a questionable life

by Luke Lively

  “Why did we sell to Merchants—now?” I asked, not wanting the discussion to end on that note. “We don’t have that big of a problem in our loan portfolio that would force us to sell—I know that. So why sell now?”

  “They made us an offer we couldn’t refuse,” Chad said with an alarming similarity to Marlon Brando. “How can you turn down a premium almost double what most banks receive? They wanted us, and they got us. Done deal! Sold to the high bidder!” He smacked his desk with his right hand to emphasize the closure. I’d never seen a larger smile on his face.

  “Were there any other bidders?” I asked, as I continued to follow the money.

  “We didn’t have a FOR SALE sign up inviting offers,” Chad said, leaning back in his chair. “Honestly, and just between us, you’re right—we didn’t have to sell now, but when Merchants offered what they did, we had no choice. It was my fiduciary duty as CEO to give the best return to our shareholders. The deal happened because Merchants wanted us—not because we wanted Merchants.”

  Chad appeared to be much more comfortable now, so I asked him, “What did you get out of the deal?”

  “Jack, I gave up a family heritage and leading Philadelphia’s best bank. How dare you ask me what I’m getting? I’m doing this for everyone else—not just me. Did you not hear what I just said? You really have a lousy attitude. If you don’t like it, you should quit—now.”

  I couldn’t believe what I just heard. Quit? The last word, “now,” almost exploded out of his mouth. Usually Chad would brag about what he was getting in any transaction to me, always saying “just between us” as a way of ensuring some privacy for his greed. But I had made a mistake. I made my second error by responding without thinking.

  “I am not going to quit—ever. If Merchants wants to make this work, they better hope I stay,” I said.

  Chad was smiling, as if he knew what I was going to say and had already scripted his response. “You’re wrong. You’re not going to make it, Jack. I’m disappointed.” I wasn’t expecting this response. “It’s all about you, isn’t it?” Chad continued. “You don’t even appreciate what I’ve done for you, do you?”

  I paused to put my thoughts together. A strong sense of déjà vu enveloped me. Chad had used the same line in our only other real confrontation years before—the first time he asked me to sign off on one of his stock “deals.” He had walked into my office after everyone else had left the building and thrust the last page of what appeared to be a contract of some type in front of me and asked me to notarize the document for the previous day’s date. When I asked him what I was signing, you would have thought I made a disparaging remark about his mother. Chad blew up. I had never seen him so angry and out of control. He asked me if I trusted him. I told him, yes, but I couldn’t notarize a document for a person I didn’t see in front of me. Chad told me that I should trust him or quit. He said, “Jack, working with me is working for me. Sign it or quit—it’s your choice.” I notarized the document. Chad told me not to worry and that I would do great working with him if I did as I was told. I found out later that he had purchased a large number of shares from an elderly client at less-than-market price. In addition, he knew the bank was getting ready to split the stock, making the date crucial. He bought 5,000 shares, but actually received 7,500 shares after the stock split, resulting in a huge profit for Chad.

  With that memory playing in my head, I reminded him of what I had done for his benefit over the years.

  “Jack, you’re the one in hot water if you ever bring up that or any of those deals again. You’re the one who notarized the document, swearing the person was there—right in front of you! You’re the one who would lose his job, reputation, and get sued in the process. You could even go to jail. You have a choice. Get on board the Merchants ship or jump off and start swimming. Let me remind you that jobs are getting tougher to find. I want an answer . . . now.” Chad nearly screamed as he hit his fist on his desk, his face turning red and veins popping out on his forehead and neck.

  I tried my best to compose myself. I wanted to go through more of the dirty-laundry list of things I had done for him, including firing people because he wanted to replace them with his relatives and making loans on the most liberal terms to his friends and business partners. Somehow I controlled my tongue. He was right. I was as guilty for blindly witnessing documents and being unethical as he was for pressuring me to do so.

  “I’m on board,” I said.

  “Good. I’ll do my best to forget what was said today. I think you need to leave now. Go home, or wherever you go after you leave work, and think about what you need to do to keep your focus to stay on board. Good luck, Jack. You’re going to need it.”

  Chad’s face lit up with a smug smile of victory. I nodded my head in pitiful agreement, stood, and walked out the door.

  As I lay in the hospital bed, the monitors were chirping rapidly, showing my physical response to the memory of my capitulation to Chad. Returning my thoughts to the present, I decided to take José’s advice and try to calm myself down.

  I remembered Tina’s comments from her visit. She had been honest; I’d created a monster—or worse. Tina doesn’t care about me. The kids don’t care. They just want my money. I did everything for them.

  Or did I? The monitor started to beep faster. I tried to gain control again. Okay, deep breaths, Jack, deep breaths, I told myself.

  I fell asleep.

  The best decisions are made with the mind and heart in harmony.

  —BENJAMIN FRANKLIN PRICE

  19. How Do You Feel?

  “HOW DO YOU FEEL?”

