s lab coat. He clipped ayellow badge to his collar, just above his photo ID. The bright plastic pin wasengraved with four letters derived from the initials of his name: DASH. Traders called each other by theirbadge symbols and used them when writing up trades.

The badge meant David had a seat on the Exchange.Not an actual place to sit—on the Floor, only the clerks did that—but ratherthe right to buy and sell commodity futures on the trading floor. Exchangeseats sold for two million dollars, or were leased for upwards of twentythousand a month. The seat David traded on was owned by his wife.

At least it had been until two days ago.

David popped an antacid and closed his locker.“I’ll see you up there,” he said.

Although he usually took the elevator, today Davidbounded up the stairs, reaching the Floor five minutes before the opening bell.Crude oil, heating oil, gasoline, natural gas, propane, coal—the Exchange setthe prices for the fuels that ran the world’s economies. Out of breath from theunaccustomed sprint, David pushed his way to his usual place in the natural-gaspit.

While other exchanges were going all-electronic,and overnight energy trading could be done by computer, during business hoursthe New York Mercantile Exchange still transacted business as it had for over ahundred years—buyers and sellers announcing bids and offers at the top of theirvoices.

As a rule, only a handful of natural-gas traderswere in the ring this early. But today the pit was packed, the mélange ofgarish polyester jackets turning the space into a kaleidoscope. Traders whonormally worked crude oil or gasoline pushed in next to the natural-gasregulars to get in on the action.

The room had a musty, damp-clothes smell, despitethe cold drafts pouring from vents in the ceiling. As the electronic clockmoved toward ten o’clock, David could feel a surge of anticipation roll throughthe pit, more intense than usual.

His eyes went to the flat-screen televisionsuspended overhead. The station was tuned to the Weather Channel instead of thecustomary Fox or CNBC. The news crawl across the bottom of the screen read, Category 5 – 175 m.p.h. winds. Davidstared at the computer graphic, a swirl of neon red against a blue background.After Malia had gone to sleep, he had spent most of last night at his computertracking the swirl as it moved across the Gulf. The tension in his shoulderseased as he saw the storm was still on course.

The seconds on the digital clock slowly ticked by.9:58:17 … 9:58:42 … David balled his hands into fists and jammed them intohis pockets so no one would see them trembling. 9:59:36 … 9:59:53 … 10:00:00. The opening bell rang, and twohundred voices and two hundred arms were raised.

“Hundred Deece at eleven even, hundred Deece ateven!” … “Take ‘em all!” … “Fifty Deece at thirty!” … “Buy ‘em!” … “Fifty Deeceat eleven fifty!” Traders screamed, waved their arms, bounced up anddown—anything to get noticed and make the trade.

Yesterday, natural gas had closed at ten dollarsper contract. Overnight on the electronic market, the price had shot up adollar. Now, seconds after the opening, it had jumped another fifty cents.

David saw a pair of glasses knocked from atrader’s face by an errant elbow. Their owner was unfazed. “Two hundred Novy attwenty!” he shouted, his hands moving as if he were throwing down gang signs. Novy and Deece were slang for delivery months November and December.

Instead of joining in the frenzy around him, Davidsimply watched the quote board, where orange, green, and red numbers flickeredagainst a black background. Natural-gas contracts were priced in dollars andcents, and normally moved up or down in one-cent increments. Today the pricewas increasing twenty, thirty cents at a time.

A hurricane was heading for the Henry Hub, thegas-processing plant in Louisiana where over a dozen of the country’s majornatural-gas pipelines converged. The Hub had been shut down the night before asa precautionary measure, squeezing supply and driving up the price. If thepipelines were damaged by the storm, natural-gasdelivery would be held up for weeks, possibly months, resulting in default onbillions of dollars’ worth of delivery contracts.

According to the National HurricaneCenter’s computer model, the hurricane would collide with the Hub in less thantwo hours. As the red swirl moved across the TV screen, the pit became aseller’s market, the price of natural gas soaring as the big producers boughtback their outstanding contracts and the speculators who had sold shortscrambled to cover their positions. The only question was, How far up would it go?

