Lee Geiger

What’s the return policy on 2020?

Lee Geiger

It’s the middle of the afternoon and I’m restless. The stock market is experiencing the mother of all dead-cat bounces thanks to Congress promising that checks are in the mail. To celebrate my 401K emerging from the intensive care unit, I thought I’d escape the quiet confines of Casa de Geiger and treat myself to an In-N-Out burger. But the line of cars snaking through the mall parking lot from the drive-thru must be at least a quarter mile long. I can think of worst places to SIP (shelter in place) than in my own vehicle rocking to Bob Seger while I ponder the delicious decadence of a double-double with fries, but I’m not spending the rest of my precious time away from my igloo staring at a license plate when I can drive right up to a fabulous taqueria and have ready for me in ten minutes a to-go bag containing the best tacos al pastor you’ve ever tasted (outside of Mexico City, of course). I mean, c’mon. Times are challenging, sure, but let’s not lose our sense of reality here.

I cruise home on a freeway completely devoid of traffic, as surrealistic a sight as you’ll ever see in California. It’s like a “Mad Max” movie set. Meanwhile, after rationalizing yet another thousand calorie comfort food meal I needed to ingest in order to deal with the stress of having to sit on my couch, I desperately want/need to hike the nearby Rim Trail, a two-hour excursion that normally keeps my body fresh and my mind sane. But the trail’s entrance is roped off like a crime scene. I guess it’s to keep the deer and wild turkeys from getting sick. I consider my options: I’ve taken two naps today already, I’m not in the mood to open a book, and I can’t seem to bring myself to watch the Golf Channel’s replay of the third round of the 2007 Waste Management Open. I’d rather stick pins in my eyes.

I could open the refrigerator door and see what looks good. Again. Seriously, I need to keep my social distance from the kitchen. The party-size bag of Ruffles in the pantry keeps whispering in my ear like my prom date in high school. I have developed over the past week what can only be described as an unhealthy addiction to potato chips. The same with grapes, Raisin Brand, and oatmeal cookies. The government keeps talking about flattening the curve, but one curve that’s not flattening is the one above my waistline. This is going to get ugly.

I miss my work buddies, more than I would have imagined. I’d give anything right now to deliver to the office a pink box of Johnnie’s Donuts on Friday. I’m like the athlete who retires and years later says the thing he misses most is the locker room. I should know this by now; I’ve “retired” three times from Wall Street, and the thing I’ve always missed most is the trading room banter. There’s nothing else like it. I may need to watch “Wolf of Wall Street” tonight for the hundredth time just to get my fix.

I miss my neighborhood gang, too. The “Moraga Mafia” as I call them, the crusty old dudes I hike and play golf with. It’s like we’ve all suddenly become radioactive. They’re scattered throughout the neighborhood, no doubt scratching their navels like me, wondering when we’ll all be able to get together again for a cocktails and gossip. We stay in touch through texts and emails, but even meeting up on the sidewalk requires a new form of etiquette, a social way of interacting that’s evolving by the day. We’re a pretty tight group, but the idea of “we’re all in this together” rings hollow when you’re hunkered down away from your friends, and the only way to help one another is by staying away. Especially when none of us can agree how far six feet is. What we could really use right now is a “Corona Cop,” someone armed with a measuring tape, hand sanitizer and Clorox wipes, a get-off-my-lawn type who’s not afraid to scream “break it up” to the packs of the teenagers jogging through the neighborhood. I’m just saying.

I’m not afraid of catching the coronavirus or dealing with the effects of COVID-19. I consider myself healthy and in good shape, and I have full faith and trust in my immune system. But what frightens the pants off me is this self-induced economic coma the country has put itself in. It’s like the American economy was humming along nicely in a Formula One racing car when it slammed on the brakes and came to a sudden and unforeseen stop. What happened to make us go from 200 mph to zero in about two seconds? Was it all four tires going flat at once, requiring an able pit crew to rush out and simply replace the tires so we can hit the road again as though there was nothing to see here? Or was it something more tragic and consequential, like crashing head-on into the center divider, flipping the car end-over-end into oncoming traffic? I honestly don’t know the answer, but I’m not betting my retirement savings on the former. Like the Millennium Falcon in Star Wars, the economic breakdown has caused the U.S. Treasury’s printing presses (as well as every other central bank on the planet) to jump into hyperspace, and my greatest fear is that the best way to hedge my portfolio right now might be to cruise over to Home Depot and buy a fleet of wheelbarrows to haul my cash around the next time I need to go to Safeway to buy some toilet paper. Assuming, of course, I can find any.

What’s it going to be like next week? More Groundhog Days, I’m afraid. I also expect to start hearing a plethora of talking heads espousing on a range of cost-benefit analyses showing that the dollar value on a life saved by social distancing is too high to keep the existing restrictions. Especially as the rent comes due at the beginning of the month. As for my daily existence, I have no clue. But there are three words I read this morning on my shampoo bottle that seem to ring too true in today’s crazy world.

Rinse and repeat.