Everyone Has a Private Life
Everyone has a private life.
Even the big boss who holds the world’s stock markets in the palm of his hand is no exception.
“Hello.”
A coffee shop.
An old man offers a greeting.
As a stock investor, the chill that runs down the spine is pure instinct.
Is he going to shave off a whole percent for me?
There is no sense that he knows the shop owner. He looks like nothing more than an ordinary customer who happened to drop in.
“Hello.”
“S-Senior.”
“I know.”
“That old man, no matter how you look at him…”
A familiar face. Even Sora has caught on. He had realized long ago that this was no mere look-alike.
It can happen.
No need to make a fuss about it. The greeting itself probably had no special reason behind it. American culture—or rather, worldwide culture—says that when eyes meet, you say hello. It is universal.
“What’ll you have?”
“What do you want to drink?”
“Americano.”
“There’s no Americano in America.”
“?”
Korea had been the same until the early 2000s. Urbanization simply made society colder and more distant.
When in America, do as the Americans do.
Coffee is no different. Thinking you will drink an Americano just because you are in America is a mistake.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Drip coffee is the norm. No one pours it by hand; machines do the work.
“Oh~ the aroma is nice.”
“Ordinary Brazil-Colombia blend.”
“Ordinary, you say?”
“Yeah.”
Even so, it is inevitably better than an Americano. An Americano is not real coffee to begin with.
It’s basically military chow.
When the U.S. troops’ drip-coffee supply ran out, they mixed espresso with water because straight espresso was too strong for their taste. That is the origin. In the process the coffee’s original aroma is ruined, so an Americano is simply not suited for enjoying the scent of coffee.
Slurp~
A mouthful goes in. True to a Brazil-Colombia blend, the flavor is popular and mild.
Even if you brew coffee the same way…
Drip coffee and Americano end up at roughly the same strength. But the difference is like homemade soup versus instant soup.
“The lemon muffin and cherry scone are tasty too.”
“They’re decent.”
“First time in an American café and I like it. But this isn’t the time for that!”
A remote place where mountains and fields alike are buried under snow. One cup is more than enough to warm the body in Jackson Hole.
That kind of leisure…
Every traveler dreams of savoring it. The old man at the next table is no different.
“Hmm, the scone crumbles crispy like the Nasdaq.”
Cherry scone. Hard and crumbly on its own, yet it pairs perfectly with a warm drink. He is enjoying it. The old man presumed to be Powell is spending a leisurely tea time.
Everyone wants a little time of their own.
Investors feel it even more. Stare at nothing but numbers and graphs long enough and your sense of reality thins out. Sometimes you have to look at the real world. That is why people travel to nature.
“You came in winter again this year.”
“I like Jackson Hole in winter.”
“Summer has more things to enjoy, though?”
“Summer in Jackson Hole… there’s just so much bothersome business.”
In that sense the place is perfect—pure nature, yet utterly familiar.
It’s almost as if he shows up in Jackson Hole every August.
He chats naturally with the café owner. He seems enough of a regular that he even recommends the menu.
“The ginger cookies came out especially well today.”
“Is the texture good too?”
“Exquisite. I recommend them with confidence.”
“Hope they crumble as nicely as the Nasdaq.”
“HaHa! What a joke.”
He playfully alludes to the Nasdaq’s recent slide. Anyone listening might think he was about to hike rates another hundred basis points.
Tap. Tap.
Sora drums her fingers on the table, her expression urgent, as if she has something she must say.
Craving some Yass?
That insanely hot tattoo. She looks like nothing more than a horny little slut urging him to hurry up and go do it.
“Wanna go pound some cake?”
“No!! Just look for a second…”
He cannot tell whether she is trying to shout or whisper. She points with a fingertip, insisting that the man is definitely Powell. He can understand why she is making such a fuss.
“See? I was right.”
“So what about it?”
“What?”
Recognizing him changes nothing. Are they supposed to march over and pick a fight?
Is she going to cry and wail that her stocks got dumped on her?
People like that are not rare. Not only retail investors—plenty of institutional investors and government officials feel the same way. You cannot so much as bat an eye. You cannot casually move someone who sits at the controls of the world’s stock markets.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“So just do as Oppa says.”
“How?”
“……Like this.”
“Are you crazy!?”
That does not mean it is impossible, either. To ordinary people he may look like a being who lives in the heavens.
In the end he is still just one human being.
Persuasion from a rational standpoint is possible. From a rational standpoint, that is.
