Tuesday, January 30, 1996
Papa's Bar
from the library of Kevinfurr

[I gave a stock tip once to a book collector in Key West. He was so pleased that he gave me the following manuscript, which he claims is the last true unpublished short story by Ernest Hemingway. I have not been able to verify its authenticity---Kevin Furr].

Papa's Bar

Roberto poured the absinthe into Jake's glass.

Roberto could work a borracho like no bartender on Wall Street.

"Hombre," Roberto said, "Micron Feb 70 calls again?"

"No." Jake swallowed the absinthe because he was a man. "Feb 50's"

"Menos mal," Roberto said, less bad.

"The market is cruel this season, Roberto."

"Si, mi padre says the little children are selling DRAMs for ten dollars a chip to the tourists in Pamplona."

"Darling," Monique placed her hand on Jake's hairy arm. Jake was a man. He had a hairy arm. "Darling, you can still go short. Don't be like that."

Jake grunted.

"Monique!" A young MBA sipping imported beer called to her, "Monique! Boeing." Monique liked to dance with the young MBA's who sipped imported beer and tipped stocks.

Roberto poured more absinthe. "Hombre, you do not like the young MBA's with the imported cerveza."

"Es nada," Jake said, it's nothing. "They trade without cojones."

"Let's not talk about it," Monique said.

Jake spat an obscenity. The young MBA's were not stock aficionados. They had theories and hedges. They went long but bought puts. They shorted against the box. A man follows instinct, long or short. A man has cojones and hairy arms and drinks absinthe in the morning and spits obscenities and plays a stock short or plays a stock long but does not do both at once.

In past seasons his margin account had been the pride of his youth. Now the market taunted him like a boxer with hairy arms who drinks absinthe in the morning when he knows his opponent is beaten and he is only playing to excite the crowd and to scare the bettors, but he knows he will win the fight and has only to deliver the last punch and spit an obscenity and prove that he is still champion, El Campeon.

Monique caught his stare.

"Don't be like that" she said.

"I'm fine."

"Maybe we can find a bank stock."

"I like a lot of bank stocks," he said.

"What bank stocks do you like?"

"I like a lot of bank stocks."

"Don't be like that," she said.

Jake had owned good stocks. A good stock was a stock that went up and sometimes down politely so Jake could buy more and sometimes down again to shake out the weak hands who had no cojones or hairy arms and who did not drink absinthe in the morning and were not aficionados but always went back up and gave a profit well and truly and good. Jake would make money on these stocks and also make money shorting stocks that were not good stocks that went up and sometimes down but always back up. In those days making money like this was Jake's passion and duty and joy.

"Maybe we can go out into the country," she said.

"We can go out into the country if it will make you happy but it will do no good," he said. "The margin call will come."

"Let's not talk about it."

Jake tried to remember his biotech play a decade ago. After that week he was called El Campeon by the traders and brokers. Jake remembered how he fought the great Hungarian for a whole week and neither of them slept or ate or drank absinthe. The biotech was up and then down and the Hungarian would smoke American cigarettes and would short 20,000 shares just as it would approach a resistance but Jake would buy 30,000 and shove it over the top; then the great Hungarian would close his short and place a buy for 20,000 and then 20,000 again to get it moving into the new trading range. But that was a season when Jake felt the market and he sold and sold some more until the stock stopped climbing and then shorted 10,000 shares at a time as the Hungarian bought more. As the two men struggled the other traders stopped trading and began placing bets on the opponents. Some bettors thought the Hungarian would overcome Jake by the strength of his cash position but other bettors knew Jake and admired his will and his hairy arms and knew he spat obscenities and had cojones.

Friday afternoon they still had not eaten or slept and the traders who had been betting called for a draw because they were afraid there would be no victor before the bell and they wanted to begin their weekends. But then the chain-smoking Hungarian's voice gave out. The Hungarian was a fine man and a powerful trader but he went hoarse and then no one was left to stop Jake as he settled into a short position, feeding more and more shares into the market until all protective stops had been triggered and the biotech fell to a four-year low before Jake closed out. The bettors had been afraid the bell would sound with the biotech unchanged but in the final hour Jake had defeated the Hungarian before the bell. The Hungarian had been a fine man but when Jake defeated him he lost his confidence and afterwards invested only in T-bills.

For awhile the brokers and the traders called Jake El Campeon when he went to the bars but that was a long time ago in a season when Jake felt the market. Jake was in a slump now and did not feel the market and had lost money buying Micron and Hutchinson and shorting Netscape and his calls and puts had expired worthless. It was a cruel season and no one called him El Campeon.

Jake had given good tips to Monique in the past but this season Jake did not feel the market and Monique felt sorry for him.

"Darling," Monique said, "whatever happens, we'll always have Iomega."

"Yes." But Jake knew the truth. Jake knew he had been stopped out in October and that he had called the broker and shorted 10,000 shares at 24 in November.

"Yes," he said, "isn't it pretty to think so?"