by Luke Lively
This was a much different dream. It was more like a memory that somehow was being replayed in my sleep. The memory was of one of those few and far between times when I was trying to help my father. He had asked me to come along on a plumbing job. It was a Saturday, and I could not find an excuse to avoid it. It wasn’t that I was lazy; I simply didn’t want to have anything to do with plumbing. He knew I did not relish the thought of being a plumber, especially as his apprentice, but he still tried to get me to go with him on a couple of jobs when I was a teenager. I gave in and went with him. We were putting in a new hot water heater in a home over one hundred years old.
“Are you sure that’s how it fits?” I asked, thinking I knew more than my father who had spent most of his life working on pipes and fittings. “If you can press those pipes together it’ll save a lot of time.”
“Jackson, you sound like you know what needs to be done on this job,” he said sarcastically. “Do it.”
My father backed out of the cramped, dark corner, handed me the large wrench, and bowed and pointed toward the corner as if the Queen of England was approaching.
“Show me what you are talking about,” my father said.
I was not going to be embarrassed. I thought I saw what was missing. The connector fitting between the two pipes lacked only an inch from connecting. If I could get the two pipes pressed together to connect, it would save removing and replacing a long pipe and all of the fittings. I was already into efficiency. At least I thought so.
With all of my teenage muscle I tried to force the pipes closer. My father didn’t say a word. He just stood and watched with a smile etched on his face. The smile should have been a giveaway. But I kept on. “Jack Oliver never quits,” I said to myself under my breath.
“Why won’t this work?” I finally asked after struggling for more than ten minutes, the sweat dripping from my brow.
“You tell me,” my father responded.
This only made me more determined to prove I was right. In doing so, I broke one of the basic guidelines of being a plumber: don’t force it.
I did.
As I tried one last time to push the pipes close enough together to secure a fitting, the remaining water that had not drained from the overhanging pipe showered me with a burst of pressurized H2O.
“You asked me, why won’t this work?” my father said. “The answer is it wasn’t meant to. Some things are not meant to work, Jackson. They won’t fit.”
Recalling the dream as I woke up in the recliner, I applied it to what I was facing. Some things were not meant to work—they won’t fit. How true. I was realizing what ill-fitting meant every day. But recalling that conversation with my father only made me feel worse than I already felt.
I looked at my watch. It was 5:30 in the morning. I had a staff meeting this morning. The thoughts of standing in front of fifty people and trying to find a way to motivate them didn’t help my already sour stomach. Looking in the bathroom mirror as I turned on the faucet to let the water warm, I thought: Just another great day at Merchants Bank.
Over a year had passed since the acquisition of PT&G by Merchants Bank. I was miserable. I was trying to make something work. The problem was trying to fit in the Merchants mold. I was trying my best, working longer and harder than at any time in my career. But nothing worked. I didn’t fit.
After shaving and taking a shower, I walked into the living room and looked at the stack of papers lying on the floor. I pulled Bank on It! out of the pile and I opened the book to one of the places I had marked with a small, yellow sticky note. The passage was about “choosing.”
I have found one of the toughest things to do in life is to admit something isn’t working. Why do we try our best to make the square peg fit in the round hole? Typically it’s because the square peg may have worked before—it might have been round—so we try to hang on to what has worked in the past, even though it may have changed.
Why do we hold on to our experiences of what worked and fail to learn from our failures? When we look to the past for answers, memories of our mistakes make us feel guilty. We try to avoid the weight of our past, allowing history to repeat itself. We make the same errors again and again, burdened with guilt. Instead of a compass, our past serves only as baggage weighing us down. There is only one way to escape the circle of suffering we created—drop our guilt baggage.
Dropping the “guilt baggage” was the problem. I had a lot of baggage. I could have filled up every luggage carrier at the airport and more. I had been able to carry everything till now, but I was getting tired. The past year had worn me down. I was going in a circle. A slight pain flashed across my chest. I had been getting a few of the brief pains lately, but no wonder, given my diet and lifestyle. It must be stress, I reasoned as I put the book in my briefcase and left for work.
I wanted to be the first one there—as usual.
What changed? I wondered, as I walked down the steps to my car. I recalled the many changes that had occurred in my career. The biggest change occurred without me having a voice in the matter. The sale of PT&G took place, barely passing the shareholder vote. The deal was not nearly as financially rewarding as anticipated after the immediate surge in the stock value. If anyone had looked back on Merchants’ other acquisitions this would have been predictable. Another case of failing to learn from history, I thought. But the deal was done and the name changed to Merchants Bank. The change in name paled in comparison to what happened within the bank.
Chad was gone. At first I couldn’t understand why someone who was so connected to the history of a company would decide to sell, but then I remembered something Chad had told me years before. “If you’re unsure of why something is happening, just follow the money. Everyone does everything for money,” he had said.