  Feeling the effects of the drug-induced sleep, I could barely make out the voice. Opening my eyes, I saw my physician standing at the head of the hospital bed. Dr. Hall had been a client of PT&G for years, but I rarely saw him outside of business. I had met him when I was a loan officer many years ago and successfully talked him into moving his business to the bank.

  Seeing me wake up while he was reviewing the chart, he continued: “Jack, what are you doing here? I need someone to stay at that new bank and take care of my money!” While I’m sure he said it for a comforting laugh, Dr. Hall was being partially sincere. He spent as much time making sure every penny of his earnings was being invested properly as he spent taking care of his patients. I knew this from experience.

  “Sorry, Doc,” I said trying to smile. “I’ll get right back to work as soon as you unhook me. What’s my problem?”

  “After looking at everything, it appears you suffered what amounts to an anxiety attack. That’s the only way I can describe it at this point. Have you ever experienced anything like that before?”

  “No, never,” I said. But even as I was saying the words I remembered getting short of breath in the elevator several days earlier. And there were other times in my life when I had felt something similar to the nausea and claustrophobic feelings. But I didn’t tell him.

  “Are you sure it was an anxiety attack?” I asked. “I’ve always handled stress very effectively.”

  “I’m sure you have, but stress catches up with you—you can’t outrun stress. Tell me what happened. What were you doing before this happened?”

  Embarrassed, I said, “I had a meeting with my boss—he wouldn’t listen to me and I got angry.” I didn’t go into detail. “I remember trying to stand up, feeling nauseous, and sitting back down. Then I was here.”

  “That must have been some kind of meeting,” he said, smiling and continuing to look at the charts. “The only way I would have gotten that upset would be if my accountant told me I was being audited by the IRS.” He laughed, folding the cover over the clipboard. “Or if you guys were raising the interest rates on my loans.” Again, he was telling a partial truth. I wished he would tell me I could leave.

  “All of the tests so far appear to show nothing that would evidence a heart attack or anything else. I was shocked we found a heart in there,” he said, trying to be humorous again. “However, to make
sure everything is working inside I’m going to put you through a full physical today. When was the last time you had a complete physical?”

  “I haven’t had time to get sick or even think about being sick,” I said. “I can’t remember ever having a full physical. I’ve been busy.”

  “Everyone is busy, Jack,” he said in a much more serious tone of voice. “You need to get focused more on your health than your job.” He looked me squarely in the eyes. “We are going to poke, prod, and test to see if you have any complications we aren’t finding. But even before I get any results from a physical, I’m sure of a couple of things. First, you need to lose weight. Second, you need to exercise, starting moderately but staying on a regular fitness regimen. Third, your diet is obviously poor, so what you will begin to eat starting today will probably taste different than the fried food you have been digesting on a regular basis.” He smiled, looking at my huge stomach outlined below the hospital sheets.

  “Will that keep me from having another attack like the one today?” I asked.

  “Count this as a warning shot fired over your boat. It’s time to get yourself a tune-up before something bad happens. We’ll begin the tests and get your physical exam done while you’re here. I want you to spend a night in the hospital so we can monitor you and complete our examination. Plus, you look like you need a good night’s sleep. We can make sure of that here. Then we’ll figure out a program for you to deal with your stress. Sound fair?”

  “Okay, Doc,” I said. “Just be sure to change the oil and rotate my tires.”

  Dr. Hall laughed and said, “Don’t worry, we won’t miss anything.”

  At any other time in my life, I would have been worried about what would happen at work without me being there. I would have immediately called the office and begun telling my secretary Carol all of the things she would need to do to make sure nothing slipped. But I leaned back, shut my eyes, and began taking deep breaths.

  José stepped back into the room. “Thanks again for being so patient with your worst patient,” I said.

  “You’re not my worst—but close to it,” he said with a huge smile. “How did everything go with your doctor?”

  “It’s not good,” I said, trying to appear as serious as possible. “He said you people were going to probe me and test me like a laboratory rat. Is that what you do to bankers?”

  “So you’re a banker,” he said. “I knew you were someone important.”

  “Bankers aren’t important,” I said. “We may think we are, but we aren’t.”

  “My banker has helped make my life better,” José said. “His name is Henry—Henry Starnes. He’s getting ready to retire from the credit union. I’m gonna miss him. He took a chance on me when no one else would. He helped me get loans so I could finish college. Got me a loan to buy our house. He’s like one of our family. I take my kids into his office at Christmas every year and they give him a present, usually something my wife has baked.”

  I did everything I could not to cringe. Of course I knew Henry—I had fired him many years ago, securing my first promotion. I didn’t know what to say. José continued, “Henry said he used to work for the big bank that was bought. He said he worked there over twenty years—but they didn’t appreciate him. It was their loss, our gain at the credit union. Do you know Henry?”

  “Yes, I know Henry. I haven’t seen him for years. I always thought a lot of him. He was one of the friendliest bankers I’ve ever met. He’s a good man.”

  “So you know him—small world! He’s a great guy,” José said as he continued checking all of the gauges and the IV. He then asked, “Which bank do you work for, Jack?”

  “The wrong one,” I said, turning my head away.

