By Alex Berger
If God had intended for us to be rich, he never would have given us the stock market.
Webster's defines “investment” as “the investing of money or capital for income or profit.” Webster, your definition is incomplete. You should also include “losing your shirt.”
Like many Americans, I have had my share of financial hardships. And I thought my luck would change on Black Sunday years ago, when my neighbor, Vincent, a stockbroker, and I were attending a Giants football game.
He suggested I invest in the stock market and invited me to his office the next day. I should have known better.
Gloria tried to stop me from investing. She said, “Why is an investment broker, who invests your money, called a broker?” My 7-year-old granddaughter, Keri, added, “If Vincent buys the stocks to get rich by, why is he still working?”
Gloria and Keri were right. I should have been firm and dismissed Vincent's shpiel. But, readers, much to my regret, I learned a good lesson that day: Always listen to your wife and granddaughter.
Once I was ensconced in Vincent's office, he got me. He showed me a wall plaque indicating that his grandfather was voted Stockbroker of the Year … in 1929.
And Vincent II, because of his recommendations, became adept at apologizing. “They taught me all I know,” chirped Vincent III. “How is the market doing right now, Vin?” I inquired. (I called him Vin because it rhymes with “win.”) “Is it bearish or bullish?” “See, you already are a professional investor,” he said.
I just learned they are moving the Wailing Wall from Israel to Wall Street.
Vin handed me his personal investment indicator. It indicated what's what and what's not. I memorized the figures: Helium was up, feathers were down, paper was stationery, pencils lost a few points and toilet tissue touched a new bottom. I was instantly a fount of knowledge and brimming with confidence.
The minute Vin took the money, however, my stocks fell so rapidly the blue chips turned funeral black. I should not have invested in the stock market, but I believed in Vin. He said my stocks would provide security for Gloria and me in our old age, and it is rapidly hastening its arrival.
After a few sleepless weeks, I received my first beautifully printed stock report. The investments I expected to comfortably retire on at age 55 now allow me to retire at age 109.
As I kept losing, Gloria kept asking why I was continuing. “Because we never have to worry about income taxes,” I tearfully sobbed. How could it be that I could lose so much money on something called “securities”?
The stock market fluctuations have made me money-mad because it took my money away. I do have one bit of good news, however: My migraine split two-for-one. And last Tuesday, I became rich in the a.m. and poor in the p.m.
Vin said my financial situation has become fluid. It certainly has: Every stock I owned was going down the drain. I know you cannot take it with you, but I think my stocks will get there before I do.
Last week, Vin telephoned and said. “I think you should buy a thousand shares of my company.” “Why?” “Because it is the only way I can sell mine.” He informed me that my losses were not his fault. He blamed the bears that ate all the bulls.
Some investors do fine in the stock market. A man I know borrowed $100,000, invested it and lost every penny. He climbed on a high ledge and jumped off. Luck finally shined on him: He landed on his stockbroker.
But in retrospect, what would Gloria and I do if my stocks did well? We could buy a wardrobe of expensive Italian suits and dresses, a Lear jet, a fleet of fancy cars and a two-bedroom apartment in North Shore Towers.
Or, perhaps, a personal seat license with the New York football Giants, where I would give the team pointers on how to win the Super Bowl in 2009.
But on second thought, I would rather stay as I am and continue writing my columns. That is more precious to me than owning Exxon-Mobil stock.
So investors, do not despair. The tripartite of life's major problems are health (85 percent), mothers-in-law (10 percent) and finances (5 percent). We should always remember that.
Readers, I finally made a killing on Wall Street. I shot Vincent.
Contact Alex Berger at news@timesledger.com.
