by Luke Lively
“That’s how I started out a long time ago,” I said. “I collected. I’m a banker.”
“A banker?” he said. “No wonder the guy thought you were a jerk—how can you people say you’re doing an honest job putting people under all of that debt? I don’t see how you can sleep at night.”
Seeing that I was now in my second unexpected confrontation just from mentioning I was a banker, I reached in my wallet, pulled out a ten-dollar bill, and put it on the counter. “I sleep fine. Keep the change.” I got up and walked back into the busy center of the airport. No seats were available. I found a small corner where I could stand and set my carry-on bag on the ground between my feet. I looked at my watch and then looked up at the flight schedule looming nearby. My plane was running thirty minutes late.
What seemed like the same outdated plane I had flown from Philly to Cincinnati was now in the air heading southeast toward Roanoke, Virginia. I was seated by the emergency exit. While flying didn’t bother me, sitting by the exit did.
I decided to turn my attention to my weekend with Benny and the situation with his bank. Merchants had stuck to their acquisition plan. They had a target list. Most of their takeovers appeared friendly because they bought off the CEO and the controlling interest of the board. But they had failed to gain any market share in Virginia. A bank like Benny’s would be a perfect fit. The bank was relatively large, but not too large to be swallowed up by a bank the size of Merchants. Benny’s bank was profitable, so if Merchants could force the sale of the bank at the right price, they could afford to pay a premium. Finally, if the executive board was aging and ready to put the bank up for sale, the final obstacle would be cleared. All those factors fit with the idea that Benny’s bank was a target of Merchants.
While Benny didn’t discuss this with me in the early phone negotiations, I was sure I would hear about it once I was on the ground in Virginia. Immediately, the idea of getting a chance to fight Merchants appealed to me. But, at the same time, if I went to work for Benny and was then acquired by Merchants, my career was as good as over. I continued to mull over the positives and negatives as the plane moved closer to Roanoke.
This makes it even more interesting, I thought, as the plane touched down at the Roanoke Regional Airport.
I had finally arrived.
Now is where the past meets the future.
—BENJAMIN FRANKLIN PRICE
25. How Was Your Trip?
“HOW WAS YOUR TRIP?”
The flight attendant had noticed my difficulty in making my way toward the exit. The basketball team for Roanoke College dominated the seats in the back. As soon as the plane landed and we got the okay to unbuckle, the team rose quickly and moved into the aisle forcing their way to the front, altering the typical row-by-row exit. Frustrated by standing hunched over waiting to step into the aisle, I gave up and sat down to wait until they all passed.
I was the last passenger leaving the plane.
“It was okay,” I said, answering the flight attendant. “Other than the fact I couldn’t get off the plane.”
“I’m sorry you had to wait,” she said. “The basketball team seemed a little anxious.”
“Anxious,” I said but gave her a smile, “I’m the anxious one.”
The itinerary called for Benny and his wife, Ann, to meet me at the airport, and then Ann would return to their home in Salem (wherever Salem was). Benny and I would drive to Smith Mountain Lake to fish, hike, and “spend the weekend getting to know each other” as he called it. This had to be the most radical step in my career, I thought, as I walked through the narrow entry into the Roanoke Regional Airport. A job interview on a boat? A Philly banker in the woods—it seemed almost ridiculous to me.
I had told myself that regardless of what happened over the weekend, leaving Philly for even a couple of days would be a good thing for me. I had never really enjoyed leaving town—there was always so much to do at work. Philly had everything for me with the exception of NASCAR. I was satisfied staying put. But I needed a break, which my time in the hospital had made clear.
I had tried to picture what Benny was like. He had said he liked gardening, fishing, and reading. He was probably sedentary—a lot like me. He was somewhere around seventy years old, making him even less active. His wife was a great cook according to John, so he had to carry a few extra pounds. My mental image of Benny was of a short, overweight balding man with glasses; scholarly and appearing to be what people expected when they heard the term “banker.” His wife probably looked like Barbara Bush.
