I couldn’t record my weekly radio podcast, the
one hour Dark Landing. I have a home recording studio with limited ability to
muffle loud bird chirps, overhead airplanes and local dogs, and here somebody
was hammering like a crazy man right next door. I went out there and it was
some guy beating on the cement sidewalk with a big mallet. Something worse, if
you can imagine, I’d met him before. It was my neighbor’s father-in-law, and
since he was wrecking my day, I thought I’d at least be bothersome in a minor
key way. I’d have done more if I’d
been able to think of something, but I’m never quick enough at social mischief when it’s
me on the bubble..
“It’s really hot out here.”
He squinted up at me with a look of
dusty, sweaty annoyance. “That’s why I waited to start until later in the
afternoon.”
“What do you do in real life?”
`"Financial
services." He gave me a spectacularly annoyed look. How could I blame him?
Here I was, wrecking his day.
“Oh.”
He reached for his chisel, but I was
too fast for him. “Well, as long as you’re here, give me an
off-the-top-of-your-head number.”
“What
number?” he frowned, my conversation clearly having the desired effect.
“Rate of inflation. What’s our
current rate of inflation?”
That stopped him. He set down the
mallet and wiped the sweat stinging his eyes. “The rate of inflation is very,
very low,” he growled, giving me a look like I should know better. “It has been
historically low for several years.”
“Ohh…Then why is Peter Pan peanut
butter selling at five dollars a jar at Albertsons? Last year it was three
dollars, and the year before that a dollar ninety nine. Meat, cookies, gas for
the car, everything is doubling and tripling.”
“Christ,” he snarled. “You’re
talking about the cost of living.”
“Oh. That’s different?”
“Of course it is,” he said, shutting
off my nonsense by going back to his hammering.
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