by John Renesch
Steven’s Choice
A business novel
By John Renesch
New Business Books
P.O. Box 472379
San Francisco, CA 94147-2379
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One: AIN'T LIFE GRAND
Chapter Two: A BRICK THROUGH THE WINDOW
Chapter Three: BACK TO WORK
Chapter Four: LESSONS FROM THE BABY
Chapter Five: THE JOURNEY
Chapter Six: ONE HELLUVA RIDE
Chapter Seven: THE CROSSROADS
Chapter Eight: A TIME FOR NEW BEGINNINGS
Chapter Nine: LIFE AS AN EVANGELIST
About the author
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
January 25: Golden Gate Bridge, Marin County side; 7:12 AM (PST)
Sitting in the back seat of the Infiniti SUV, Gene was glad he wasn’t driving today. The conversation about a TV movie last night wasn’t engaging him and, frankly, he preferred being with his own thoughts right now.
Gazing out into the Pacific Ocean on his right, he was feeling some dread on this Monday morning. He’d read somewhere that more heart attacks occur at this time of the week than any other time, inferring people became more stressed out anticipating their return to work after a weekend. He slid his right hand up under his jacket and felt his chest in an instinctive attempt to check his heart. That’s silly, he thought to himself, there’s no way I can tell if I’m stressed by feeling my chest.
The idea of calling his personal prospects and overseeing his Monday morning sales team meeting was not at all appealing. He knew the drill and had it down pat. But his heart wasn’t in it anymore. Maybe it never was!
“Nothing happens until somebody sells something.” This old saw went through his mind. He first heard it in graduate school a decade ago, perpetuated no doubt by sales managers trying to get their people motivated. Did his company’s future really depend upon getting their seven point three percent market share up a quarter of a point this quarter? What would happen if the company vanished? Probably, he fantasized, they’d be missed for about a week and then all the competition would absorb their share of the market and they’d be ‘yesterday’s newspaper.’
Was the world better off because they offered a less-inferior-than-most-others product at a mid-market price? Was he doing anything really important other than earning a paycheck with which he paid the bills, mortgages, dues, credit cards, car payments and tuition for the kids? He felt like a machine—money in, money out. Busier than he’d like to be, having all the right “stuff” but up to his ass in debt. Was he having a mid-life crisis? No, he was too young for that! Or was this simply the Monday morning blues?
He heard laughter and his attention returned to the others in the car. They were just passing through the toll plaza on the San Francisco side.
January 26: Orinda, California, the Davidson family home: 6:37 PM (PST)
Their smallest child was coming down the hall toward the kitchen, dragging a noisy wagon loaded with assorted treasure. The four year old boy asked in a louder than necessary voice, “Will Daddy be home for dinner?”
Monica shuddered at the query, knowing the answer wouldn‘t be welcome to her son Bobby.
“No, sweetheart, he’s working again tonight. He’ll be with us on the weekend, though,” she added in an attempt to soften the news and continued preparing dinner for herself and the children. Bobbie loved his dad very much and Monica could see the wounded expression on his face as he stopped, hesitated, fought back tears and got that awful stoic look on his face. Then, he turned slowly and walked away—back toward the family room where his younger sister was watching television. Monica’s heart went out to Bobby but she had learned if she tried to comfort him he got outwardly upset. She reasoned that it was better to remain as matter-of-fact as she could without projecting her upset onto the child. She hoped he wouldn’t grow up to be another man who stuffed his feelings but she wasn’t sure what else to do right now. This situation is getting old, she tells herself, very old…and I’m getting fed up!
From what she read and saw on TV, her husband Jim fit the definition of a workaholic. This wasn’t a term she used lightly. She didn’t mean he loved his work and couldn’t get enough of it. She didn’t mean he simply worked too many hours. Jim was truly addicted and it was destroying their marriage. She almost wished he was an alcoholic, she sometimes told herself. At least he’d be home with the family!
Yesterday she had seen her therapist for the third time about this and he seemed to confirm her diagnosis after asking her some questions. He strongly recommended she bring Jim in with her for a joint session. “Couples counselling” is what he called it.
The kids were getting cheated on the parenting experience. Both Jim and Monica worked so the children were in day care all day long, five days a week. Her job was closer to home and she was pretty much a nine-to-five employee, so she was around in the evenings. She wasn’t happy farming the kids out to day care but bringing in that second income was so essential if they wanted a house. But Jim was his job. His whole identity was wrapped up in his position. His obsessive work habits fit the textbook definition for being a true addiction—an obsession harmful to his own health and his relationship with his family.
The children only saw their father on weekends with any degree of certainty. If he did get home on a weeknight before they were in bed they were surprised. But they had come to accept—maybe resigned—their Daddy wouldn’t be around until Sunday, and maybe part of Saturday. Monica sat on the stool at the counter and thought, This sucks!
