Michael Jordan, Economist
Atlanta, GA
May 9, 2020
“Happy Friday!”, came the contrived cheer to start another all-day conga line of Zoom meetings.
“I’ll take your word for it that it’s Friday”, I replied.
Like an extended vacation…but staying home to work rather than traveling for fun…weekdays now run together, each indistinguishable from the last. Weekends provide some differentiation, a respite from calls and more time to dabble in laundry, house chores, and yard work.
Otherwise the only variants are solar and lunar. It’s dawn, day, dusk, or night…swaying to the stimulatory or subduing rhythm of coffee, water, or wine. And not always in that order.
I rarely use an alarm. And certainly not on these undifferentiated days that entail only a two minute commute, including time sitting in traffic at the coffee pot or refrigerator door.
But if my clock did wake me, I’m sure it would be to the sound of “I Got You Babe” every morning at six o’clock.
Even the weather, while generally terrific, has for weeks been virtually unchanged. Temperatures moderate, skies clear, humidity low. Only a Parisian wine taster, a New York art curator, or a South African gemologist could detect the slight differences from one day to the next. Or take issue with them. It’s as if we are perpetually alternating between meteorological equivalents of Eva and Zsa Zsa.
But I was inside, in my anchorman attire – starched button down atop grey cotton sweats – and ready to Zoom.
Video calls are not without merit, but after a while they are draining. The idea behind them is to improve personal connection, gauge facial cues, read body language, and minimize multi-tasking.
But being on them, repeatedly seeing co-workers in tiny Brady Bunch boxes as they sit it in their bedroom, kitchen, or den, is usually a depressing reminder of why we need to have these calls in the first place. And video adds its own unique distractions.
There are a lot of tiny things that grab attention. Watching people watch themselves, making slight adjustments to the camera, strategically tilting their heads, waving a small child from the room. Whoever is speaking during such online calisthenics may as well be Charlie Brown’s teacher.
Trying to present while seeing yourself do so can be disorienting, like being your own backseat driver. It’s difficult to speak in a fluid, natural way when you are watching yourself try to do it. And by “trying” to be natural, you are almost by definition not being natural.
And every once in a while, it’s just good to get our eyes off the screen. Among the advantages of taking meetings by phone is the ability to walk around the room, or around the block, which can facilitate fresh thought and relieve an aching back. Those benefits go away when one is chained to the camera.
But such is life in the middle of a giant Kafka novel, which only seems to get longer and longer. At some point the publisher needs to enforce a deadline, fire the writers, and allow the characters to get on with their lives…or to pick up the pieces of the millions that’ve been shattered.
Personally, I’ve been fine. I’m able to work, see more of my family, have access to stacks of books, and receive regular wine reinforcements from Walla Walla. I’m a bit of a homebody anyway, who appreciates the pleasures of the hearth, and doesn’t mind staying in the house.
What I do mind is being told that I must do so. Or that most people’s lives must be suspended to accommodate the fears of others. Or that they can’t visit a business that would like to serve them. Or the business being told how many they can serve or at what distance, or that a state or region is on “lockdown”, which, being a prison term, is an interesting choice of words.
At some point, the inmates need to start defying the wardens and resume living their lives. Our older son has been cavalierly and capriciously deprived of significant events and memories. He lost his Senior Prom, his Senior Concerts, the celebrations surrounding his High School graduation, and the ability to see his girlfriend.
Alexander has his heart set on being a pilot and still plans to follow that path this Fall at Middle Tennessee, despite his intended industry being among the many that the authors of this calamity have arbitrarily annihilated. I told him I appreciate his passion, but he better have a back-up plan.
But this week we decided enough is enough. Alexander postponed flying lessons two months ago. He resumed them Wednesday and will continue them today. He plans to see his girlfriend this afternoon, and will get a haircut in a couple days. Jerry used to tell Brett and me as our hair got too long that we needed either a haircut…or a violin. If Alexander doesn’t shorten his soon, he’ll need a cello. Last night, our younger son had a friend over, the first he’s seen in eight weeks, and I think they both appreciated the semblance of normalcy.
I’m not sure when it became reasonable to decide life should be without risk. Whether thru plagues, pestilence, pineapple pizza, or politics, people have weighed threats themselves, made individual assessments, and taken their own chances.
Last week we watched The Last Dance. Within a couple years of joining the Chicago Bulls, Michael Jordan suffered a serious foot injury. He missed most of the season, but was pleading to return for a playoff run. Doctors told him if he did so, a re-injury could end his career.
“What are the odds of that happening?”, Jordan asked.
“Ten percent”, came the reply.
Jordan just heard that he had a ninety percent chance of being fine. He wanted to play. The Bulls owner thought otherwise.
“Assume I gave you ten pills to cure a headache”, he hypothesized to Jordan. “If you knew one of the tablets was lethal, would you risk taking a pill?”
Jordan’s didn’t give a moment’s thought.
“It depends how bad the headache is!”
Precisely.
The question any good economist, or rational person, asks when making a decision is, “compared to what?” In this fiasco, those who inflicted it discourage us from asking that question…and shame us if we do.
We shouldn’t stand for living in a world where we are perpetually screened, separated, traced, tracked, and monitored. Or where masks are compulsory, crowds prohibited, and approved social parolees allowed outside only if they walk around like Howard Hughes with tissue boxes on his feet.
In the UK, Lord Sumption recently wrote something that used to go without saying:
“What type of life do we think we are protecting? There is more to life than the avoidance of death. Life is a drink with friends. Life is a crowded football match or a live concert. Life is a family celebration with children and grandchildren. Life is companionship, an arm around one’s back, laughter or tears shared at less than two metres. These things are not just optional extras. They are life itself. They are fundamental to our humanity, to our existence as social beings. Of course death is permanent, whereas joy may be temporarily suspended. But the force of that point depends on how temporary it really is.”
Michael Jordan couldn’t have said it better.
Neither could I.
