Dinner with Friends

Magilla Gorman arrived late to Girls Night Out, and slid his very large frame into the booth. That was okay because they always left one of the end seats of the booth open for him, seeing as how Magillla was claustrophobic. How bad? The eminent psychiatrist, the best in Geyserville had asked him that, explaining that with the new phobia cures you can get over almost anything. Magilla told him he couldn’t wear a coat in the car, even unzipped. The psychiatrist, as Magilla told it, lowered his voice to a semi-hypnotically suggestive whisper, and said, “Just stay away from closed-in spaces and it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Girls Night Out was a mixed group of friends who met every Friday night in the largest booth in The Rex, not just the best retro restaurant in that part of California, but the only one with juke boxes and comfortable red upholstery. Some worked in Silicone Valley, but they were all sons and daughters of ranchers or vintners near the Russian River, and they were all attached to the area. To add to the attraction of The Rex, there were no corkage fees on Friday, so the group could take turns bringing wine, and it was the turn of Magilla and Verity. Magilla cocked an ear. “That’s Home on the Range" in Italian. Why are we listening to that?”

Verity answered right away. “Ulysses has a crazy idea. I put this on to change the mood. Why are you late? Now he’ll want to tell it all again.”

Magilla explained, “My boss was goin’ on and on about the markets. He would not shut up. I thought I’d smack him if he didn’t finish so I could get here, but finally he ran out of wind.”

Penelope looked worried. “You didn’t smack him for real, did you Magilla? Because that’d be wrong. That’d be karma. You’d have to go to anger management classes, y’know.”

“Sweet Penelope, I did not. Just like you say, ‘Forbearance and temperate tolerance are our companions on the path to peace,’” and they both smiled broadly. “But what’s with you Ulysses?”

Haiku Helen fiddled with her Fitbit and offered some impromptu verse, “With well practiced fist / Gorillas can smack smartly / But then who is the fool?”

“Well put, Helen,” Penelope enthused over the pacifist sentiment.

Ulysses T. Grant squirmed with excitement. “Don’t you see?” he began. It’s not just me, it’s Magilla’s boss too.” Verity groaned. She whipped out a quarter and put it in the machine. After a moment it boomed out, ‘Went home with a waitress…’ most of the table nodded their approval.

Ulysses continued, “It’s gonna crash—bigtime like in ’29!”

Magilla narrowed his eyes. Ulysses wasn’t stupid. A twitchy trader maybe, but not stupid. “Two questions: when, and how do you know?”

Ulysses answered, “Sunday night our time, Monday morning in Japan.”

“And you know this…”

“Because of the Elliott Waves and the owl!” the trader’s voice was shrill.

Rhyming Roger made a palms-down gesture, “Dial it back a tad, Dad. You’re buggin’ Verity, this is a rarity, and this ai’n’t no hilarity.”

Phlegmatic Phyllis, the group’s mathematician, narrowed her nut brown eyes and inserted a remark. “You’ve got the Elliot Wave analysis wrong, there are only five waves.”

Ulysses was insistent. “There can be a sixth wave, and when there is, it’s the big one.” He pulled out his smart phone. “Take a look. I’ve already shown the others. Here!”

Magilla took the phone. He saw some peaks that looked like radio static, then an abrupt slide down. Calmly, he handed the phone back.

Phyllis showed her impatience. “The big one Ulysses, and you know this, is the term we reserve for the Mother of All Earthquakes. You sound like an uptight high school student during a tremor.”

At that moment the waiter, seeing his hungry regular had arrived, came to the booth. “The usual,” Magilla said, not wanting to interrupt the flow. The waiter disappeared. “These Eliot waves, how are they supposed to work?”

Ulysses warmed to his subject. “It’s like the ocean. Wave after wave. Crests and troughs. The market falls into a trough, it rises back up. But it builds up a little, then the fifth wave brings it crashing back down. Everyone once in a great long while, there’s a sixth wave. Wham. It crashes down, way way down.”

“So if an investor knew that was going to happen, that person would …”

“Sell all their positions and buy gold, let the wave hit, then buy them back at half the price,” he explained simply.

“It’s like in The Razor’s Edge,” Penelope chimed in. You remember? Bill Murray’s uncle was at the Vatican. Fall of ’29. The Pope knew the market was going to crash. He told Bill Murray’s uncle. He wired his broker and said sell all my stocks, buy gold, and wire me back that you have done so! He got even richer!” Penelope believed that all of life’s questions are answered in the movies, and, with her good examples, at her fingertips, few were able to disagree.

But the subject of God having been inserted in the discussion there was a respectful pause. The juke box continued, “I was gambling in Havana, took a little risk.”

The table was thoughtful. The waiter returned with Magilla’s order: large malted, a large cherry coke, a Regal burger with extra onions, extra fries, and guacamole on the side. “Thank you Maurice,” Magilla said. “So Ulysses, if memory serves—and it usually does--you perform several kinds of technical analysis before making a move. So I’m thinking you did what you did with Eliot waves, and you probably tried other methods.”

“For sure,” the trader agreed, reason creeping into his voice, “Fibonacci analysis, moving averages, other wave shapes.”

“And they suggested?”

“Nothing in particular,” he admitted.

“But you believe the Eliot waves because…”

Rhyming Roger could not contain himself, “Don’t howl, you’re gonna scowl…”

“Because of the owl,” Penelope explained.

Verity spent another quarter. “Cass was a sophomore, trying to get to Swarthmore….”

“Explain?”

“There was an owl on my window sill,” Penelope answered.

Haiku Helen piped up, “Huntress of the night / Swift and sure, sharpened talons /Takes its prey in flight”

“An owl,” Phlegmatic Phil pronounced as drolly as he dared.

