It was 4AM. I had no doubt about that. The clock said as
much.
And who am I to argue with clocks? If ever we cannot trust
them, the country is done for.
But what were those voices? At such at an hour.
The first to speak was a soft, feminine voice, talking to
someone
on the landing outside by door, "It's not the way it used to
be."
"What do you mean," replied the man, in a voice that was
neither
young nor old, with a slight impatience.
"Of course, I don't know why I bother," she went on, "I
don't
think it matters to you anyway."
"What doesn't matter to me," he replied, with growing
restlessness...
"Me!"
"Oh, come on... what are you talking about?"
"I mean, you are not interested in me anymore. All you think
about is your stocks. You and that damned computer! Here it
is, even at a Christmas Party, and all you ever talk about
is stocks! Broadcom. Qualcom. Dot.com. Does every word you
speak and every thought you have have to involve money?"
"You're being silly..."
"No I'm not. It's you who are being silly. And you know why
you spend all your time watching stocks? I'll tell you -
fear! You're afraid of life. You're afraid of me. You
condense all your hopes and aspirations... all your dreams
and fears... into one simple master-passion - making money
in stocks."
"All you care about is making money," she went on. "You're
afraid to care about anything else! Not about me. Not about
Christmas... not about anything. Even now, why you're eager
to get home so you can turn on your computer and see how
much money you've lost today."
"You are exaggerating," he protested, "besides, I think
we're at the bottom. As soon as my stocks come back, I'm
going to sell them all. And I won't worry about them again.
It's just that I've taken a beating recently...and it's not
easy. But that doesn't mean I feel any different about you.
And besides, it's not about money anway...it's about our
future."
This conversation trailed off, as the holiday revelers moved
off to their final destination of the evening - an apartment
near mine.
I went back to sleep. Having failed to profit from the
greatest period of wealth creation of all time, I could
sleep in peace.
And yet... I did feel sorry for them.
***
While this was taking place, Ebenezer received his third and
final visitor of the night.
"I am the ghost of Christmas Yet to Come," said the spirit.
And away they went, the two of them. Ebenezer was scared.
Perhaps he feared the future.
The spirit conducted them beyond a full, bright moon... to
where the moon shone no more. It was as if a tide of night
had washed the stars out of the sky. It was black. And cold.
And then, all of a sudden, a city arose all around them. Its
narrow streets, and very high buildings, reminded Ebenezer
of somewhere. Yes, it was lower Manhattan. The financial
district. It was Wall Street.
On the street, groups of men and women were speaking. But
they had worried, haggard faces.
"What troubles them so, Spirit?" asked Ebenezer of his
guide.
"You must see for yourself," replied the Phantom, and they
drew near a group on the corner of Broad and Wall.
"Amazon...?" asked one, "are you kidding? The bankers got
less than 2 cents on the dollar. Shareholders got nothing.
Not even a scrap of paper to put on their bathroom walls."
"At least the bankers got something," answered another.
"They were lucky."
"Yeah, but who cares?"
"A guy I know cares. He owned the bank stocks."
"You'd think they would have held up better."
"Well, you would have thought a lot of things."
"Well, you would have thought you could've gotten more than
a turkey for a Christmas bonus. I remember last year, I got
a more than $2 million. This year - a turkey."
"Some guys didn't even get that."
"Where are you living now? I heard you moved?"
"Yeah, we moved in with my wife's mother. We had to give up
our apartment."
"What, that place overlooking the park on the West Side?
What'd you do with your last year's bonus... didn't you pay
for the place?"
"No... I took out a mortgage and put my bonus into Qualcom.
It did so well, I remortgaged at 125% and leveraged up."
"Jeez... you must be hurting."
"Nah... it's the bank that's really hurting."
"I'll tell you who's really hurting, one of my customers in
Baltimore. The guy just wouldn't take no for an answer. He
bought the dips. Ha. Ha. Each time the big techs went down,
the guy bought more. The guy died and the banker went to his
place - took everything. Even the sheets off the bed."
Ebenezer couldn't believe his ears.
"What has happened?" he asked the spirit.
The phantom of Christmas Future made no response. Instead,
he stood erect, pointed his finger... and in an instant the
two were standing once again at the little window in East
Baltimore.
"Our time is short," said the spirit.
The two gazed in the window. The scene was not the
boisterous happy one they had seen earlier. Instead, Bob and
his family sat still, quiet - as if a dark shadow had passed
over them and the fire in their hearth had gone out forever.