Looking around the concourse I didn’t see anyone fitting that picture. Walking slowly forward in the rope-lined area behind the line of passengers, I saw ahead a gentleman who was almost as tall and physically fit as the members of the basketball team standing near him. He was talking with each of the players as they walked by as if he knew all of them.
The gentleman stood out in the crowd. He had thick white hair and was smiling. That’s Benny, I thought. I was completely wrong about what I expected. The woman beside him was taller than me. Ann, I reasoned as I moved forward closer to the couple. She was thin and athletic, complementing Benny’s physique. She was very attractive and didn’t appear to be retirement age. They both looked like they were ready to compete in a marathon instead of a bingo tournament at the senior citizens center.
I felt a twinge of intimidation. I had reminded myself I was one of the top Philadelphia bankers, a successful business leader in one of the most competitive arenas in the country. I was well known throughout the industry. They were lucky for me to even consider stepping away from the lucrative big-city market to come to a place as small as Roanoke. But now seeing Benny and Ann, I felt like an overweight, out-of-shape guy who needed them more than they needed me. I had stepped into a world I did not know or understand. I felt like a fat midget in a land of giants.
Benny stepped forward and beamed a bright smile, shaking my hand with a firm grip. “You must be Jack—I’m Benny Price. This is my wife, Ann. We’re so glad you’re here. How was your trip?”
Shaking hands with Benny made much of the self-doubt go away. The strong handshake felt genuine. Benny and Ann radiated warmth. I couldn’t remember feeling this welcome anywhere in recent memory. Or had I even cared whether I was welcomed in the past? Somehow, this was different.
“The trip was fine,” I said. I didn’t need to tell them about my confrontations in Cincinnati. “I’m glad to be on the ground in Virginia.”
“We’re glad you’re here,” Ann said. “I wish your family had been able to make the trip.”
“Well, they were tied up. You know how teenagers are,” I said, already telling a lie. I did not want to talk about family.
We chatted and walked to the luggage pick-up area. The airport, while very small, was modern and one of the cleanest I had ever visited. I heard people talking. That was something you usually didn’t hear in an airport terminal. Even families who were meeting after months of separation typically hugged and rapidly left the airport as if the plane would suck them back in and carry them away if they didn’t get out quickly. But here it seemed very relaxed.
As we stepped outside into the bright Virginia sunshine, the air was clear and seemed to be something your body wanted to breathe. When I had left Philly early in the morning, it was raining and felt as though the heavy sky was collapsing around the tall buildings. Now, standing outside the Roanoke airport, I was viewing a landscape of sky and rolling mountains. It felt as if a weight had been lifted. It felt good.
We talked in the parking lot for a few minutes about the weekend plans. Ann told me to not let Benny wear me out hiking, fishing, or talking too much.
“You’re the guest, Jack, so exert your rights!” she said, laughing. “Benny, bring Jack back in one piece.” Ann turned to Benny with a sweet sincerity that I had never seen between people who had walked down the aisle together. “I have all of the food you two guys will need, just be sure to put it in the fridge when you ge
t there. Don’t forget, I’ll be fixing supper on Sunday evening, so be sure to be home on time. The food will be ready!”
“Thanks, Ann,” I said. “I’ll try my best to keep up with him.”
“That can be a challenge,” she said. She gave me a hug and told me she was happy to finally meet me. “I’ve heard so many good things about you. I hope you enjoy our little piece of heaven here in Virginia.” She then hugged and kissed Benny and drove off in a white Honda Civic, a hybrid model. The car she drove was not what I expected—neither was Benny’s. We put my gear in the back of his forest-green Jeep Grand Cherokee, a model at least ten years old. The exterior was worn and a little torn. When we both were in the vehicle I noticed the mileage reading started with a “1” with five figures after it. I tried not to be obvious as I leaned over to read the gauge. This guy was obviously frugal. I bet he’s tight, I thought to myself, with a capital “T.”
The winding road to the lake was something I never imagined. The road had more curves than I had ever been subjected to. Benny drove at a steady if slow pace. At first, I thought I would get car sick, but that feeling left me as we talked. He wasn’t in a hurry. It still felt very strange for me to be riding along in the Jeep with Benny. If John Helms could see me now, he would get a laugh. I could hear him saying, “City boy in the country . . . you’re lookin’ outta place, Jack, ole boy!”
