Who pays the price for the naked short sellers profits?
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The neighborhood is an older one, quiet, a little worn around the edges, but conveniently located. Las Vegas had grown a lot over the years, and this neighborhood had been spared much of the rampant sprawl that characterized the outlying areas of the city.
A woman, older, but still vital, makes her way out to her car, ready to depart for her part-time job at one of the casinos.
“It isn’t so bad,” she insists with a tone of quiet dignity – “you get to see the shows, and it pays more than minimum wage. I get by. I do alright.”
Widowed, Joyce N’s time is her own. But for all the pragmatism, she admits that this isn’t the retirement she’d planned out for herself. She’d imagined going on cruises, playing a little golf, maybe a nice restaurant now and again. As she thinks about what it could have been like, her face clouds for a moment, and then takes on a look of determination mixed with resignation.
“It’s not so bad,” she says again.
She’d worked hard all her life, and had invested pretty wisely, or so she’d thought. Starting out with a financial services firm in the early 70’s,
she’d actually become a stockbroker, and had built up a reasonable clientele of like-minded women who took their financial futures seriously.
But at some point, maybe during the late 80’s, the business had changed, or maybe she’d just been at it for too long, and she’d lost her taste for it. All she knew was that she was tired of the market, tired of working very long, hard hours, tired of the sacrifices that it demanded.
And then her husband had gotten sick. Caring for him had occupied a lot of her time, and as his condition had worsened, she’d left the brokerage to attend to his needs. Inevitably nature took its harsh course, and he passed away, changing her life forever in the process.
She never went back to work.
A meager pension was supplemented by her investments – conservative for the most part, but with a certain portion of her portfolio devoted to growth. She was a professional, so she thought she understood the rules of the game, and with hard work and some moxy, she figured she could use her knowledge to build a future with her savings.
Everything went pretty well, and then she made a devastating mistake. She had the misfortune to invest in several smaller companies that were at the forefront of their fields, and should have left her comfortable in her later years. Instead, they left her seriously impaired.
One of the companies was Nanopierce Technologies. She had carefully, painstakingly done the research, and had learned all about their prospects and their promising future. And ultimately had decided to make a larger than usual investment as she felt, based on her years in the market, that it was a “can’t lose” proposition. Smart, honest management, breakthrough technology, momentum, strategic partnerships – this had the makings of a profitable long term investment.
But Joyce hadn’t factored in a newer type of player in the game, something that hadn’t been part of the mainstream when she’d been in the business. That mistake cost her everything she invested. And it happened with the relentless momentum of a runaway train, leaving her shocked, and angry, and broke.
“I had bought a lot of the stock when it was at $2 and $3, and then over a period of maybe six months it went to under 50 cents. And then under 25 cents. And I couldn’t understand why, where all the shares were coming from, who would be selling when everything was going so well for them.”
She pauses, looks bleakly at the horizon, then smiles.
“It finally got to the point where it just wasn’t worth it to sell anymore – I’d already lost 95 cents on the dollar. I didn’t think this kind of thing could happen in America, but I’ve learned an important lesson. The market isn’t fair, and it isn’t safe, and there’s nobody looking out for you. Nobody is prosecuting the thieves that stole my money from me. Nobody cares.”
She cracks open her car door, considers her watch, registers that she’s now running late – she needs to be on time, can’t afford to lose her job or have a reprimand on her record. Traffic in Vegas can be pretty terrible at times. She has to go.
“It’s not so…listen…really. Some times are just harder than others. But what’re my choices? Hey, I..I really have to get going. Thanks for listening.” She slams her door, starts the tired sounding engine, cautiously puts the car into gear.
Another day, another sad story, another casualty who’d learned a harsh truth about the system and its workings. The irony is that Joyce isn’t a gambler, doesn’t roll the dice, doesn’t really have a taste for the blinking lights or the ringing bells – and yet that’s where she spends 4 to 6 hours a day, on her feet, doing what she has to do.
Still.
It’s not so bad.
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