a questionable life

by Luke Lively

  Looking in the mirror I saw what Crabtree saw in me. I had finally realized the fear imbedded in me since college—that I was a fake. That fear had motivated me to prove to the world that I was not a sham; it spurred me to overachieve in academics and in my career. I thought I had outgrown that terror, leaving it behind in the wake of my achievements, but my old dread had never left me.

  Not only had the fear refused to go away, it had matured.

  In the small plane I felt the same way again. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. Is this another anxiety attack?

  I remembered José’s advice and began taking slow, deep breaths. The gentleman seated beside me saw my discomfort.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I said. “I’m not a fan of flying.”

  “Neither am I,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

  Leaning over to look out of the window of the jet traveling hundreds of miles per hour thousands of feet above the earth, I was not afraid. But the thoughts of that time when my career was on the line and I wasn’t in control resurfaced—I was afraid then and now.

  As I continued taking slow, deep breaths, I thought about how I was able to overcome the problem.

  It was luck, I thought. Hopefully, I had not depleted my supply of good fortune.

  I needed some now.

  Everything has a price.

  —BENJAMIN FRANKLIN PRICE

  23. What’s It Worth?

  “WHAT’S IT WORTH?”

  I had never imagined I would ask Bill Crabtree the question. It was one of the best moments in my career. The memory created a smile on my face as I considered how luck had revived my career. Whoever said, “I’d rather be lucky than good” was right.

  The pilot had just announced we would be landing in Cincinnati in ten minutes. As the plane slowly began its descent, I recalled how I was able to win the war with Bill Crabtree and secure my first executive position, well ahead of even my own plans.

  At the time, it had been worth everything to me.

  After attending our weekly department meeting just two days after the contentious meeting with Crabtree, I had decided to work late at the office and catch up on paperwork. I was in no hurry to go home to Tina and the family. Her nagging and complaints about my work habits only made me want to stay away even more. I had bought a new home for Tina, Jessica, and our newest addition, Joshua. That didn’t stop Tina’s complaints. What does she want from me? I thought, sorting through a mass of papers on my desk. I had not told her about Crabtree’s threats. I didn’t want her to worry. Even more importantly, she didn’t need any more ammunition to criticize me.

  If I lost my job I would lose everything, I thought. I was still trying to decide what to do. Then I got a break.

  As I walked out of my office down the hall to the copier I heard Crabtree talking on the phone. The copier was located in a small room adjacent to his office, but out of sight. He evidently did not know anyone was still on the floor. After sitting for hours reviewing loans, he would go around the room and tell each person what was wrong with their efforts. He expected the team to go home after he concluded the grueling sessions, but today, I had decided to stay. He had put the phone on speaker and was talking with Thomas Skeens, a voice I recognized very well.

  “Yeah, Tom, that’ll be wonderful. I appreciate you letting me in on that deal. It worked out for everyone,” Crabtree said.

  “Bill, I’m glad you’re happy. But you’ve never lowered the interest rates on my lines of credit. That was part of our deal. I put a quarter-of-a-million-dollar profit in your hands for doing nothing other than giving me a loan. You’re costing me money. I want those rates dropped—now.” Skeens nearly shouted.

  “I told you I couldn’t take the rates any lower. Your rate would be the lowest of any borrower in the bank. The bank examiners have classified your loans as high risk. Even Chad views you as a high-risk borrower and thinks your rates are already too low,” Crabtree meekly responded.

  “A deal is a deal, Bill,” Skeens said. “I’m sure Chad would love to hear how you’ve been turning big bucks on the side using the bank as your private source of capital.”

  “Don’t threaten me, Tom,” Crabtree said in a tone I recognized. “We go back a long way. We’ve been doing this for almost ten years. You know I’ll come through.”

  “Then just do it!” Skeens shouted. “Do it, or I’ll find the biggest whistle I can find to blow and I’ll point at you, my friend.”

  “Consider it done,” Crabtree said in a nearly faint voice. “I’ll do it.”

  “Good,” Skeens said. “Don’t ever try to go back on a deal we made—or it will be the last deal I’ll let you in on—and the last deal you’ll make as a banker. If Chad thinks I’m high risk, what would he think of his top loan exec making loans to himself through illegitimate corporations?”

  “Good-bye, Tom,” Crabtree said, hanging up the phone. I could hear him slump back in his chair and sigh as I turned and walked back to my office to avoid detection. I gently shut the door and sat down in my chair. What I had just heard could get Crabtree fired. It was my responsibility to tell Chad. But was that the best thing for the bank? Crabtree was the reason the bank was ahead of budget. On paper, he was doing a great job. While I didn’t like him, he was a respected member of Philadelphia’s inner circle of executives. I wondered if I could use this situation to my advantage.

  On the following Monday I reviewed the interest rate change reports. The reports showed any changes in interest rates. Despite prime rate being 8.00 percent at the time, Thomas Skeens and his various corporate entities all had received a rate decrease to 7.00 percent, one full percent below prime, far and away the best rate at PT&G. I did some more background work on the loan history for Skeens and his myriad of corporations.