I followed the money. Chad was at the money trail’s end. Chad received a payout of one million dollars per year for the next ten years, in addition to other bonuses and stock options. In total, Chad would receive over thirty million dollars from the deal. Thirty million dollars. The number almost sounded absurd. Chad wasn’t worth that kind of money. “Who is?” I said as I pulled my Jaguar onto the freeway.
In Chad’s last public announcement, he bid farewell to “his family at Philadelphia’s oldest bank” and declared he would be part of the Philadelphia community “forever.” Within two months of the shareholder vote, Chad moved to Phoenix, Arizona, selling his home in Philly. Chad took the money and left the rest of us behind. If he had any guilt baggage, it was nowhere to be found.
Several of the PT&G executive committee directors received positions on Merchants’ board of directors and lucrative stock options and perks afforded to them for their part in selling PT&G. Norman Scruggs, our CFO and the person who had clandestinely worked with Chad and a few of the directors constructing the sale, received the second-largest payout: five million dollars paid over the next ten years, plus stock options. He left Philly for Fort Myers, Florida.
The rest of our executive team had essentially been forced to sign new employment contracts that kept us as indentured servants for the next two years. A bonus of $250,000 was waiting for us if we “played for the Merchants team.” But we did receive small raises and ample amounts of stock options. The Merchants stock continued to slide, making the value of the stock options we received worthless. Given the history of the bank’s less-than-sterling stock prices, we would be waiting an eternity for any return from the options. I told John Helms about it and he told me it was Merchants’ re-creation of “Confederate dollars.”
“It looks like a lot, but isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on,” he said. “But you got to give ’em credit—it’s nice paper!”
Their public relations in Philly didn’t make us feel any better. PT&G’s operations centers were closed within six months following the purchase, something the Merchants CEO, Andrew Ledger, promised would not happen. Twenty percent of PT&G’s employees were laid off within twelve months of Merchants taking over, and t
hat was just the beginning. I wondered if Andrew Ledger was selling the same line to the next bank on the target list.
My career had been built around one scenario. After Chad retired I would replace him. That was my plan and the structure of our management. But selling to Merchants changed what happened when Chad left. Somehow my career had been put in reverse.
I now essentially had two bosses.
Merchants had sent “one of their own,” as they referred to the new “City President” they sent to Philly, to coordinate the transition. His name was Rex Nessman. Rex appeared harmless. But like a snake, he preferred to stay low to the ground to avoid detection and would strike if you threatened him.
My other boss was Bill Hopkins. He had never appeared harmless. He relished every opportunity to bring people “down to size” as he said (which reflected on his own shortcomings). Bill was dangerous 24/7.
As I pulled into the parking building and entered the Merchant Bank Tower I felt another brief pain in my chest.
“I need to get on a diet,” I said, as I hit the elevator button.
Arriving well before anyone else, a habit that continued even though my enthusiasm had gone, I turned on my computer to clear out my e-mail before I left for my staff meeting. I began my routine of reading the “overnighters.” Overnighters were e-mails sent by corporate that typically had little value but were policed to ensure everyone read them. The content focused on two areas: regulations and culture.
Regulatory e-mails were reminders of how to cover up mistakes that would result in fines for violating banking regulations. Merchants had learned the hard way over the years. The bank had paid millions in fines for overcharging customers with improperly disclosed fees and finance charges that benefited Merchants and hurt consumers. Instead of trying to focus on meeting regulations, the bank focused on keeping any mistakes covered up.
“More CYA e-mails for the team,” I said to myself, forwarding each of the e-mails to over forty people on my e-mail list.
The e-mail reminders about adhering to the Merchants Culture were more numerous and nearly as ridiculous as the CYA e-mails. I often referred to the people composing the e-mails as the “culture police.” They appeared to work night and day to remind everyone what to do so “all Merchants’ team members would respond to customers in the same manner.” To me it was clear what they wanted—robots.
I started to count the number of overnighters but stopped at twenty-seven seeing an e-mail from Rex. He never sent e-mails. I wasn’t sure if he was computer challenged or simply never wanted to go on record about anything.
I opened the e-mail and my blood pressure began a rapid increase. The e-mail said, “We need to talk today about how to enhance growth. It appears we are the worst team in Merchants.” A copy of the monthly Production Report was attached.
It wasn’t new that we were on the bottom of the heap in Merchants. We were dead last. As badly as I wanted to tell Rex to replace the Merchants signs with PT&G and for him to go back to North Carolina and play golf, I knew that was not an option. It would only get me an early exit ticket, well before my bonus.
While I hadn’t always agreed with Chad, I respected him. We had shared the same insatiable lust for power and money. He was my role model. But I had no respect for Rex. He bothered me. He only had one vice—golf.
Rex was ten years younger than me. While I had always been considered young in banking circles to be an executive at PT&G, Rex by comparison was fresh out of diapers. He grew up in Pinehurst, North Carolina. His entire life revolved around golf. When I told Cassie that Rex was born with two silver spoons in his mouth and a golf club in his hands, she said, “It must have been a difficult birth.”
