Nothing

Clark sits at his desk, mindlessly watching the flashing lights on his computer screen. His peers are all clickety-clacking about, placing orders and making executions, as they do every day. More out of habit than anything else. It's what the job requires, they say.

A message pops up on Slack from one of his mentees.

'Anything?'

'Nah.'

What would there be to do, exactly? Clark knows better than anyone that right now is time to do absolutely nothing. Whatever money there was to be made has either already been earned or squandered. Either you made it or you didn't. It didn't make any difference now. Because now is the time for nothing, the most dangerous time of all.

Another slack. 'Gold is such a fucking short, I'm plowing in.'

'I don't see it.'

'It's up so fucking much, totally over bought, it's a complete short.'

'Maybe'

'So you're in?'

'fuck no'

'lol you're a clown'

Another trader, another trade. Good trade, bad trade, Clark knows it makes no difference in the land of nothing.

Of course, nothing doesn't mean there is truly nothing to do. There is always something to do. The screens always flash. Nothing, to Clark, means that there is nothing worth doing. It's a nuanced difference, but it’s one he’s learned over the course of a long and arduous career.

'You think this is the bottom?'

'No'

'I'm gonna take a shot. RVR looks good'

'godspeed'

Finally, Clark thinks to himself, something worth talking about. RVR, risk versus reward, the name of the game. Most amateurs think the game is about being right. That is how the average person gets tricked into speculating on the off chance they nail something.

Professionals like Clark, on the other hand, know that being right or wrong has nothing to do with much of anything. Because no one is right all that often. The game wouldn’t exist otherwise. The key is to maximize your money in those rare instances you’re right, to be really right.

Sometimes there is a lot of RVR, but in times of nothing, there is barely any. That’s what makes it a time for nothing. But Clark knows there’s no explaining that to his young peers.

They are full of piss and vinegar. And caffeine. And cocaine or Adderall or whatever else they’re calling the uppers these days. Clark knows he can’t convince them. They can only learn through their failures. Experience is the only competent teacher any of us ever has.

'What are you thinking for lunch?'

'It's 10:30'

'I'm hungry, walk?'

'Yeah, gimme 5 tho'

Clark remembers when this job was exciting. Sure, there are still pockets now and then, but when you've seen a lot, you've seen a lot. Now he knows he can’t throw the ball downfield on every play. It's a lot more checking down. Most days, he just runs the ball for five yards and calls it a win.

But Clark sees an irony in all this too: once you’re old enough to realize it’s best to do nothing, it gets way harder to do nothing. When you're young, it doesn't really matter what you do. But the responsibilities only go up. The bills only go up.

10 years ago, he did everything. 10 years ago, nothing mattered. Now, it seems as if everything does. It is easier to do nothing now, but it is much harder to stomach. But it is doing nothing that makes the money.

Life is full of oxymorons.

'Ready?'

'Yeah'

Walks were built for times of nothing.