  I had my proof. Now, I had to make a decision about what to do. After a lot of thought I settled on a course of action. It was a huge risk, but my options were limited.

  Walking into Bill Crabtree’s office without any notice was something no one ever did. But on that Tuesday morning, I did. I shut the door behind me and sat down.

  “I hope this is important, Mr. Oliver,” he said, looking over the top of his glasses at me. He was obviously surprised by my abrupt and unplanned entry. “I’m very busy.”

  “I’m sure you are,” I said. “That is a great break Thomas Skeens got on his interest rates. Does Chad know yet?”

  “That’s none of a rookie’s business, Mr. Oliver,” he said. “You’re out of line coming in here and saying anything about clients that you have zero knowledge of or connection with. Leave now.”

  “Okay, but before I do, I do know something,” I said. “I know you made a quarter of a million dollars in a silent partnership with a classified borrower, Thomas Skeens. You put the money in accounts outside of PT&G—something that was easily traced. I have copies of all the transactions. The corporate names have nothing to do with you, but you seem to get paid a lot of money from them. You’ve been doing this for a long time. Your decision to drop the rates on all of Skeens’ loans was part of your arrangement; one that Skeens will gladly talk about when I tell Chad and we increase the interest rates to prime plus one percent on all of his loans. Now, I’ll leave.” My knowledge of the situation and boldness had completely caught Crabtree off guard. As I stood up from the chair, Crabtree spoke.

  “How do you know these things?” he asked. “Are you spying on me? If you are—I’ll fire you.”

  “No, I’m not spying,” I said. “But you got greedy and made a lot of mistakes. All of that money made you sloppy—you didn’t cover your tracks. If I can find it, I’m sure the auditors will ultimately find it, too. You’re the one with your neck on the line, Bill. You’ll be fired if I make a call to Chad. I have my proof. Is that what you want, Bill?”

  Using “Bill” fueled his anger. I remained standing, my heart beating at a thousand beats per minute. “If you were going to report me,
you would have done so already. What do you want, Jack?” he asked.

  “What’s it worth?” I asked.

  “Sit down,” he asked in a much calmer tone. I sat down on the edge of the chair. “It sounds like we may have similar interests.”

  “All I want is to be treated fairly,” I said. “No more or less, just fairly. I’ll put this information away and never divulge it if you’re fair to me and stop your little campaign to ruin me. And . . . you must stop using PT&G for illegal transactions. If I ever see you doing it again, I’ll make sure you’re out of here, even if it costs me my job.”

  “I was right about not trusting or liking you. I always viewed you as ruthless, someone I couldn’t trust.”

  “Trust?” I asked. “Yeah, Bill, I can see where you have trust issues.”

  “No need to be a smart-ass. But that really doesn’t matter, does it? You have me over the proverbial barrel, don’t you?” he said. He removed his glasses and leaned back into his oversized chair. “I guess you feel good about yourself, don’t you? You want money, don’t you? A piece of the business.”

  “Yes,” I said, “I have you over the barrel. Do I feel good? Hell no. If you had been fair to me, I wouldn’t have been working late and heard you and your friend arguing. That was your fault. I don’t want any money—none. All I want is to be treated fairly. What is wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, except I must say, you know exactly what you want in life and nothing will stop you,” he said. I thought I heard a hint of respect. “You have it. I’ll do what I can to help you out, and you’ll forget what you know about Skeens and me. The bank is still making a lot of money on Skeens. I’m not hurting the bank,” he said.

  “No, and you’re definitely not hurting yourself either,” I reminded him. “You’re the greediest man I’ve ever met.”

  “Well it takes one to know one,” Crabtree said. “I know you pretty well. It’s like looking in a mirror, but you’re much greedier than me in your own way. You want power more than money, don’t you?”

  “Power is money,” I said.

  My performance improved dramatically after this. William Crabtree treated me fairly for the remainder of his time at PT&G—a little less than four years after I confronted him with the Skeens situation. He decided to step down from his position and retire to one of his several retirement homes. He did do me a favor when he left: He recommended me for his position.

  “Jack, I know we’ve had our differences, but I’m going to recommend you for my position,” Crabtree said. His face was thin and pale. “One thing I want you to promise me. I want to know that the past is the past and you will never disclose anything you think may have happened.”

  “Are you doing this because I could talk about the past—or are you doing it because you think I’m the best person for the job?” I asked. After my slow start, in the nearly five years I had been making business loans I had distinguished myself as the top producer and most profitable at PT&G. This did not come at a small price. I worked 24/7 to make the deals, perform underwriting, and move in the social circles necessary to stay in touch with Philadelphia’s players. It was a heavy price, but one I had been willing to pay.

  “You’re the best we have,” he said. “I also want you to forget the past. It’s the best for both of us.”

  “Agreed,” I said. “The past is the past—it’s all history.”

  Over the years, Chad told me about where he would like to see me as I moved through my career. “I need people like you, Jack, that I can trust,” he said. “That is an absolute necessity for any executive position at PT&G; I must trust the person, without fail.”

  With a little over five years of experience I was promoted into Bill Crabtree’s position. I was the bank’s top producer. There were others more qualified in terms of years of experience, but they lacked what I had—Chad’s trust.