He appeared to have it made. He had climbed the Merchants corporate ladder quickly, carrying his golf clubs every step of the way. Unlike Chad, who was discreet about his privileged upbringing, Rex reeked of money and privilege, something that did not help his credibility as Chad’s successor. Neither did his slow, Southern drawl. Most of our staff called him “Richie” as in the cartoon Richie Rich. If he was forced to choose what others would think about him—great banker or golfer—I was certain he would want to be known as a great golfer.
Rex’s golfing skills were so advanced he probably could have played professionally if he had not been so easily distracted. I really didn’t believe people suffered from Attention Deficit Disorder—I just thought they were lazy or enjoyed using the idea of ADD as an excuse for never finishing what they started. But I changed my mind after working with my new leader. It was impossible to carry on a conversation with him. Everything was a distraction. He would change from one subject to another and back again in the time it took to sneeze. He was consistent in one area—he always finished every conversation with a golf story.
“Well, I guess I have something to look forward to after the staff meeting,” I said.
I felt another sharp pain.
“I’ve got to start exercising,” I said to myself, rubbing my bloated stomach.
What’s inside will eventually come out.
—BENJAMIN FRANKLIN PRICE
15. What Are You Hiding?
“WHAT ARE YOU HIDING?”
Of all the questions I feared to respond to in my life, this was the one that made me the most anxious. Being honest was never as simple as I wanted it to be.
I dreaded being in front of my team. I felt that they could see through me. While I may have never been a beloved leader, I was respected and feared. Now I had the feeling everyone looked at me as a hypocrite—that I was biding my time for the bonus money. It was my job to tell everyone that Merchants is the best bank in the United States. Of all the lies I had told in my life, this was one of the biggest and most revolting. The truth was that I hated Merchants and almost everything about them.
But I had a job to do.
The structure of the staff meetings was part of the Merchants culture. Each month Merchants required every person in my position to conduct a staff meeting. The entire meeting was scripted by my other boss . . . Bill Hopkins.
After finishing the e-mails, I put all of the handout material in a banker’s box to take to the meeting. “I’m going to need a forklift,” I said as I made my way toward the elevator and my team waiting in the crowded second-floor conference room.
The weight of the reports reminded me of why I disliked Bill as much or more than Rex. “Everything equal—everything the same” was one of many pieces of propaganda that sprang from Merchants Memory Minders (MMMs in the bank’s lexicon) forced on all team members in order to have everyone behave in the same way. I entered the room trying to smile.
After opening the meeting, as I was instructed, I turned the next portion over to Bridgett, another fresh-faced Merchants up and comer from Charlotte who served as our culture coach. I moved to the back of the room. Hearing Bridgett begin a Merchants pep rally nearly made the sausage biscuit I had devoured earlier almost make a second appearance. I was sure Bridgett’s photo was in the dictionary beside the word perky; I was also sure her picture was in the dictionary beside the word naïve.
Bridgett believed every bit of propaganda given to her that had the Merchants logo on it. A photo of her with the Merchants CEO, Andrew Ledger, at her graduation from the corporate management training school sat on her desk. While Bridgett wasn’t mean spirited, if you said anything negative toward Merchants, she would make sure people at HQ in Charlotte heard about it. I found that out the hard way when I said in a private conversation that Merchants could save money by not printing so many reports—especially in color. “They’re already on the computer system and printing all those reports costs a ton of money,” I had absent-mindedly said to her after lugging the weight of paper into a meeting. “If they want to find a way to save thousands of dollars why don’t they quit printing the reports.” I didn’t realize my faux pas until I saw the agonized look on her face.
“What do you mean?” she gasped. “Do you know how many people it takes
to prepare all of these reports? Do you know how much time it takes?”
“Well, then it’s even more of an opportunity to save money because no one pays attention to them and they really have no use,” I said. “Just stop the presses!”
“I’ll have you know, Mr. Oliver, that was my first job after I finished management training,” she said. She probably thought she would embarrass me. Instead, I wanted to laugh some more. But she continued her passionate defense of the bureaucracy. “I put my heart into creating those reports when I worked there. The reports are the foundation for everything we do. What would we do without our culture? That’s what makes us special.”
“I thought it was about making money from serving customers,” I said, enjoying seeing Bridgett squirm.
“If Bill Hopkins heard you say that you would be in a lot of hot water,” she said with an evil smile that should have warned me I would be hearing from him sooner instead of later. I had forgotten about the conversation until I felt the hot water from Bill later that same day when he called to discuss my “attitude.”
“I understand you don’t like my reports,” Bill said as soon as I answered. Annoyed that Bridgett had ratted me out for something so small and, in my mind, insignificant, I struggled with a response.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” I asked. I already knew the source.
“Bridgett told me,” he said. “Jack, just a reminder, I know what happens up in Philly, 24/7, every minute of every day. People think they can hide what’s going on, but I know. Loyalty is the key component to our culture. So never think I don’t know everything that’s happening just because you’re several hundred miles away.”
“Well, that’s great, Bill—how do you like my tie?” I responded without thinking.
