Kapitoil_ A Novel Part 5

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: OCTOBER 24.

On Friday morning I greet Rebecca, and she tells me again that she had a good time last night. Dan enters, and she says, "Time to put our noses to the grindstone."

At 9:00 a.m. Kapitoil predicts the price of oil will rise 6 cents. I buy a contract. Kapitoil looks similar to other programs I am running, so my podmates do not know what I am doing.

At 10:00 a.m. the price of oil is up 4 cents. I sell the contract and we profit.

I immediately run Kapitoil again and put more weight on articles written in the last 90 minutes. It has a new prediction: down 3 cents. I short a contract.

At 11:30 oil is down 4 cents and we again profit.

I email Mr. Ray that we have made two consecutive profits on the hourly transactions. He green-lights me to continue until 5:15 p.m.

I make five more transactions during the day and profit on all of them. At closing time we have made 1.6% profit even though the ending price is only a few cents higher than the original price.

I decipher the reason it was malfunctioning. With the historical data, the program used newspaper articles written through the entire day and averaged them collectively to predict the closing price, but in practice I was using articles published in the morning. It was a foolish but understandable error: When you initially succeed without resistance, you sometimes overlook serious problems that may appear later. When people face challenges, however, they innovate more, e.g., in the way that the mother of a poorer family may produce a complete dinner out of minimal and inexpensive ingredients.

I can now revise the program's potential. Because the market can vacillate approximately 0.5% every hour, if Kapitoil operates at full efficiency, it can achieve up to 4.0% daily average profits during standard business hours. Over four weeks, a.s.suming maximum vacillation and optimal predictive ability, this equals profits of 219%.

Mr. Ray emails me at 5:30 p.m.: Nice work today. Finesse the program some more over the weekend, and let's do it again on Monday. I'll replace the 100K in your account.

Mr. Ray does not seem like the cla.s.s of higher-up who frequently provides compliments, so for him to write "Nice work today" means very much to me. I almost forward his email to Zahira, but I do not want her to know about the program, both because (1) (1) it may still not function and I do not want her to think I am a failure, as she considers me the smartest person she knows, even though I believe she is probably smarter than I am, which normally bothers me but not when it is Zahira, and it may still not function and I do not want her to think I am a failure, as she considers me the smartest person she knows, even though I believe she is probably smarter than I am, which normally bothers me but not when it is Zahira, and (2) (2) Kapitoil must remain highly privileged information. Kapitoil must remain highly privileged information.

After Dan and Jefferson leave, Rebecca puts on her blue wool hat and coat. "You up to anything fun this weekend?" she asks.

I will be refining Kapitoil to operate at full efficiency, but I cannot tell her that. I also do not want to lie 100%, so I say, "I will be laboring on some projects."

She crashes her hand against her head as if we are in the military. "At ease, then."

Over the weekend I finesse Kapitoil. I am focused, but several times on Sat.u.r.day night I wonder what Rebecca is doing, e.g., is she at an event, is she with friends, or is she alone like I am.

finesse = labor on for enhancementput one's nose to the grindstone = labor intensively

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: OCTOBER 25.

On Monday morning Kapitoil continues generating hourly profits. By noon, out of a possible 2.1% profit based on how much the oil futures have vacillated per hour, we have made a 1.7% profit, which is not full efficiency but is still robust.

Mr. Ray emails me: Meet me in the conference room on 89 at 1:30.

Possibly he has reconsidered that Kapitoil might still be too risky. There are rumors that layoffs will soon occur, and maybe they do not have the money to continue high-risk programs like mine.

Or possibly they do not even have the money to retain me as an employee.

I omit lunch because my stomach is turbulent, as it frequently becomes when I am anxious, and do not run Kapitoil at noon, because I do not want it to lose money suddenly and give Mr. Ray more reason to kill it.

At 1:30 I knock on the door of the conference room. Mr. Ray says "Come in" from inside, and I open the door.

He is sitting, and at the head of the table is an older man. He has tan skin and black and white hair, and his nose slightly curves down like a vertical asymptote. His suit is gray and blue and his tie is dark red like blood that has dried.

It is Mr. Schrub.

"Karim," he says. He stands and extends to a few inches taller than I am. "Glad to meet you."

I am afraid to look into his eyes as we shake hands, so I look at his red tie. "It is my honor to meet you, Mr. Schrub."

Mr. Schrub puts out his arm to signal his permission to sit down opposite Mr. Ray.

"George tells me," he says, "that you can see the future."

I look at Mr. Ray for help, but he is not looking back at me. "The program has been successful so far at predicting pricing variance," I say.

"What's the 1,000-mile view on this thing?"

"I am unfamiliar with that term," I say.

"What are its long-term prospects?" he says.