The rubber floor and acoustical padding on thewalls did little to blunt the clamor. The din of the Exchange washed overDavid. Closing his eyes, he reveled in the sound of wealth being created. Mine and Malia’s.

Beside him Vigneri completed a sale. Tradingjacket straining at the seams, he scribbled down details on price, quantity,and delivery month, and the badge symbol of the trader who had bought from himon a pit card before frisbeeing it toward a man sitting behind a low counter atthe center of the pit. Wearing a baseball hat and plastic goggles as protectionfrom the flying pieces of cardboard, the pit card clocker frantically collectedand time-stamped the cards. They were then rushed to the data entry room fortransmission onto the wire services and entry into the Exchange’s permanentrecords.

Wecould go to Europe. Malia had studied French in college. Davidimagined the two of them sitting in a Paris café. Sunlight sparkled off thediamond trim on Malia’s new watch, and she was laughing like she used to.

Vigneri nudged him. “What’s up, Dash? Don’t youwant in on this?”

“I’m already long.” David paused. “A hundredcontracts.”

Vigneri’s jaw dropped. “Well, fuck me.”

MaybeI’ll fly Malia to Paris, give her the watch there. Shecouldn’t be mad at him then. He imagined her pink and glowing among the rumpledbedclothes in a romantic hotel. Perhaps they could finally start their family.

Malia’s father had been a natural-gas trader, too,doing well enough to retire to Bermuda after Malia left for college. He hadkept his seat on the Exchange, though, leasing it out to various traders overthe years. When he died last year, Malia had inherited it. Her father’s secondwife had gotten the house and bank accounts in Bermuda.

After her father’s death, Malia had planned tocontinue leasing out the seat. But David knew the extra few thousand a weekafter taxes wouldn’t be enough, not if they were to have children. He wantedkids, but Malia claimed she wasn’t ready. Their discussions had becomearguments, worsening each month. Malia’s parents, though distant, had providedher with a comfortable childhood—piano and riding lessons, nice house, tripsabroad, private school. David figured his wife’s reluctance stemmed from notwanting less for their own kids. But that took wealth—real wealth—the kind herfather had made. The old guy had never said a word, but David was sure thatMalia’s dad thought his daughter had married beneath her.

“This is our chance, Malia,” he had said. After afew weeks she had given in, and David quit his job at a brokerage firm andbecame a trader in the natural-gas pit. That had been nine months ago.

But things didn’t work out as David had planned.Floor trading for his own account was worlds away from sitting at a desk takingtelephone orders from clients. Although he had mastered the skills of buyingand selling on the Floor, David wasn’t a “natural.” He didn’t have a feel forthe market, and couldn’t anticipate its ebbs and flows. Before long, he hadburned through their nest egg. With barely any capital left, David had beenreduced to trading one and two contracts at a time, eking out less than hisformer salary.

But David was convinced more volume could improvehis returns. “To make money, you have to spend money,” he had told Malia. Butthey had no access to additional funds—unless Malia borrowed against the valueof her seat. A million and half dollars of trading capital, the clearing firmrep had told him. But Malia wouldn’t hear of it.

“It’s all we have for our retirement,” she hadsaid when David raised the subject. Despite his entreaties, this time she stoodfirm, and David had resigned himself to an existence as a one-lotter. Until thephone call from his brother last week.

In love with the ocean, Thomas Sherwin had droppedout of college with the aim of spending his life on the deck of a ship. Hecurrently ran a fairly successful fishing charter business out of a small porttown in Louisiana.

“Got the boats out of the Gulf yesterday,” Tom hadtold David. “All the signs point to a big one coming our way—warm water, coldmass descending, no wind shear. Even the old timers are leaving. Looks likeit’s going to hit around where those pipelines are.”

Tom knew weather, especially hurricanes. Hislivelihood depended on it. When he said a tropical storm was headed through theocean toward the Henry Hub, David believed him.

