Why I really hate the Fed

I've made it no secret that I hold no love in my heart for the Federal Reserve Bank. I really don't like an institution who's mission is to de-value the cash I have in my bank account. I hate them. But here's something few people know, a secret scar inflicted upon me when I was no more than a tad and had no money at all. For nearly forty years I've held this knowledge close, I've told no one. Not my wife, my children or even my mother. Gather 'round for the horrifying tale...

It was 1979 and I was a college student at a prestigious institute of higher learning located in San Francisco California. I won't name names because I would hate for anyone to be overly impressed by my academic credentials, but I will say that it was the only State University located in that city, and the only one that would have me. My high school grades had been less than stellar. No honorariums were offered, no meal tickets. After two painful years living hand to mouth I was forced to find a decent job to pay my tuition. It was that or keep selling blood at the plasma bank down on 6th and Mission. This was a time when five bucks would buy a five pound can of tuna parts at the downtown Second Harvest. My roommates and I discovered Patunas (a tasty blend of cheap cheese and tuna guts stuffed in a twice baked potato, popular among the farming communities of rural Bakersfield) and Tuna Spaghetti.

Armed with only a CS 101 class in FORTRAN (which, if I recall correctly, I got a C- in) I acquired employment with a small company that did off-line microfiche services for the financial industry. My job was to pick up tapes from various client banks, haul them back to a little office on 4th and Howard, mount them on drives and flash images of bank statements onto tiny blue cards that stank of ammonia. It was amazingly high tech in a world before CDs. I was proud, but still relatively poor. All of these services were performed between 11pm and 4 am and (baring the driving part) required little attention, freeing me to do most of my homework while being paid.

Every night I'd make my rounds at midnight visiting some of the great names in US banking; Wells Fargo, Bank of America, First Bank of Sasquatch. You name 'em, I was there. But on top of the list was the San Francisco Federal Reserve Bank, an awe inspiring edifice of marble and concrete. Entering the building was the closest thing I could imagine to visiting Mt. Olympus; this was where the Gods dwelled.

And they ate well. After a few short weeks of service I discovered the cafeteria at the SF Fed by accident. On my way back from the computer center one night I punched the wrong button on the elevator and there I was. It was glorious. Huge wedges of blackberry pie for 50 cents. Turkey with gravy, dressing and mashed potatoes for a buck and a half. I was in heaven. I came, I saw, I ate (after which I ate more). Suddenly I was rich and I began to develop a deep and abiding respect for the Federal Reserve Bank. I bought things that would keep well and stuffed them in my pockets to take home to my girlfriend. It was marvelous. I gained weight and became popular with the ladies (until then I'd only been popular with the boys, it was an SF thing).

But, as they say, all good things must pass. One fine winter evening I went through security at the Fed, headed up stairs, loaded my tray, took my favorite window table and tucked into dinner with zest, only to notice a shadow looming over my poised fork. I looked up to see a portly man of some 45 years standing tall over my shoulder with a ferocious look in his eye. He was wearing a badge.

"You have some ID on you?" he said.

"Yes" said I and after slowly reaching into my pocket while keeping my left hand in clear view, I produced it.

"This isn't one of ours and you aren't supposed to be on this floor" he said, "What are you doing here?"

"Eating dinner" I replied.

"Well you aren't cleared for this floor. You have to leave."

"Now?" said I.

"Right now."

With a mournful look at the blackberry pie and a cautious glimpse of the uniform, badge and gun standing behind me wrapped around a fat assed bastard with no real claim to humanity, I rose to my feet, picked up my receipt and proceeded to exit. Our hero felt it necessary to follow while saying "don't come back" and that I was in a "secure area without clearance".

And that is why I really hate the Fed. It has something to do with inflation and market manipulation too, don't get me wrong. But down in the basement of my soul, this is why I hate the Fed.