"It is employing a market signal from news reports, and it should function for the duration of that signal's strength," I say, and I am no longer nervous because I am in the intersected world of programming and finance. "But if the signal converts a great amount, I will have to write a 100% new program, and that new program might not function as efficiently." Because I am uncertain if he he is familiar with is familiar with these these terms, I translate them to a sports a.n.a.log: "It is parallel to predicting the strategy of a racquetball opponent. If you compete against him for a long time, you can predict his strategies. But if you receive a new opponent, you have to adopt new tactics because your old predictions will be obsolete." terms, I translate them to a sports a.n.a.log: "It is parallel to predicting the strategy of a racquetball opponent. If you compete against him for a long time, you can predict his strategies. But if you receive a new opponent, you have to adopt new tactics because your old predictions will be obsolete."

He smiles, possibly because he does understand the jargon terms and does not require the racquetball a.n.a.log. "Is there a chance our compet.i.tors could catch on to what we're doing?"

"If we continue making anonymous desk transactions through offsh.o.r.e holdings and keep them frequent but minimal, then no one will know it is Schrub, and therefore our market entry will not cause fluctuations in the market," I say. "We can still make strong profits, as long as we practice restraint."

Mr. Schrub taps his fingers on the desk. It makes a loud sound in the large room. Then he says, "I'll level with you, Karim. We took a big hit in the fourth quarter. We bet the lion's share of our capital that the bubble would finally burst, but it didn't, and it burned us. Now we need to rebound, and from what George has told me, Kapitoil might be the way. So, as long as it keeps returning profits, we're going to plough a lot of money into your program."

I knew from released reports that Schrub suffered losses in the fourth quarter, but I a.s.sumed they had rebounded since then. If Mr. Schrub wants to plough money into my program after it has worked for just 1.5 days, then they must truly be in the red and not have other options.

Mr. Ray says, "You'll receive a raise and promotion."

"Therefore I would not be working on the Y2K project?" I ask.

"No. We want you working full-time on Kapitoil, doing everything you can to keep it humming."

"I do not think we should tell my coworkers about this," I say.

Mr. Ray says, "Absolutely. We can't let on what you're doing. We'll just say you're working on futures."

"Speaking of which, how is the program protected?" Mr. Schrub asks.

"I have formally copyrighted it in my name, although I am not patenting the software, as that would force us to disclose its contents to the public," I say. "And it is encrypted, so only I can enter into the code."

"Good. Let's keep it that way," he says. "I know you two are very busy, so I'll let you get back to your work," he adds, although of course he is much busier than we are, but it signifies control if you give permission for the other person to exit the conversation, e.g., Jefferson always ends personal calls by saying "I'll let you go."

He shakes my hand again, and his grip is strong but not too strong like some businessmen's grips are to prove they are powerful. "A pleasure meeting you, Karim. I'm sure we'll see each other again." He looks closely at my left eye, and this time I do not allow myself to look away, although my blood simultaneously seems to stop and accelerate in my veins.

Then he leaves, and Mr. Ray and I discuss technical issues and how to enable him to utilize the program as well, and he terminates by saying, "Why don't you finish up the Y2K work you've been doing over the next few days, and then I'll let your podmates know we're transferring you to another project next week."

This is positive news, as I was truly non-stimulated by the Y2K project, but I feel bad about abandoning my podmates, especially Rebecca. But Rebecca also seems careless about which project she works on and is not envious of others, so maybe she will be happy for me.

When I return to my pod, people are whispering to each other and scanning the room. Rebecca explains to me that Mr. Schrub was just in the building. "He only comes in a few times a year, so it's a big deal," she says. "I'm having trouble containing my excitement. It's like Christmas morning on floor 88." She stops smiling and returns to her work and adds, "Or something like that."

Near the end of the day, Jefferson and Dan discuss their plans to go to a nightclub. Jefferson asks me, "Karim, you want to come with?"

Although it is a Monday night and this is when I should be finessing Kapitoil even more, this may be my solitary chance. I can feel Rebecca listening to me even though she is pretending to focus on her computer, and I want to suggest that she should attend as well, but it is not my place to do so. "I would be delighted to come with," I say.

At 6:30 p.m. they are ready to leave, and I say good-bye to Rebecca, who is staying late. Without looking up from coding, she says, "Have a blast, Karim."

We taxi to Jefferson's apartment near Rockefeller Center and Radio City Music Hall. It is the first taxi I have taken here, and the driver is African, although I am afraid to ask what country he is from, and I think of Barron, as the only two people who have driven me in a car here are black men. When we arrive I retrieve my wallet, but Dan says, "Don't sweat it," and he and Jefferson divide the cost.