  Just like earning my reputation as a top producer, I had earned Chad’s trust by putting everything on the line. I went after deals that Chad specifically wanted. Much of the risk associated with many of these deals was outside of our policy, but Chad was the person who ultimately made the call. He had a purpose in mind. “I want to make sure that everyone in Philadelphia knows that PT&G is the best bank in the city. To do that means we take risks. But life is a game, and if you don’t roll the dice you’ll never win.” Chad had said this on many occasions, especially after deciding to approve a risky deal.

  My next promotion wasn’t much of a surprise—I had worked for it. I was called into his office on a Wednesday afternoon after the PT&G monthly board of director’s meeting. “Today the PT&G Board of Directors approved you as the new executive vice president and senior credit officer. Congratulations, Jack, you’re now a PT&G executive.”

  I thanked Chad for his support because I knew he was the person making the promotion happen.

  “You’re absolutely right,” Chad said. “Never forget who pulled the strings and moved you up the ladder. I’m counting on you. Never let me down.”

  As customary in those moments where I was pledging part of my soul to Chad for career advancement, I said, “I’ll never let you down.” I meant it. I would do anything to achieve my goal. I wanted to take Chad’s place when he stepped down.

  But my course had changed. Instead of Philadelphia, I was in Cincinnati on my way to Roanoke, Virginia.

  To others, you are what you do.

  —BENJAMIN FRANKLIN PRICE

  24. What Do You Do?

  “WHAT DO YOU DO?”

  It was a question I used to enjoy answering. It allowed me the golden opportunity to recite the Jack Oliver story in all its glory. Career success after career success adorned my recital. But now, it was a question I would rather not answer.

  With a two-hour wait before the flight to Roanoke departed, I decided to step into one of the two airport restaurants at the small Cincinnati airport terminal. My trip to Benny’s was taking me far off a direct path. Making the detour worse, weather delays had created a crowd. After scanning the restaurant, I took the last available seat at the end of the eatery’s L-shaped bar. As soon as I climbed onto the bar stool the person sitting next to me began to talk. He was a young man, probably in his late twenties, and well-dressed. Without talking to anyone specifically, he continued what sounded like a commentary on Barry Bonds and the use of steroids in sports. From the way he was slurring his speech, I realized he had consumed more than his fair share of scotch and water. There was a news story debating Bonds’ chemical dependency on the large, flat-screen television directly in front of us. I ordered a Coke and looked for another seat, but nothing appeared to be opening soon. I was stuck beside the amateur talking head.

  “I think they should leave Barry Bonds alone,” he said. “I don’t care if Barry hits a home run, stops at second base when he is running the bases, and sticks a needle in his ass to juice up. He’s the best. He’s not the only one who’s shot himself up with steroids. They all do it.”

  Being a long-time baseball fan and still able to recite almost every major record in professional baseball from memory, I didn’t agree. I couldn’t keep quiet. “Hank Aaron hit more homers than the Babe without steroids,” I said, looking at the video featuring Bond’s huge head and no-neck profile. “Babe Ruth hit 714 home runs without steroids. Where would Barry Bonds be without steroids?”

  “It’s a different world now,” he said. “Babe Ruth wasn’t an athlete. He drank beer in the dugout. He had a gut Santa Claus would have died for. His legs looked like tooth picks. What a joke. Hank Aaron played well beyond his prime just to break the record. Those guys are just memories. Neither could play professionally now. Barry Bonds is the most feared hitter of all time—with or without drugs. You should appreciate Bonds—he’s an old guy like you who’s still playing.”

  “How can you say that when steroids are banned from baseball—they’re illegal,” I said, refusing to back down. I didn’t appreciate his “old guy” comment. “Just because one person
cheats it doesn’t open the door for everybody.”

  “What do you do?” the stranger asked, taking a sip from his beer and looking at me for the first time.

  “I’m a banker,” I said, not knowing where he was coming from.

  “Well, your job and your age tells me why you’re so out of touch with reality,” he said, laughing. He turned his attention back to the flat-screen television. “My Dad sounded a lot like you—completely out of touch—you guys live in a dream world.”

  “Out of touch? How could anyone say using steroids is good for baseball? It’s cheating. Is cheating okay in your world?”

  Hearing our voices growing louder, the bartender stepped in front of us. “Is there a problem here?” he asked, wiping the edge of the bar with a white cloth.

  “No,” the young man said, “the only problem is this guy has his head up his ass.”

  Before I could say anything, the bartender firmly told the young man, “Listen buddy, I know you’re tired of waiting on your plane, but that’s uncalled for—get out of here.”

  Without saying a word the young man slid off the stool. He bumped me with a hard pressed shoulder as he walked away. “Can you believe that?” I asked the bartender, shaking my head and readjusting myself on the stool.

  “It’s getting worse,” he said, shaking his head. “People don’t care anymore. It’s like everyone’s mad. It’s not just here at the airport. I work two jobs to support my two wives—the ex and the current one. My other job is worse.”

  “What do you do?” I asked.

  “I collect bad loans for a finance company. It’s almost like being a policeman, without the gun and the badge.”