I had a "real job" this summer working at a hedge fund. That is to say, I sat in front of three computer monitors all day and talked on Instant Messenger.
Occasionally, I made copies.
My conclusion after exactly 52 workdays (11 five-day weeks minus Memorial Day, July 5 and a day off to stay home and watch my dog -- not that I was counting) is that the world of finance is the most boring place in the universe.
A Saturday night in Lincoln, Nebraska, would be more exciting.
And yet, packed into the air-conditioned, hypo-allergenic, vacuum-sealed trading floor are 200 living, breathing human beings glued to their 12 computer screens watching the flickering lights that represent millions of dollars flowing into and out of their lives.
And of course, there are the smooth, designer jeans-wearing, slick-haired, "my-car-is-compensating-for-exactly-what-you-think-it-is" types.
But there were plenty of people who would give me advice, send me porn links in e-mails marked "Urgent" and, most importantly, buy me breakfast.
Some of them have achieved a Zen-like equilibrium with their money.
I watched a guy lose $8 million in a single day. He paced up and down the aisle whistling show tunes. I sat with my fingers ready to dial the Pleasant Hills Psychiatric Center. I thought he was getting ready to murder someone.
Later on, I ran into him while I was in search of a coffee stirrer for one of my bosses (apparently using one's finger is out of the question), and I asked him how he was doing.
"It's just one of those days, dude," he said.
To me, the phrase, "one of those days" means that I stub my toe getting out of bed and open the window to see it's raining outside and I left my sunroof open.
To him, it meant losing $8 million and figuring that somehow, the universe would eventually come back into balance.
Cool, calm and collected.
But I noticed how starkly the dark circles under their eyes contrasted their whitened teeth. How strange it was to see their hairlines retreating so early in their careers.
How sarcastically they told me their job is killing them, but that they live for it.
Which is why, after interning this summer, I was relieved to discover that I didn't want to go into finance anymore.
Don't get me wrong, there were fun days.
Because I was one of the young guys.The clerks.The interns.The ones Portfolio Managers turn to when they want to talk about their days of wild oats sowing.
It was a lot like being in a frat, just with less funneling and more P/E Ratios.
"Back in my day I used to be able to do a half-hour keg stand, no problem."
I didn't want to let them down, so when they tried to live vicariously through me, I usually obliged.
"So, how many orgies did you partake in this year, A-J?"
"Uh, 17, I think."
"Seventeen? College just isn't what it used to be, kid."
Sometimes they would get a little misty-eyed telling me their old frat stories.
"It was MORE than a toga party that night, A-J. It was ... magical."
I kept a stock of tissues in my desk. It's what good interns do.
I made fun of them for being obsessed with money, and they made fun of me for knowing how to read.
I called them capitalist fat pigs. They called me pinko liberal literati.
I called them codpiece. They didn't know what that meant.
All in all, after this summer, I can probably hold my own in a conversation about the merits of fundamental analysis in an increasingly information-sensitive marketplace with a Comm School wonk.
At the same time, I discovered that I could never be driven by the same things as them.
And it's not just the money.
The truth is that, for most people I met this summer, greed has little to do with the passion they have for their work.
They make money, yes.
But they tape pictures of their wives and kids to their 12 computer monitors. They leave work early to go to soccer practice, graduations and barbeques.
It's about the rush of competition, the tangibility of success, the bitterness of a missed opportunity.
"I love this game," shouted one of the younger clerks one morning.
And I was a little jealous.
I don't remember the last time I read The Waste Land and shouted "My God, I love poetry so much! There's just so much hidden meaning!"
So I learned their lingo and nodded blankly when they talked about EBITDA.
Little could they know the questions burning in the ever-growing fire of the smithy of my soul.
I tried to focus on the tickers. I tried to imagine myself cruising around in the Mazzerati I had bought in cash.
But my thoughts wandered.
Does finance have a metaphysic?
A semiotic?
Is it an episteme?
What's an episteme?
Will I forever be condemned to a life without friends? I ended up with more questions than answers. Until this summer, I've never been puzzled by the desire for material wealth. I figured I could always "dabble in the market" and maybe write some novels on the side.
Because, naturally, writing novels is a walk in the park.
One hears about the corruption of the business world. The consuming power of wealth. The addiction to accumulation.
But none of these, it turned out, turned me off to finance. Technical graphs are simply as boring to me as Proust is to some other guy.
Check that, no one thinks Proust is boring.
The ones addicted to the money are no different than the people who brag about AP scores at dinner in the dining hall. Everyone ignores them, rolls their eyes and goes back to eating their delicious chicken pot pie.
I'd simply rather ponder Derrida than make a dazzling short sell.
I'd rather read Joyce than roll around in buckets of money on my private island in the Caribbean.
Sigh.
Yup. Joyce. It's going to be fantastic.
I just have to convince some of my hedge-fund buddies to pay my rent.
A-J Aronstein can be reached at aronstein@cavalierdaily.com
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