Jefferson's building is cla.s.sy, but not as cla.s.sy as mine (e.g., he does not have a doorman), so I feel bad about not paying for the taxi. His apartment structure is similar to mine inside, although it is smaller and the furniture is less expensive. He has posters in frames on his wall of some of the movies he has on postcards in his pod, as well as a painting of an obsolete j.a.panese soldier with a sword on a horse. Over the television on the wall is a true silver sword that curves at the ends.

Jefferson has a record player but not a CD player, and he cautiously removes a record from its case and centers it on the player as if he is carrying an infant. I hear a saxophone. Dan says, "Can we please play some rap for once?"

"When we go to your place, we can listen to your commercialized, Top-40, disposable MTV garbage. And if you had any sense of history, you'd know nearly all rap derives from jazz," Jefferson says. "In this day and age, your ignorance of the oppression my brothers and I suffered at the hands of the white man is unconscionable and, frankly, straight-up racist. I'd think you'd sympathize, as a dirty Jew."

I look to see if Dan responds to the fact that Jefferson called him an ethnic insult and also that he called himself black, but he merely smiles and remains on the couch.

Then Jefferson powers on his DVD and television and inserts a movie and plays it mutely. It is in j.a.panese, and it is about another obsolete soldier in a dark blue uniform in an area of j.a.pan he does not know who carries only a magical sword for protection.

Jefferson retrieves a takeout menu from his small kitchen area and withdraws three Sapporo beers from his refrigerator. He drops the menu on his coffee table, next to four separate stacks of The New Yorker The New Yorker and and The Economist The Economist and and Architectural Digest Architectural Digest and and Gourmet Gourmet magazines. magazines.

"I'm gonna s.h.i.t-shower-shave," he says before he exits the room. "Order the sushi boat for three, some Asahis, and get the sea urchin with quail eggs. Say it's for me, and they'll add this goma-shio sesame salt that doesn't condescend to gaijin palates."

I do not understand why he orders additional beer if we have more Sapporo here, but I remain mute and watch as the j.a.panese soldier travels independently on a country road through a snowstorm and fights a team of men who launch a surprise attack.

After Dan orders, he asks how I like my job. I do not want to indicate that I am soon advancing, so I say, "It is enjoyable."

He laughs. "Very diplomatic. You can admit it's beneath you-I won't rat you out."

I get up and examine the sword so he reroutes the conversation. "I wouldn't touch that," Dan says. "It's from the 18th century, and Jefferson has an aneurysm if anyone breathes on it." He puts his fingers over the b.u.t.tons on the remote control without pressing any of them. "He can be kind of a c.o.c.ksucker sometimes."

When the j.a.panese deliveryman with an earring in his left ear arrives, Dan and Jefferson do not let me pay for the food. I eat the sushi that is vegetarian, and it is flavorful, but too expensive if it's mostly rice. I also drink three beers total and Dan and Jefferson drink more as we watch the movie. We leave before we can finish it, which disappoints me, because the soldier's enemy has just stolen the magical sword from him and I am curious to see if he can recover it.

When I stand up my head feels filled with helium. Possibly it is because I just watched the j.a.panese soldier, but I also feel that I could defend myself against a team of attackers, and although of course I do not say it, that I am the cream of the cream programmer at Schrub and have won Mr. Schrub's confidence after just three weeks.

We taxi again, even though the address is on 20th St. and 5th Ave. and the subway is probably faster. "You're our guest, Karim. You should never have to touch your wallet," Jefferson says when I try to pay. "It's the j.a.panese way." He asks for a receipt and winks at me. "Besides, we'll expense it."

We walk to a cathedral on the corner of the street, and when we turn the corner, many young people are on line behind a velvet rope to enter it. My clothing is not as s.e.xy as anyone else's and they will see that I do not belong here, and my body vibrates even though it is not very cold, but I am glad I am with Dan and especially Jefferson, who does look like he belongs, even though he is the shortest man on line. He bypa.s.ses the line and talks to the guard at the front, who is a very large black man in a green coat that looks like it is inflated with air, and points on a piece of paper the guard holds. In a minute he waves for us to join him.

Jefferson leads us inside the tall wood doors. It is a true former cathedral. I cannot see well and it is warm and smells like alcohol blended with perspiration and I do not know what song is playing, but it has a robust drumbeat that pains my ears. Next to the stained gla.s.s windows are paintings of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary, and attached to the wall in the back of the dance floor is a ten-foot cross with toggling lightbulbs around its edges.

Jefferson finds another man he knows approximately our age with blond hair spiked like an electrocardiogram. They both put out their right hands in a cla.s.s of handshake and they touch the other person's back with their left hands as if they are hugging slightly.

The man extends his hand to me like he did with Jefferson, and I do the same handshake/hug. "I am Karim," I say. "Glad to meet you."

"Andy Tweedy," he says, although he is already looking at Jefferson. "What are you guys drinking?"

