Liar's Poker

by Michael Lewis

Here Milken overcame great odds. Loss of concentration, a complete lack of ability to focus, was the chief occupational hazard of the trading floor. Dash Riprock was an excellent and typical case in point. Watching Dash was as disconcerting as watching a music video. There were brief moments, for example, when Dash was glum. On occasion, usually when his business had momentarily waned, he dropped his telephone with a thud and explained to me how one day he planned to quit investment banking and go back to school. He was going to bury himself in a library for a few years, then become a history professor. Or maybe a writer. The idea of Dash locked in quiet contemplation, even for five minutes, struck me as uniquely improbable, and these conversations of ours would end with me trying to say so, and him not listening because he was bored and wanted to change the topic. “I don’t mean I want to study now,” he’d say. “I mean when I’m thirty-five and have a few million dollars in the bank,” as if, after years of jamming bonds, a few million dollars in the bank would make him more likely to pay attention. After three years of bond sales, Dash couldn’t concentrate sufficiently to enjoy a decent period of moodiness. Almost as soon as it had occurred to him to sulk (“Don’t fuck with me, I’m in a bad mad mood,” he’d warn traders), he would have forgotten about it, for somehow, in the throes of his gloom, he’d sell a few hundred million dollars-worth of government bonds, and grow bright...