After hanging up the phone, David had beenovercome with a peculiar sensation. A hunch, a gut reaction. The other traderstalked about them all the time, but David had never really understood beforenow. It was an awareness of having arrived at an unmarked intersection in life,the sense that if he didn’t act, he would forever suffer the misery of whatcould have been.

Getting the money had turned out to be easier thanhe had thought. David merely slipped the signature page of the loan documentsinto the stack of tax returns waiting for Malia’s signature. As usual, shescribbled her name without reading anything. His clearing firm accepted itwithout question.

The Exchange required all members’ trades to bebacked by a clearing firm. To secure the guarantee, members pledged collateral—usuallycash, sometimes a letter of credit or the deed to an Exchange seat.

David liked his clearing firm rep. Earl Kinder wasa tall, middle-aged man with the dry understanding of someone who had heard toomany lies and witnessed too many traders undone by the pits. Though a bit toocautious for David’s taste, he was one of the few who did business withone-lotters.

Kinder’s fingers had hesitated over the keyboard.“There’s no shame in being a one-lotter, Dash.”

A photograph sat on the clearing house rep’s desk.It showed a round-cheeked woman and two boys with Kinder’s red hair, standingamong piles of leaves in front of a modest white house. David had studied itfor a moment.

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

Kinder had started typing, pushing back from thecomputer less than a minute later.

“There’s your one-point-five, Dash. You know thedrill. If you fall below your margin start liquidating, or I’ll do it for you.Lose it all, and I have to pull your badge and sell the seat.”

David briefly clenched his jaw. A million and ahalf dollars was in his trading account, secured by Malia’s seat. At last I’m holding size. It was likeholding dynamite. He could feel the power—and the undercurrent of danger, too.

“I’ll be fine,” he repeated. “There won’t be a problem.”

After leaving the clearing firm’s offices, Davidhad gone downstairs to the Floor. At an unattended computer, he had logged onto the National Hurricane Center’s website. The tropical storm was followingthe path his brother had predicted. Weare not concerned about the Gulf Coast and we expect little if any impact onthe oil industry, read the latest bulletin. But David hadn’t been swayed.Tom always called storms right. His gut told him there was no reason to doubthis brother now.

With twenty minutes left before the close, Davidhad commenced buying. Ten, fifteen contracts at a time, working his way up.Some of the traders had been curious about such volume from a one-lotter, butDavid explained he was doing a favor for a broker friend.

After the closing bell rang, David had flippedthrough his trade pad, slightly astonished. He owned a hundred natural-gascontracts. Every ten-cent change in price meant a loss or gain of a hundredthousand dollars.

On the ferry ride home, David had paced the deck,restless and jumpy. He wouldn’t be riding the slow, fat boat much longer. Maybehe and Malia would move to Manhattan, or better yet, Connecticut. Malia andtheir kids would have their own leaf-strewn yard.

#

Now, thirty-six hours later, that life was withinreach. All David had to do was watch the numbers go up as the red swirl movedacross the screen. The hurricane closed in on the Hub, and the fifty-centopening bump in price became sixty cents, then seventy-five.

“Thirty Deece at eighty five!” someone yelled fromthe other side of the ring. David did the math in his head. Up a million and three-quarters. Caughtup in the calculations, he didn’t hear the quiet voice right away.

“Looks like you made a good call, Dash,” Kinderrepeated.

Because a trader could buy or sell ten-dollars’worth of contracts for every dollar’s worth of security posted, the clearingfirms kept a close eye on their customers’ positions. If the market changeddirection and a firm didn’t pull a trader’s badge in time, the clearing firmhad to eat the loss. David had seen Kinder physically hustle a busted traderoff the Floor so he couldn’t do any more damage—not to himself, but to theclearing firm’s credit line.

“Remember, the market gives, and the market takesaway,” the clearing house rep said. “Don’t you think it’s time you covered?”

David checked the quote board. The Decembercontract price had hit twelve dollars, up twenty percent from yesterday’sclose. He’d made two million dollars in less than an hour—and the storm stillhadn’t hit the Hub.

“Not yet,” he said.

