all day long people are out there on robinhood chain buying and selling meme coins, in and out, in and out, thousands of them an hour. every single one of those trades leaves a small fee on the counter, and i am the old man at the window who picks it up. nobody ever notices me doing it, which suits me fine.
that fee buys stock. real stock, the boring kind, the kind your uncle bought in 1986 and then forgot about for thirty years and accidentally got rich. it goes straight into the drawer and it stays there — not when it dips, not when the chat is screaming, not when a man in a good suit on television says that this time is different.
you hold the coin, your seniority accrues, and everything the drawer collects goes back out as dividends to the people who were still standing there. the longer you stayed, the bigger your share of it. that is the whole arrangement and i have not changed a line of it in forty years.
four steps. it has been four steps since before the computers, and nobody has managed to talk me into a fifth one.
somebody somewhere on the chain buys a meme coin, as they do, constantly. a little piece of that trade gets peeled off at the window and written into the book by hand. it is not a large piece. it is just a very consistent one.
that piece buys stock and the stock goes into the drawer. the drawer has one direction, which is in. i lost the key to the other direction in 1994 and i have not looked very hard for it.
while you hold, your seniority accrues. it accrues on weekends, it accrues on holidays, it accrues while you sleep. it stops the minute you walk out, and it starts over from zero when you come back.
what the drawer collects goes back out to whoever is still standing there, and the bigger your seniority the bigger your share of it. the people who left get a very polite letter and nothing else.
this is the job. the paperwork comes up to the window, you read it, and you bring down the right stamp before the clerk behind you starts sighing. the right stamp is always HOLD. that does not make it as easy as it sounds.
book opened. pen located. nothing filed yet.
one folder opens for every year you survive. you can also just stand there and look at the drawer, but it will not open itself, it never has.

they gave me a stool, a blue stamp and a book with nothing in it. the man who trained me said the job is easy, you just never sell, and then he retired at lunchtime and i never saw him again.

one for ten years, one for twenty, one for thirty, and one they gave me because the man from the office felt awkward showing up empty-handed. none of them are for making a clever trade. they are all for sitting still.

he came in through the back door in february and filed himself under my knees. he has no seniority and no position and he gets paid in the same stock as everyone else, which he has never once complained about.
forty years of service, one stamp, no sales. the drawer is full and it still does not open. go and sit down, you have earned the chair.