The Trading Game a confession Gary Stevenson

“I WANT TO TELL YOU a story.” Caleb’s oversized face loomed over the table. Beneath it sat two ramen bowls. One empty, one full. A few stray wisps of steam floated upward, where they danced with his beaming white smile. From where I was sitting, slumped down low in my chair, the two chopsticks jutting upward from my bowl seemed to reach nearly up to his chin. His smile grew. “I used to know a really good trader. A really, really good trader. He used to work for Deutsche Bank. Smart guy. Young. Just like you.” Caleb’s thick forearms were wrapped around his warm, empty bowl, and they pushed down, hard, into the table. His hands were not far from my face now, clasped tightly together. I’ve never forgotten how those fingers looked. Thick, round and pink, like raw sausages. They looked ready to burst. “You know, he was a really good trader, this guy. Made a lot of money. Made a lot of money for himself, made a lot of money for Deutsche Bank. He had a good career ahead of him.”