  I was ashamed.

  Knowing what’s wrong can help you find what’s right.

  —BENJAMIN FRANKLIN PRICE

  20. What’s Wrong?

  “WHAT’S WRONG?”

  José’s question had sparked a memory from many years earlier. I sat still, thinking about what was wrong with me. “Are you all right?” he asked again, seeing the obvious vacant look on my face.

  “Yeah, I am. Could you do me a favor?” I asked.

  “Sure, as long as you don’t ask me to sneak you out of here,” he said.

  “The first thing you told me was that I was where I was supposed to be. I believe you. But I need to make a call to confirm a trip I’m supposed to go on.”

  “Mr. Oliver, I mean, Jack. I’m not sure you need to get on the phone right now and make business phone calls,” he said.

  “This isn’t about work—this is about going fishing,” I said.

  “Fishing—that sounds like what you need.”

  “Could you get the number for me?” I asked, still nearly bound to the bed with gauges and tubes. “It’s a yellow sticky note inside of my coat in the closet.”

  “Is this it?” José said, pulling out the yellow note. “Benny Price?”

  “Yes, he’s a new friend,” I said. “He invited me to go fishing.”

  “You need some time away from work every now and then. Fishing is something I would prescribe,” José said. He gave me a big smile and handed me the note.

  After José left the room, I shut my eyes and thought about what had just happened. I hadn’t heard the name Henry Starnes for years. Now, I was hearing it in a hospital. When José had asked, “What’s wrong?” I had a flashback to a time Tina had posed the same question.

  “What’s wrong?” Tina asked, rolling over at three o’clock in the morning to find me flipping through TV channels.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “You look like you’re annoyed—or something worse.”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “I can’t sleep.”

  “Jack, you look like you’re really upset—tell me what’s wrong.”

  The day before Chad had asked me to perform a favor for him, approving a loan to one of his close friends. “It’s just a little deal,” he told me. The loan didn’t meet PT&G’s loan policy, but I approved the deal. Only a couple of days earlier I had chewed out one of my top lenders for making a loan that bore less than 10 percent of the risk I had just approved for Chad’s friend. My conscience was bothering me.

  “It’s just work,” I said to Tina, trying to avoid any further discussion. “Sometimes you have to do things on the way up the ladder you don’t agree with—but you have to do it to get ahead.”

  “What did you do?” Tina asked.

  I explained the situation to Tina.

  “How do you explain something like that to the lender you chewed out?” Tina asked.

  “I don’t,” I said. “I don’t have to explain anything; I’m her boss.”

  “So you’re doing to her what Chad has done to you?” Tina said.

  “That’s why I have tried to claw my way to the top as quickly as possible,” I said in one of my rare moments of honesty with Tina. “The higher you climb the more you avoid situations like that. You reduce the amount of dirty work you have to do.”

  “But the higher you climb the more you get to dump on people below you,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t call it dumping on them—that’s their job,” I said.

  “To do Chad’s dirty work?” she said.

  “It’s not dirty work—it’s what we do. It’s part of the job,” I said.

  “So, does that make it right?” Tina asked.

  “No,” I said, “but at least it won’t be my problem.”

  “I don’t understand the person you’re becoming,” Tina said. “It’s like you can’t or don’t distinguish right from wrong anymore.”

  “I know right from wrong,” I said, “but in business, there’s a lot more tolerance. There are no black-and-white, right-and-wrong answers—everything in business is gray.”

  “I hope and pray you really don’t think like that,” Tina said, rolling over away from me. “You don’t, do you?”
/>   “I don’t know,” I said, “I really don’t know.”

  Putting some “gray in play,” as Chad referred to it, always helped. He said the act of rationalizing the pros and cons helped to cloud the issues enough to avoid a moral quandary. It allowed us to believe the ends justified the means. Seeing gray helped to remove the black-and-white, right-and-wrong ethical choices.

  “What we do can’t be put in the context of right and wrong,” Chad reminded me over the years. “What we do is business. Business is survival of the most profitable—not the most moral.”

  I thought about moments of questionable judgment during my brief stay at Jefferson Hospital. Had I become so jaded in my life that I had actually forgotten the difference between right and wrong? Or had I simply tried to ignore the difference so I could sleep at least two or three hours a night?

  I remembered a section from Benny’s book about right and wrong:

  Instead of asking “What’s right?” and looking for the right answer, I will ask myself, “What’s wrong?” This reduces the field of choices—what’s wrong usually stands out. By reducing choices, I can make a better, less-confused choice. Knowing what’s wrong can help you find what’s right.

  If I had taken that simple advice over the years, it would have limited my upward mobility at the bank. Admitting that something was unethical would have slowed my progress, so I looked for gray as Chad had told me. I had done a lot of the wrong things to find something I believed was right for me and my family. My life was a pitiful representation of the Jack Oliver I had aspired to be, I thought. As hard as I had tried, success was always out of reach. Going back to the Monopoly strategy and all of the strategy, plans, and hard work, one mistake was now clearly evident—my aim was wrong.