Jefferson says, "Screwdrivers."

Andy stops a waitress who wears a minimal skirt in a green and red pattern with long socks that reveal her upper legs and a white shirt with a collar that reveals her stomach. "Set them up with a VIP table and bottles for 'Nailed to the Cross,'" he says.

The waitress leads us through the main floor, which has bright blue lights and some people dancing, although not many yet. We ascend some steps, and many people observe us as we elevate above them. A muscular white guard in a priest's costume detaches another rope for us. I have never accessed a highly privileged place like this before, and now I am vibrating not because I am nervous but because I am so stimulated.

On the second floor she takes us to a small table that overviews the dance floor and has a cushioned red bench around it. Most of the other tables on this small second floor are also occupied, usually with several men and sometimes a few females also with the men.

Before the waitress leaves she smiles at Jefferson, because he is the most handsome of us and looks like the chief member of our cl.u.s.ter, except that his ears angle out like satellites. We sit down, and Dan rests his legs on the barrier over the dance floor. "Congrats, Karim. You're a Very Important Person now," Dan says.

And I do feel VI.

Jefferson stands up and scans the floor. "I f.u.c.king detest this place," he says. "Up to our ears in Maries and Joeys fresh off the LIRR."

The waitress returns with a tray that has one bottle of vodka inside a bucket of ice, a bottle of orange juice, and three gla.s.ses. She angles over to pour the vodka in our gla.s.ses and displays her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, which are very tan and three-dimensional in a way I have seen exclusively on television or in pictures.

Jefferson asks her for extra gla.s.ses, and after she leaves Dan mixes us drinks and says, "She can get it, Smithy. You're a machine."

"Not my type. You can take her."

"Out of my league."

"Don't talk that way, sweetheart. She's just pumped full of silicone and teeth whitener. And that's a self-fulfilling prophecy. Look at me. I'm a G.o.dd.a.m.n dwarf. But at the end of the day, it's all about confidence. People are waiting for someone else to lead them." Jefferson is also more confident in the office, and he makes a better impression on coworkers than Dan does, who often avoids looking people in the eye and shakes hands weakly and speaks quietly to anyone outside of our pod. "And so what if she rejects you? If you want to increase your success rate, double your failure rate." He looks closely at Dan and decelerates his words and points his index finger on each syllable. "If you believe it, you can achieve it. Put that on your wall in the f.u.c.king pod."

He raises his gla.s.s and says, "To Dan the ladies' man," and Dan says, "Don't mock me, I'm not in the mood," and Jefferson says, "I'm not mocking you. Women have wet dreams about rich guys your height," and then we all crash our gla.s.ses and drink, and Jefferson and Dan guzzle theirs rapidly, so I guzzle mine, and then Jefferson kisses Dan on the cheek and calls him a "handsome b.a.s.t.a.r.d." The drink is robust and difficult to swallow, but when I finish it Dan mixes me another one, which is easier to consume, and I again have a mental image of myself as the j.a.panese soldier.

They observe the dance floor and a.s.sign ratings to different females from 1 to 10. They say an overweight female is "the worst" and is "four 40s deep," and rate her a 1, which means 110 is a poor scale, because it a.s.signs a point even when someone is "the worst" and there exists only a 9-point total range.

A friend joins the overweight female, and she is additionally overweight, and Dan says she's "even nastier" and also a.s.signs her a 1, even though if she is in fact inferior, then she should receive less than 1 (or the first female's rating should retroactively rise slightly). This is why the Y2K bug is happening: Humans usually do not antic.i.p.ate what comes next after what initially seems to be the limit, so they programmed their computers to function up to the year 1999 and not 2000. Even Jefferson and Dan, who are resolving this problem nonstop, did not consider the maximum-limit issue in this context. But possibly it is because they have been drinking alcohol, and also they are not the most considerate people.

Then Jefferson stands at the railing and points to an Asian female on the floor he has just rated a 9.3. She looks and he holds up the vodka bottle. She shakes her head, but he takes the bottle downstairs with him and refills her gla.s.s and the gla.s.ses of her two friends who are also Asian. After they talk for a few minutes he leads them upstairs. He introduces them to Dan, who he says is a vice president at Schrub. He puts his arm around me. "And this is Karim. He's from an oil family in Qatar, and is here on vacation."

The female sitting next to me is named Angela Park. Her arms are thin and elongated like pencils and she wears purple makeup above her eyes. She says she is in public relations for a fashion company. "It must be great not to have to work for a living," she says.

I wish Jefferson did not say this, because now I have to maintain the lie, which I only do because not lying would damage his reputation. "It is relaxing," I say.

Angela receives a call on her cellular, and I whisper to Jefferson, "Why did you say I am from an oil family?"