“A barn owl,” Penelope specified. “And I told Uli.”

“And Penny said,” Ulysses began…

The matching diminutives were a close to a PDA as the table was accustomed to, and Verity arched an eyebrow.

“The owl is the symbol of Athena, goddess of wisdom,” Penelope said proudly.

Was it the mention of Athena? For whatever reason, silence returned. Magilla had finished his feast. “What do you say we do our tasting?” he suggested, and most agreed.

The juke box continued, “McGinn and McGwyer couldn’t get no higher….”

They called Maurice, and he brought glasses and two one-ounce measuring vessels. The pair produced their bottles, wrapped in aluminum foil to conceal the labels, and poured for each of the group, Verity on the left, Magilla on the right. Phyllis produced a notebook to record the opinions and, ultimately, the specific wines. Penelope began. She was the daughter of a vintner, and on occasion brought extraordinary wines. “Oh Verity, you’ve brought an Italian wine. Well balanced.” She paused, and sipped again. “High end. Great bouquet, lovely colour, delicate on the tongue. This is a Barolo!” Phyllis recorded. Verity kept a poker face “I’d give this wine an 8, and I could drink it every day,” Penelope said, and there were murmurs.

She took a cracker, then tasted the second wine. “I’m not sure,” she said. The fruit tastes local, but I’m guessing it’s been aged because there’s a lot of depth. I feel I should know this vineyard, but I’m just not sure.” This I give a 9 to.” Magilla allowed himself an enigmatic smile.

As the comments were made around the table, there was little advance on Penelope’s opinion, until Phyllis spoke last. “There’s something about Verity’s bottle. The variety may be Barolo but the terroir doesn’t match. And I give it a 9. As for the other wine, there’s an exceptional quality to it. Penelope’s right I think. It’s local, but I don’t know it. And that’s surprising. Okay remove the foil, please.”

Verity went first. “You’re right to say Barolo because the grapes are that variety. But it’s from Baja California. It’s a Mexican Nebbiolo.” General applause for the wine and the challenge.

Magilla revealed his bottle. “This is one of the last wines actually produced by Raymond Burr,” he said. And there were oohs and ahs. Burr was a legend in the valley, an institution at tThe Rex, and there were few of his bottles left.

The group thanked both purveyors profusely. And thus liquefied, they were ready to take up the challenge of the market, the waves, and the owl again.

“So you think,” Magilla tried to summarize, “that the new Eliot wave analysis is right in predicting a crash because Penelope saw an owl, and that is the symbol of the Goddess of wisdom?”

“Uh huh,” Ulysses and Penelope said in sync. Phyllis arched both eyebrows. “It’s a sign,” Ulysses said, and Penelope nodded.

“How did you notice the owl?” Verity asked. Apparently the story was now caught up to where it had been paused for Magilla.

“Persephone saw it and went crazy.”

“Persephone your Siamese cat? Maybe your cat’s the sign, not the owl. And you’re cat’s the symbol of a clown.”

At this juncture contention and general disorder overtook the booth, until Phyllis said, “Stop it! First of all, the framers of the constitution have told us that Honest people may differ. Secondly it is up to Ulysses, whatever we may think. It’s his money.”

At these sobering words, something that passed for calm returned. Magilla ventured, “If I may ask, Ulysses, this play you’re thinking of, which is either a very shrewd trade or a chicken licken move, and you won’t know which until Monday, how risky is it for you?”

“Not very risky,” Ulysses explained. “I’ll hold the money in gold until Tuesday. If the market is stable then, I’ll sell the gold and buy the stocks back. There will be a small loss probably, the cost of protecting what I have.”

More serenity descended on the group with these words. “So,” Magilla continued, “I don’t see what the problem is. Why not just make your trades and see what happens?”

His friend sighed. “Because I can’t liquidate my positions until Saturday afternoon and I can’t buy the gold then until Monday and it will be too late.”

“For the exchange, yes, I imagine,” Magilla said, “and sometimes a smaller establishment is more flexible. Sometimes ya gotta go local.” He took out his phone.

“Who’re ya calling?” Verity was curious.

“You’ve heard of Geyserville Gold Exchange?”

“A small exchange,” Ulysses answered on reflex.

“Exactly,” Magilla said. “I’m calling the owner, Honest Ed.”

After a short, muted conversation and a few minutes, Ed joined them at the booth. There were introductions all around. Magilla ordered the peanut butter silk pie for the table. Congeniality restored, Ed asked Ulysses to explain his problem. Ed listened carefully, and nodded between mouthfuls of the pie, which he clearly appreciated. “If your securities are sold by tomorrow afternoon,” he began…

“They will be,” the trader said.

“Then I can find you a contract on a spot market, maybe Sydney. The commission will be a bit higher, but if you can live with that…”

“I can,” Ulysses said with relief.

“Good then let’s meet tomorrow afternoon, say at 4:30,” Ed said.

“Thanks Ed,” Magilla said. They shook hands and he departed, thanking them for the pie.

“So how big was the barn owl?” Phyllis asked.

“Here, I took a photo,” Penelope passed her phone.

“It’s a big bird, but it’s not an owl, it’s a hawk,” Phyllis observed, and passed the phone to the others.

“She’s right it’s a hawk,” Verity agreed. “You know your wines but not your birds of prey.”

“It’s not an owl?” she asked weakly.

“Nope, Roger said,” not wanting to embarrass her further with a rhyme.

Verity could not stop herself, “That Eliot Wave analysis is wrong, Ulysses.”

After a few moments, Magilla said, “Ulysses maybe you want to rethink that appointment.”