Shadows are always dark.
**********
Blame it on Newton: For every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction. Took him three laws to infer that every action is a gamble. He never even suggested a hedge. Chew on that for a while.
The thought bounced around in my dream like a marble in a tin can. The Law of Probabilities points to the double pepperoni pizza as my fall from grace. Before the rooster crows twice, an Alka-Seltzer aperitif hedges the bet.
A hedge is simply a means of protection from the loss of something that’s valuable: Life, limb, property, love, reputation, health, wealth, souls and such as that. We craft them instinctively, even without realizing it.
But now, I need coffee. Without it, the abyss is not a mirage. A brain thusly deprived is riskier than roulette. Caffeine hedges against utter ruin.
Mr. Verizon, my umbilical wireless, slides easily into the back pocket of my jeans. I stumble inside Starbucks. A double espresso improves all odds.
The cell rings. I fumble to retrieve it, the coffee spills and a little kid in the corner laughs, “Mommy, look, that man’s rump is ringing.” Conversations cease, people stare. A stupid grin is my hedge against embarrassment. It fails.
I answer. “Hello?” It’s Billy. Thanks, Mr. Newton, for the warning.
He starts right in. “Empty your piggy bank, man; I’ve got a sure-fire deal for us this time. I guarantee we’ll be on easy street forever.” Mr. Verizon quivers in its case.
“Back it down, brother. There’s no guarantee in life, especially not one of yours. Life is a gamble with incredible odds; if it was a bet, no one would take it. You’re leaning on a weak reed for a hedge.”
“Rubbish,” he replies. “Money’s my hedge.”
“Well, your last money-loser mortally wounded my wallet. I was dumb. No cell app can convert Sinatra tunes to bluegrass. Long on glitz, brother, but short on grits. Now what, a rutabaga pie franchise?”
“Gimme a break. This one’s a sure-fire winner…I’ll bet my pickup on it.”
Zing ~ he hedges the bet with a linguistic qualifier. But then that’s Billy, always doubling-down.
“OK, John D. Napoleon. I’m listening.”
“Sit down. This will blow your hair back, literally. I just bought the exclusive distributorship for the BugMaster Leaf Blower.”
“Too early for jokes, B. P. Morgan. My ears are open, but my bank is still closed.” I slide in ‘but’ for my own verbal hedge.
“It’s a leaf blower with a muffler, so quiet you won’t even know the yard crew is there. Plus, now get this; it sucks bugs while it blows leaves. It’s like a large insectivorous machine, sorta like a mechanical Venus fly trap. It ingests mosquitoes and insects and composts them instantly into fertilizer. Pure genius, huh?”
>“Creative,” I admit. “How’d you come by this novelty?”
“By accident, like most things. Anyway, a lawn mower mechanic in Ludowici came across the idea in his garage and developed a prototype. He ran into a snag with compliance regs from the Noise Proliferation Act and got crossways with the Bug Preservation Society.”
Accidents are hard to hedge against, I think. “How did he compost those formidable opponents of common sense?”
“Cost him plenty, for sure. He hired Squeezem and Fleece, the for-the-people law firm in Savannah. They picked his bones, then sold the carcass to a bucket shop hedge fund in New Jersey: Gold, Silver and Frankincense, Inc. Listen, Wall Street’s the answer to everything, man.”
“How so?” I ask.
“They did an IPO, created bonds, securitized them and monetized the package with a derivative hedge. The public ate it up. Sold out in minutes, blew the doors off Wall Street. Trust me, we’ll make millions. You’ll be the Croesus of the Coast, wealthy beyond measure. How about it, partner?”
“Whoa, Colonel Manna, scratch the partner concept. You go ahead and join the Midas Americanus herd of millionaires, let me enjoy my coffee.”
“You’ll be sorry. If my plan pans out, you could be living in Palm Beach next year.”
Enough is enough. “So long, Billy. Good luck.” It’s always ‘if’ with Billy.
The coffee clears my brain. Somebody once said: “If life weren’t so serious, it would be a joke.” Which will it be today?
For me, I’m gambling with a sure-fire bromide: Laughing more and praying longer…and betting that the Seeking Shepherd is peering over the hedge and hears my bleating. It’s the best hedge we can get this side of the Styx.
**********
Shadows are always dark.
Bud Hearn
April 28, 2017
(Thanks to O. Henry for some insight.)