There, in the corner was a crutch, partially hidden by a
Christmas tree. The tree, though dressed for the season,
failed to tilt the scales toward the gaiety it implied.
Ebenezer noticed something missing.
"Why, where's little Tim," he asked, dreading the answer.
"Tim is no more," said the phantom.
"I have seen enough," said Ebenezer. "No more shadows. I
understand the lesson you are trying to teach. I am not so
dull than I cannot grasp your point. I acknowledge it. Some
losses are real... and more important than money. I will
send Bob and his family a sympathy card."
"Come..." said the spirit. "Your lessons are not complete."
A second later Ebenezer recoiled in terror. They were in a
bedroom, stripped of its curtains, sheets, even the pictures
were off the walls, leaving light patches of wallpaper where
once hung Ebenezer's collection of great artists works of
the mid 20th century. The Pollacks, the Miros, the Warhols -
he hated every one of them... but they were great
investments. More than once, he muttered to himself, "They
ought to pay me to own these things.." But what had become
of them?
And the figure on the bed, the corpse, it was covered only
by a large, plastic garbage bag, so carelessly laid on that
even a gentle breeze would have left the body naked, exposed
to the world as though a ghastly piece of art in a modern
exhibition.
Ebenezer shuddered.
"Why?"
Oh cold, cold, rigid, dreadful Death, set up thine altar
here, and dress it with such terrors as thou hast at thy
command...
Strike, shadow, strike... so that we may see his good deeds
flow from the wound.
No voice pronounced these words. But Ebenezer heard them
anyway.
And then, a moment later, they were in some other place. It
was a cemetery.
"We don't need to come here," said Ebenezer. I know whose
tombstone you will show me. But before we look, answer me
this. Are these shadows of the thing that Will be, or are
they shadows of things that May be only."
The spirit was immovable. His finger beckoned to the
tombstone.
Ebenezer moved forward. He looked. And there it was. His own
name, chiseled in stone.
He fell to his knees, and reached for the spirit's hand. But
spirits are elusive as profits in a bear market. Finding no
hand to comfort him, he formed his own in prayer.
In agony, his voice trembled:
"I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all
the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the
Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I
will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I
may sponge away the writing on this stone."
He blinked, and the spirit was gone. So was the graveyard.
He was back in his bed.
The room was his own. The bed was his own. Best of all, the
Time before him was him own. And his to make amends in!
Oh what a feeling of delight! To be alive! A new day! A new
life! And to understand, for once, what really matters. How
could he have been such a fool, for so many years, in so
many ways? Well, it was too late to think about that...and
no time for it either. This was a time for action. For
something new. "A new era," he said to himself...
...and chuckled to himself. He couldn't remember the sound
of his own chuckle. So he did it again. What an amusing
sound. Chuckle. Chuckle. Ha! What fun.
New era? Yes, this was the real new era. A new era, indeed,
with a new kind of wealth - the only kind that really
mattered.
He was so excited, he fluttered out of bed as though a robin
from its nest.
He rushed to turn on his computer.
"SELL!" His fingers rushed over the letters so fast, the
computer could barely keep up.
"I don't know whether they're going up or down," he laughed
to himself, "but I don't care anymore. I'm free of all this
nonsense forever."
Opening his window, he saw a young boy on the street corner.
"Hey, boy," he shouted.
"Who are you calling boy?" came the resentful reply.
"Oh never mind," said Ebenezer. Times have changed. And he
made up his mind to change with them.
"Oh, my, the markets are closed today," said Ebenezer to
himself. "It's Christmas. Sell? To whom! No one will be
buying or selling stocks today. How wonderful. Everything is
wonderful now.
Bubble, schmubble. I'm going to go see my old friend Bob.
"And get that kid of his properly checked out at Johns
Hopkins. I think Itec may have a new drug that can help
him."
"Hmmm... I should probably buy some stock in Itec. Great
company. And it's been knocked down 50% since last year. Buy
the dips! This could be a big winner when the techs come
back...I could make a fortune on this one.. But who cares!
This is a new era..."
***
I confess, dear reader, that I do not know if the story is
true. I just know that it ought to be true, even if it is
not.
And I know how it ends too. With these immortal lines from
dear Tiny Tim, saved by new technology from Itec:
Merry Christmas. And God bless Us, Every One!
Your friend and faithful servant,
Bill Bonner
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