The Pink Pony of Wall Street
They say she’s the greatest stockbroker to hit Wall Street. Ever.
The Economist is calling her the next Warren Buffett. Businessweek was the first to call her the “Pink Pony of Wall Street.”
Hell, could’ve fooled me.
Firstly, you’d never guess, but she’s an Equestrian. Yeah, like a four-legged bright pink horse with pictures of balloons on her ass and poofier hair than Jimi Hendrix. Sure, Equestrians are all over New York these days. I’m fine with pegasus window washers or unicorn doctors or changeling plumbers. But a pony stockbroker? I’m sorry, but I sure as hell can’t keep a straight face when I see the name “Pinkamena Diane Pie” on the cover of Fortune magazine.
I work in the office next to her. The “Pink Pony of Wall Street’s” office is identical to mine: a 200 square feet, windowless cubicle, with this hideous green shag carpet straight out of the 70s.
It’s bigger than my apartment, though.
That was a joke.
Who am I? Mark Hutchinson, born and raised in the Upper East Side, graduated top of my class in the London School of Economics three years ago, and I’m just trying to make it big as a stockbroker on Wall Street.
I’m just starting out, so my office isn’t much, but I make the most of every square foot. I’ve got my adjustable standing desk, Nespresso machine, four 27” LCD screens to keep an eye on stock prices, a phone with a direct line to the trading floor, an exercise bike, and a minifridge with a few expired sandwiches in case I have to stay late.
I took a peep at Ms. Pie’s office once, while she was using the bathroom. In her 200 square feet, she’s got a gumball machine, a bunch of balloons that she reinflates every week, a disco ball, pictures of Equestria on the wall, and that’s all I managed to see before I heard Ms. Pie voice’s behind me.
“I had a feeeeeling you’d be here, Marky! What’s up!? Do you need something? A lollipop? Or…a stick of bubblegum? If you’re watching your weight, I have the zero-calorie kiiiiiind~!”
After I recovered from the shock—she can be pretty damn frightening sometimes—I readjusted my blazer and tie and I said, “No, Miss Pie, I’m just fine, thank you for the offer.”
Ms. Pie nudged my chest with her hoof, messing up my tie again. “Oh, call me Pinkie. I hate when the magazines use my legal name instead of my nickname. ‘Pinkamena’ just sounds SO not me, don’t you agree? I mean, don’t you just hate it when magazines print your legal name on their cover?”
Gee, I’ll let you know once my name gets on the front page of Fortune.
That’s about the extent of my relationship with Ms. Pie—strictly professional, I assure you. God forbid I become senile enough to be able to stand her scatterbrained, high-pitched yakking.
Sometimes we go out for lunch together. Like most Equestrians, she only eats vegetarian, so we usually get either Indian food or pizza. Y’know how here in New York you only eat pizza with your hands? I wonder if using the tip of your mane to grab a pizza slice is just as sacrilegious as using a knife and fork.
She doesn’t like to talk shop when we eat lunch. She usually asks me about my wife and my two-year-old son, or she talks about any cool TV shows she’s watched. Even after living on Earth for four years, she’s still amazed by how the little pictures move on the screen with a mind of its own.
She’s a good friend, in any case. Last October, before this whole virus thing happened, I came back from a business trip to Hong Kong, and Ms. Pie picked me up from JFK so I didn’t have to call an Uber.
Lord have mercy on the wiseass who allowed Equestrians to drive.
Or maybe it’s just Ms. Pie. Weaving across three lanes on the BQE, illegal right turns, running at least five stop lights. Maybe because she drives a Lamborghini, she thinks she owns the goddamn road. Though I think she’s just hella ditzy. She’s covered the Italian leather seats with this hideous hot pink fabric, and she insisted on blasting music that even my two-year-old son would consider “too childish.”
She told me she was driving fast because she was in a hurry to meet with a client, but that didn’t prevent her from stopping in the middle of the Williamsburg Bridge…to offer me a lollipop.
“Come on Marky, it's my job to make sure you smile! Here, have a lollipop~!” She pulled one out of her poofy Afro. I could see dandruff flakes on the wrapper. But I was so jetlagged that I ate it anyway.
Ms. Pie’s clients are elusive—sometimes I see them go in her office, but they’re surrounded by so many bodyguards that I can’t even see the top of their head.
Well, whatever she asks her clients to invest in, she does a damn good job of it. She occasionally lets a few facts slip during our lunches together. Apparently, the Lamborghini was a thank you gift from a satisfied client—who the hell gives that as a thank you gift!? And then last June, another satisfied client gave her a penthouse on Park Avenue and a summer house in Sag Harbor as a “thank-you” gift. Yes, “AND.”
