1986

It was 1986 when Flynn first stepped onto the floor. He was a runner, then clerked for people in the options pit. He ran orders in and out for the traders. Made sure their hedges were filled clean. The market hung quiet that day. A lull. Like a breath held.

PZAZ was filling orders. He’d offer to the pit and then make conversation with the clerks behind him. He turned to Flynn. PZAZ’s voice sounded like gravel on the pavement. He said, “They say it all goes to computers someday. All of it. No need for us men. I’ve had my run. Good one. Don’t know who replaces us. Or how. But that’s the word.”

Flynn had walked from a sure job. Fortune 100. Steady pay. To chase this. Trading. He hoped the old man lied. He looked out. Acres of people standing strong like corn in the sun. Men shouting. Arms waving. Bodies pressed. How could a machine replace that?