Fed Family Feud

A testy dinnertime exchange between Federal Reserve Chairman Kevin Warsh and Governor Christopher Waller last month was exactly what Warsh said he wants: a “good family fight.”

The Wall Street Journal 

As I made my way to the entrance of the Federal Reserve’s headquarters on Constitution Avenue I nearly broke a leg tripping on the big pieces of chalk that Michelle Bowman and Lisa Cook left out on the sidewalk.  “Hey you two,” I yelled.

“Good morning, Chairman Warsh!” they said in a sing-songy tone, then broke out in giggles.

“Haven’t I told you a million times to clean up your toys before policy meetings?”

“Sorry,” they said.  “We wanted to give you a special welcome!”

I cocked my head to look at what they’d drawn.  Michelle had produced a passable Superman figure with the words “Inflation fighter!” underneath it.  Lisa’s was a bit more cryptic; that pyramid on the dollar bill with the creepy eye on top, under which she’d written “Don’t let your meat loaf.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“I think you know,” she said coquettishly.  I recalled that President Trump had tried to fire her, and I surmised that she wanted to thank me for taking an active role in resisting him.

“You know how I feel about the independence of the Fed,” I said, as I gave her a wink.

“Well, don’t be getting so ‘independent’ that you won’t defend me!” she said.

“Don’t worry, if he can’t fire you, he sure as heck can’t fire me, okay?”  I thought for a second about chucking her under the chin, but she’d probably file a complaint with Fed Human Resources, and then I’d be “in Dutch.”

I gave her a big smile.  She said “Thanks,” but then added a frenzied “Look out!”

I heard a big splat and looked down at the sidewalk, where a red water balloon had burst at my feet.  “Who the hell threw that?” I yelled.

“It’s okay ‘Kev’.”  I heard the voice of that dink Christopher Waller, and it didn’t take the insight of a Federal Reserve Chairman to detect a smarmy, insincere smile on his lips when I turned around and saw him.  “I wasn’t trying to hit you, just . . . watering the grass.”

Waller: “It slipped.  I meant to hit Lisa Cook.”

 

“Yeah, right.  Wait’ll I tell Jay Powell.”

“Go ahead and tell, I don’t care.”

We sneered at each other a bit, the human equivalent of “threat posturing” in the sub-human animal world, then made our way up the walk.

There was the usual traffic jam at the metal detectors, but as Chairman of the Fed I was able to flash my badge while Waller had to take off his coat, his shoes, his watch, his wallet and his geeky tie clasp, and dump them in a bin that looked liked something you’d use to bus dishes in a restaurant, while I walked around it.

“You’re a stupid nimmy-not,” Waller hissed as I breezed past him.

“I’m rubber, you’re glue.  Everything you say bounces off me and sticks to YOU!” I said as I caught the elevator, whose door glided shut before Waller could enter.

Warsh:  “No, I don’t use Grecian Formula–why do you ask?”

I got off at the second floor and glided towards the dining room trying to put a lid on my growing agitation.  That Waller is such a dink!

I greeted Phil Jefferson, my Vice Chair, with a hearty “How they hanging?” trying to get him on my good side in case Waller has been politicking him.  I gave Mike Barr a big bear hug–is there any other kind?–hoping to weld him to my side of the issue, whatever that might be.

 

 

And then there was Jay  Powell.  I’m sure he harbors some resentment over the fact that I’ve replaced him when he could have served another four-year term but–as the cool kids say these days–that’s a you problem, not a me problem.

“Hello, Jay!” I say like the idiot sergeant-at-arms of a Midwestern fraternal lodge hounding a member for dues.  “Great to see you!” I say, and even he–who wouldn’t know an inflationary spike if you drove it through his brogans–can see through my politic duplicity.

“Nice to see you too,” he says, holding emotions in reserve in order to avoid sentimental inflation.

We chit-chat for awhile, then I exert my prerogatives as Fed Chair: “I’m going to call the meeting to order while we eat our salads,” I say as Waller walks in, out of breath and looking a little sweaty.  I’d instructed Federal Reserve security to do a full body cavity search on him–just in case.  “Did anyone take minutes of the last meeting?” I ask of no one in particular.

Cook: “You jive-ass mother-f***ers ain’t removin’ me from nothin’.”

 

“You the junior governor, that’s your job,” Lisa Cook says with a note of disdain.

“Technically, you’re right, I am the most recently-appointed.  But I’m the Chairman, so I leaped over everyone else ahead of me.  Can someone else take the minutes?”

There is silence, and a few heads turn towards Michelle Bowman.

Bowman: “Seriously–why me?”

 

“What?  Why are you looking at me?”

“Well, Michelle,” Jay Powell begins, “as the oldest member of the Board, I recall a time when the only woman in this room was a female stenographer.  I remember her well, Dorcas Frobish, a sweet little old lady who developed a cure for Osgood Schlatter’s Disease in her spare time, knew the batting averages of the Washington Senators by heart, and could type a hundred words a minute with the wind at her back.”

“That’s great, Jay, thanks for that historical perspective.  Michelle, it’s your turn, we’ll rotate at our first meeting in August.  Now–on to new business.”

“Can we work out the vacation schedule?” Lisa Cook asks.  “I’ve got dibs on the week before Labor Day.”

“Well, somebody’s got to stick around at the end of the summer in case things go haywire in the economy,” I say.

“We’ve already got a war in the Middle East and an oil price spike,” Waller says, “how much more ‘haywire’ do you want to wait for?”

“I already put a deposit down on a vacation house,” Phil Jefferson says, “so I call the third week of August.”

“Guys, please, let’s work together on this,” I plead, but Waller cuts me off.

“You know, ‘Kev,'” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.  “If you can’t handle the pressure of scheduling seven summer vacations in a four-week period–maybe you aren’t cut out to have your hand of the tiller of the most important economy in the world.”

I bristle at his implication, but I’m not backing down.  “You want to know something, ‘Chris’?” I sneer.

“What?”

“You’ve got spinach between your teeth–as usual.”