“I wish I’d had more sex when I was younger.” — Kenneth Fisher
“A bull market is like sex.” — Warren Buffett
Among the old men of Wall Street, there is not a single one whose insides are not pitch-black. Sora is more than capable of pulling it off.
Thud!
The plan goes into action. The thirsty dig the well; she must have been desperate.
“Excuse me?”
Sora’s hips make the introduction. She perches on the edge of the table and looks at him with a provocative expression.
“What is it, young lady?”
“May I borrow a little of your time? ……Oppa.”
On the surface, at least. In reality she is trembling so hard with shame that the muscles of her face are twisting. An Asian’s change of expression. Whether he fails to notice or simply does not care, he wears a kindly smile.
“I happen to be free.”
“Yes!”
“Was there something about me that caught the young lady’s interest?”
“Ah, well, you see…”
No—he is a man. No matter how solemn and heavy an atmosphere he tries to project,
no man can defy a hard-on.
Biology is biology. If Sora sets her mind to seducing him, results are worth aiming for.
“I’m investing, you see.”
“In what?”
“I’ve been doing a little stocks…”
“Stocks, is it.”
But professional ethics remain. A remark from the Fed Chair carries more weight than a statement from a head of state. That is no exaggeration. Even in private he cannot speak carelessly.
Thud!
A honey trap is what shatters that. She shifts her posture and lets her jeans slip a fraction lower. Sleek hips. On skin as white as porcelain an incongruous, dizzying rose is embroidered.
“Interest rates have gone up so much lately, it’s hard~”
“Hmm… in times like these, putting money into deposits is one option.”
“Aang~ Oppa can just lower the rates for me~”
“Huh… so you know who I am?”
She is different from the completely frozen freshman she once was. Streaming has given her a measure of boldness. Still, what cannot be done cannot be done. A little aegyo is not enough to revise policy.
“When are you going to lower the rates~?”
But Sora does not give up. She deploys her ultimate weapon without reservation. Tits. Wave A5-wagyu-grade flesh in front of a man’s eyes and those eyes will inevitably roll back.
Dirty old man.
He manages his expression, yet his pupils are locked firmly on that spot. The old man is thoroughly enjoying the luxury.
“Sora doesn’t want much. Just a little—just a little softer would be nice.”
“Softer…?”
“If you don’t make it soft, I don’t like it.”
She forces his full attention. Slender fingers gently cup the old man’s wrinkled face. His gaze is fixed. Every time she speaks, the lettering inked across her chest sways; the distraction must be killing him.
“You’re a playful young lady.”
“Just one rate cut, huh? Huh?”
“Regrettably, even if a pretty young lady asks, it is impossible.”
“Aang!”
Sora is desperate. The fact that she is putting on aegyo she never uses in ordinary life tells him everything about the state of her account.
She must have gotten dumped on pretty hard.
Even so, professional consciousness comes first. He is a stubborn old man who draws a hard line between public and private. Even after she has thrown away her pride, it seems the attempt will end without result—
“I understand the young lady’s feelings.”
“Ugh…”
“Still, inflation is showing a little progress, and the rate hikes will stop someday, so I hope you don’t worry too much.”
“You’re mean.”
A young lady underwater on her stocks. She must have looked cute to him. He soothes her with a sweet, gentle tone—words he would never utter on an official stage. He had thought it meaningless, yet—
Huh? “A little”?
It was not entirely without meaning.
Inflation.
Raising rates alone does not catch it.
There really are young ladies like that in the world.
You have to break people’s psychology. Make them feel that prices will not keep rising. What is required for that is fear in the market—make them believe the future is uncertain.
I’m sorry about that hot young lady.
That is why he has been delivering hawkish speeches lately. He takes a hard line with the market—harder than he actually feels. In truth he is already thinking of ending the rate hikes soon. Inflation is being reined in little by little; the data that suggest as much keep arriving. The speeches are only for scaring people.
Soothing her had not been mere comfort.
I hope she doesn’t cut her losses in a panic and take unnecessary damage.
She had been a cute young lady. She had a fiery side as well; his heart had fluttered for the first time in a long while. If he were thirty years—no, even twenty years—younger, he might have entertained a slightly different thought. But that is not a position he can afford. Powell pats himself on the back for the successful mind control, yet—
Ah, wait. Did I say “a little”?
It meant he had seen a little progress—one step more dovish than the language in his prepared speech. If he had used that phrasing on the podium it would have been a colossal mistake. Wall Street would have noticed instantly. That hot young lady, of course, never could.
Powell simply savors the pleasant memory once more.