But watching the clearing house rep walk away,David wondered exactly whom he was trying to convince. If he sold his position,he could pay back Kinder, redeem the seat, and be left with more tradingcapital that he had ever imagined, his one-lot days forever behind him. Malia would want me to get out. Davidstretched up on his toes, preparing to shout his offer, then hesitated.

To makemoney, you have to spend money. His own words came back tohim, and he felt a sense of certainty, destiny even. There was two milliondollars’ profit in his account, enough to buy another hundred gas contracts.David glanced at the television screen. The hurricane was still bearing down onLouisiana.

Successful traders all had a story about their BigDay—the moment on the Floor that had defined them, the day they made the tradethat launched them into a new place. This was his Big Day—David was certain ofit. At last Malia would respect him.

“A hundred Deece at twelve,” shouted the trader infront of him.

David bent down and spoke into the man’s ear. “Buy‘em.”

The trader frowned at him. “A hundred at twelve?You’re sure?” His tone made clear he knew David was a one-lotter.

Hearing the other man’s doubt, David feltsomething rise up inside him. He jerked his head in a nod. “Write it up.”

As the trader scribbled the details of the tradeon a pit card, someone called, “Dash!”

David glanced around the ring and spottedVigneri’s bulky frame on the other side. His friend cupped his hands around hismouth and shouted, but David couldn’t hear him over the hubbub. Vigneri made aslashing motion across his throat, then gestured at the quote board.

David looked up. December gas had dropped anickel. As he kept watching, the number changed again. Ten cents down. His stomach churned. The market was turning againsthim.

He calculated his loss—two hundred thousand. A temporary slide, he told himself, likea car skidding across an ice patch, then regaining traction before it hitanything. Small when compared to two million. But as he watched, the numbersdipped again, and the two hundred became two hundred and fifty.

David felt as if he were in a pool of risingwater. He craned his neck to see the television. Breaking News read the crawl at the bottom of the screen. The redswirl was still there, but the dotted line showing its projected trajectory hadshifted. According to the graphic, the storm would bypass Louisiana altogether.The hurricane was going to miss the Hub. David’sheart banged against his ribs. He flicked his eyes back to the quote board justas the gas number began to nosedive in earnest.

Around him, shouts became bellows as the marketfell. A few feet away a trader held his head in his hands and moaned, whileanother threw up. Transfixed, David watched the price grind down, taking hisdreams with it.

The house was the first to go. “Elevenseventy-five.” Kiss the place inConnecticut good-bye. “Eleven forty.” Theregoes the red Porsche. “Eleven twenty.” Aurevoir, trip to Paris. “Eleven ten.” Nomore Cartier watch. David winced at every downward tick, the plummetingnumber like a finger poking him in the chest.

“Eleven dollars!” yelled the trader beside him.All of David’s profit was gone. The realization jolted him from his stupor, andhe raised his hands to join the cacophony.

“TWO HUNDRED AT TEN EIGHTY! TWO HUNDRED AT TENEIGHTY!” he shouted.

There were no takers. Abandoning the hand signals,David screamed ever-decreasing offers. “Ten sixty! … Ten forty! …” It was liketrying to find someone to catch a falling knife. No one answered.

By now the spread between buyers and sellers wasso huge, it was practically unbridgeable. One by one, would-be sellers stoppedshouting. Instead they stared wordlessly, watching the price of gas plunge tooquickly for the quote board to keep up. The ground was littered with discardedpit cards. In the middle of the ring the clocker gaped at the traders, eyeslarge behind his goggles, bewildered at having nothing to do.

At last the number slowed, finally stabilizing atits pre-hurricane level of ten dollars per contract. David stared at the quoteboard, the neon colors blurring. Two million dollars gone, like water throughhis fingers. All that was left was—

Realization burned through him. It wasn’t only awatch or a car that was gone. He owed the clearing firm two million dollars forthe two hundred contracts. I lost Malia’sseat. As if reading his thoughts, Earl Kinder materialized on the otherside of the pit and headed toward him.