January 27: San Francisco, Headquarters Building, Bank of San Francisco Ltd, 8:13 AM PST
Her job at the bank seemed secure with the upcoming merger but she was a wreck after months of worry. Assurances from those managing the transition lessened her concern and she started to feel some relief. Susan needed this job and she also needed to be with this bank where she had earned a reputation that would have long-term benefits. A layoff would sabotage her career plans.
Jeffrey walked into her cubical and asked her if she’d seen today’s San Francisco Chronicle. “No, she said,” having only just finished today’s Journal.
“We’re above the fold,” he said as he handed her the Business Section. He took a seat at her workstation and waited for her to read the story about the merger.
Jack McHale, CEO of the new parent bank seeking greater national prominence, was the subject of the article. The reporter mentioned how many inconsistencies there were between what had been promised to the top executives of her bank, a California institution for over half a century, and what was in the works now that both boards had approved the deal. The article was quite critical of the promises made and the apparent plans to disregard many of them. Despite this criticism, the reporter went on the say, after all, it was a business and if he ever was in a big deal like this he hoped this particular CEO was on his team.
“How ludicrous!” Susan exclaimed. “This jerk is saying that breaking your word is normal for business people…and that includes me. This pisses me off!”
“I thought it would,” said Jeffery, “I’m just a flunky around here but you Miss MBA are on a career track to be CEO yourself one of these days. But, then again, you may be one of those ‘expendables’ they mention.”
Jeffrey left her alone with the paper without saying anything else. He knew she was mulling this news over and decided it was best to leave her be.
Susan’s mood changed to an emotional cocktail of anger, worry, fear and great angst. Besides all this she was feeling some shame for being a business person too.
January 28: over the Atlantic, KLM Airlines Flight # KL6055 Westbound: 1:26
AM GMT
She had made over $200,000 today and there were still three hours in her workday! This could be a record earnings day for middle-aged “Soodie,” day trader extraordinaire! Her best day until now had been $286,000 in both commissions and profit-taking for her own account. That was on “Golden Thursday” when the market went crazy a few months ago. Luck was a big factor she admitted to herself. I was lucky. But, boy, was it exciting!
This work was so far removed from being a broker where she started twenty five years ago. She was quick to see the big bucks were being made in futures, commodities, options and currencies. Of course, this wasn’t investing as she learned it in school. Trading was a giant casino, speculating on rises and falls in prices, watching charts and reading subtle discrepancies in the market as they were happening.
Making money was fun. The game had become largely about seeing just how much she could make. Of course, most days weren’t like this. Many days she would come out slightly ahead or behind. Sometimes a whole month would go by without a big payday. But then, every once in a while, there was a day like today.
She reflected on how difficult it was to get into the headspace to be a trader. This work took a very different temperament than being a stock broker. Trading for her own account relieved her of the fiduciary responsibility to her customer. She could take bigger risks if she thought it was warranted for the potential gain she might see. She might be more inclined to take a bigger risk if she was ahead for the day. After all, it was her money. When she was trading for clients it was different…more caution, less fun for her.
It was lonely, though. And she wondered what this work would be like if she wasn’t making a ton of money. After all, it was not creating any value for anyone else. Just her! Making money for the sake of making money. No products. No service provided, except for a couple of private banking clients she worked with for old times sake.
Not adding value for anyone else and being somewhat isolated was a personal choice. But Soodie got some flack from her Islamic friends, claiming she was in violation of the principle of “shariah.” This aspect of Islamic law forbids simple lending or profit-taking and advocates investing for return on investment and development. Despite her Muslim ancestry, Soodie was not devout in her religion. In fact, she was more secular than even she wanted to admit. When she visited certain family members, she dressed and acted conventionally for her ethnicity to avoid getting hassled. After all, she knows the drill having been born in Iraq.
So, she ponders, she is leading a bit of a double life too. After a minute or two of contemplation on this, she brings herself back to the computer in front of her and starts thinking of her next position. She still has time to put on another trade.
January 28: University of Pennsylvania cafeteria, The Wharton School: 11:55 AM EST
Rebecca sits with her near-finished latte’ and reflects on the article she just read. Here she is three quarters of her way through her MBA program and she reads MBA graduates are among the least ethical of the U.S. student population.
What kind of club am I joining, she wonders. Her father had influenced her a lot about applying to business school and it seemed like the best path to achieve the sort of financial independence in the shortest period of time. He was a lifelong executive, making only one jump from the company that recruited him from this very campus, thirty years earlier.
He was an admired man in the community back in Seattle. He did well enough to raise his children and support his family while enjoying an affluent lifestyle. Respected and esteemed, his opinion was usually wise and so his recommendation carried weight with her.
All through her childhood and adolescence, business leaders were amongst those with the highest status. This was a big factor for her in moving this far from familiar Washington state. She had lived in the same house all her life, including her undergrad work at the University of Washington.
Now she learns her chosen profession has been branded “liar” by the researchers. She recalls a bemoaning she once heard from her dad: “What has happened to our ethics? What has become of ethical business people?”
Now she wondered too.