I’ve asked her for her secret, of course. I mean, she’s got no training in economics, spends her free time eating candy in her office, and she thought the Dow Jones was the name of my next-door neighbor.
She used to tell me, “My secret? I just keep a big smile, trust my hunch, and…most super-posi-tupi-lupive-ly importantly…have FUN~!!!”
Perhaps her clients like her great customer service—I gotta admit, she’s got a way with brightening up your day. She threw a family-friendly Christmas party at her penthouse last year for all the brokers on our floor—I didn’t drink a single drop of alcohol that night and I still had a good time. And that’s pretty damn impressive.
But customer service alone doesn’t make your clients buy you fancy cars and houses as “thank-you” gifts. For a while, I even thought that she was doing really special “favors” for her clients, if you catch my drift. Let’s just say from my office, I’ve heard a whole lot of giggling and squealing on the other side of the partition wall.
It used to be I never truly thought Ms. Pie was a competent stockbroker, you know. I mean, not like I dismiss all the things that Fortune and Businessweek are saying about her. But I still wasn’t convinced that she was the best investor to hit Wall Street.
Until early November, last year.
It was a sunny Thursday, and we were having one of our lunches at an Indian restaurant. We were just about to head back to work.
She wiped her mouth with a napkin, and she just casually said, “If I were you, I’d sell all your shares in Delta Airlines. But keep Amazon.”
And two seconds later, she devoured a whole plate of veggie samosas in one gulp. “Mmm…yummy! Oooh! Is that something floaty~!? Lalalala-laaa…!” And she was running off chasing a ripped garbage bag being carried away by the wind.
I said to myself, “Oh, what the hell” and that afternoon I did what Ms. Pie suggested. My clients were at first pretty mad at me for the “brash” move. But their tone quickly changed when four months later…guess what happened?
Yeah, that’s right. The virus happened, that’s what. The whole tourism industry collapses, while demand for at-home delivery skyrockets, and all the other stockbrokers were self-isolating and watching their stocks tank on their multiple 27” LCD screens.
Meanwhile, Ponka Pink—or whatever the hell she “wants” me to call her—is sitting under the sun in Sag Harbor, probably doing her happy dance under that disco ball that was hanging in her office.
She invited me, my wife, and my son over to her house in Sag Harbor, so that we don’t have to stay in our cramped apartment in the city. It’s still a bit too cold for swimming, but my son loves the indoor slide that she built in the basement.
Yesterday afternoon, while my wife played with my son outside, I sat on a lawn chair next to Ms. Pie, drinking coffee. I asked Ms. Pie the obvious question. “How the hell did you know that the pandemic was going to happen? How do you just…know when to sell and when to buy?”
“Sooo…” she smirked. “You wanna know my real secret?”
“If…if you’re willing to share, Ms. Pie,” I said.
“If you’re willing to stop calling me ‘Ms. Pie,’” she retorted.
“Of course…Pinkie.”
So, she told me her secret.
As a single, run-on sentence.
“Well, the first thing I do is when I wake up in the morning and I have a glass of two percent, not whole but two percent milk with my oatmeal and then I check the clock and if the sun comes up and I feel my tail go all twitchy-witchy, it means the NASDAQ’s gonna be supery-bitchy...”
Forgive me if I can’t recall everything she said. I don’t understand most of it, to be honest. Something about a special sense, a twitchy tail, “achy right shoulder means the market’ll turn over”, and the rest I didn’t catch.
After she finished talking, she made me “Pinkie promise” not to tell anyone. She made me do this weird dance where I punched my eye with my own fist. Perhaps it's some Equestrian version of a non-disclosure agreement. Whatever. Not like I’m worried. Even if I wanted to use Ms. Pie’s secret, I don’t think I’d be able to.
You know, I always wondered why she never moved out of her old 200 square foot office. I never asked her, but I think I know the answer. With her track record, she could be working for some big-name firm by now—but she’s just that good.
She doesn’t need a fancy office or a big corporate empire to be a legendary stockbroker. There’s no one like her. And nothing will ever change that. All she needs is 200 square feet. And a gumball machine. And a disco ball.
Heck, she really is the “Pink Pony of Wall Street.”
Author's Note
Disclaimers:
1) I know very little about the technicalities of the stock market. This is for entertainment purposes and not intended to be an accurate portrayal of the stock market.
2) I am not a medical doctor. Please follow social distancing guidelines from your local health authorities.
3) Pinkie or not, please drive responsibly. 