David tasted bile in his mouth. He whirled andbegan shoving his way out of the ring to the exit. He couldn’t face theclearing house rep. Not until he figured out how to save the seat.

He burst through the Exchange’s revolving doorsand into the cold air. Reporters from the financial press hovered near theentrance, looking for first-person accounts of the carnage. They surged forwardat the sight of David’s trading jacket. Dodging the photographers’ zoom lenses,he sprinted down the walkway that led to the ferry. Once he was north of thepier and onto the rocks, the journalists abandoned their pursuit.

Reaching the river’s edge, David propped his handson his knees and took several deep breaths, waiting for his heart to slow. Apair of pelicans trundled along the shoreline, like two old men on their way tothe corner bar. There was no one else around.

David sank to the ground, heedless of the damprocks. Raindrops stung his skin andthe air was sour with exhaust and brine. He could hear the hum of trafficbehind him on the West Side Highway.

Tomorrow he would talk to Kinder, work somethingout. Even as he formed the idea, he knew it was ridiculous. The Floor was likeVegas—you had to pay to play.

Twomillion dollars. He’d had his Big Day, and already he couldn’treally remember what it had felt like. One thing was certain: Getting what youwanted and losing it was worse than never having had it at all.

“Dash.” The soft voice startled David out of hisreverie. A hand dropped onto his shoulder. “I’m sorry, but it’s over.”

Kinder.Wiping the sweat and tears from his eyes, David pushed himself to hisfeet, a litany of if onlys runningthrough his brain.

If onlyI hadn’t borrowed the money against the seat… If only I had sold out instead ofbuying more … If only I hadn’t believed red cars and trips to Paris would makethings right between Malia and me again …

“Did you cover before you left?” Kinder asked.

David shook his head, then shivered as the windknifed through his thin trader’s coat. The sky was low and opaque.

“After I sell out your position, we’ll go upstairsto turn in your ID.” Kinder nodded at the square of plastic on David’s lapel.“I need you to give me that.”

“Mr. Kinder, please …” David covered the badgewith his hand. “Spot me fifty,” he begged, his voice cracking. “I’ll pay youback.”

“You know I can’t do that. Give me the badge,Dash. The sooner you do, the sooner this will be behind you.”

David tightened his grip on the plastic pin.Kinder reached out as if to pry his hand loose. David twisted away, steppinginto the water and shoving the rep with his shoulder. Kinder gasped as he losthis footing on the slick stones. He started to topple forward.

In that split second, David knew he could reachout and catch the falling man. But he didn’t move. Instead, he watched Kinderstrike his head on a sharp rock and land face-down in the river.

The clearing house rep lay still, save for onehand undulating in the current as though it were waving. Blood leaked from hiswound, clouding the water before it was swept downstream.

Ankle-deep in the icy water, David stared at thescene in disbelief. Then panic overtook him, propelling him out of the riverand back onto the walkway, where he tried to collect himself.

He was alone. No gunboat, no security patrol, nopedestrians or loitering homeless. Even the pelicans were gone. Unable to thinkof what else to do, David began walking toward the Exchange. As the buildingloomed in front of him, he slowed his pace and looked toward the Hudson.

Maybe Ishould … He had a decent term life insurance policy, enough sothat Malia could start over. David veered off the walkway toward the water, hisshoes squishing on the gravel.

“Hey, Dash!”

David turned to see Vigneri lumbering toward him,a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Almost unconsciously, David reached intohis pocket for an antacid tablet.

“Christ, I hate these stupid smoking laws.”Vigneri exhaled a stream of smoke through his nose and eyed the roll ofantacids in David’s hand. “The Exchange should have bowls of those on the Floorfor days like today.” He barked out a laugh. David flinched at the sound.

“Jesus, you’re twitchy. That’s what holding sizewill do to you.” Vigneri dragged on his cigarette. “So did you catch my signaland get out in time? That reporter I used to date told me about the ‘canemissing the Hub right before it went out over the air. I got short, made alittle money.”

David’s mouth was so dry, he could barely speak.“Not exactly.”

Vigneri grimaced. “Ah shit, Dash.”