The sounds of travel were also different. Benny drove with the windows rolled down. The clean scent of the fresh, cool mountain air filtered into the Jeep. Benny waved at different people traveling on the two-lane road near the lake. They waved back using all of their fingers. I was impressed. In Philadelphia, people drove with one hand on the wheel and the other holding a cell phone or a coffee cup. Caught up in the differences I was seeing, I mentioned it to Benny. He laughed.
“Well, Jack, cell phones don’t pick up a reliable signal out here,” he said. “I don’t have a cell phone. I did, but it was so irritating. They may be good for emergencies, but they seem to cause more problems.”
“You don’t have a cell phone?” I asked.
“Cell phones don’t give you time to think,” Benny said. “I like to have at least a few seconds of time to think before I put my foot in my mouth.” A slight smile curled up on his face. “Plus, they’re dangerous when you’re driving, especially on a road with this many curves.”
“I can see what you’re talking about,” I said, leaning into the next curve. “Some people send text messages—they use their cell phones to type in messages—while they’re driving.”
“That’s taking technology a little far, isn’t it?” he said. “Typing-on-the-go!” We both laughed. I then realized I was one of the idiots we were laughing at.
Still, I was surprised. A CEO of a bank, albeit a mid size bank, without a cell phone—that’s remarkable, I thought. Without thinking I blurted out, “How do you get away with not having a cell phone handy?”
Benny laughed and seemed to enjoy the question. “I am always available when I’m outside of my Jeep. People have my phone numbers and usually know where I can be reached. I did give into technology. I have answering machines at home and at the lake cabin, just in case—but not at the bank.”
“I live with my cell phone strapped to my side like a cowboy with a gun in his holster,” I said smiling, using an analogy Carol had used, unabashedly prideful in my attachment to work. Then the last statement Benny made finally registered. “Wait, you don’t have voice mail at the bank?”
“We have voice mail—but not during working hours. I’m sure that may surprise you, but what do people prefer? When I call a place I always want to speak to a person, a person who identifies who they are. I want to hear a person with a smile in their voice—someone inviting, not intimidating. That’s part of our practice at Citizens. If the phone is ringing, we’re in business! If a client isn’t walking in the door or calling—we’re in trouble. I don’t trust allowing a machine to do business for me.”
I was shocked. No voice mail. I told Benny how people invented ways to talk only to voice mail and it was an accepted method of communication. Deliberate phone tag. “Who has the time to talk?” I said, caught up in the debate.
“Who has the time to talk? Well, your clients,” Benny said with vibrancy I had yet to hear in his voice. “They have time, or they wouldn’t be calling. The greatest sound to me is the sound of a door opening or a phone ringing. Clients want you to take the time not to talk, but to listen. Voice mail is, at best, a catchall. I despise phone tag. Phone tag is alive and well in Virginia. We may not be Philly, but dodging a ringing phone is everywhere,” Benny said. “We make our business different by answering the phone within the first three rings. We train our people to do that. We also have to keep enough people on staff to answer the phone. That is an expense I never mind paying. Call it paying attention.”
Paying attention. Benny was certainly inventive with his expressions, I thought. But his ideas were radical. We continued to talk about the similarities and dissimilarities of banking as we continued on the curvy road.
“People are the same everywhere,” Benny said. “We’re all connected. Whether they’re in Philadelphia or Blacksburg, they want the same thing—service. I haven’t seen anything to tell me otherwise. Don’t your clients expect good service?”
I gave Benny a ten-minute perspective on Philly customers and their short-sighted demands on being served. But the more I talked, the more I kept being drawn back to the simple reality that Benny was right—customers were more similar than dissimilar in Philly and in Virginia—they expected service. But this was new to me. How we viewed our interaction with customers was totally different. Benny’s focus was on giving the customer above-average service. We focused on our profit, efficiency, and sales. I couldn’t remember the last time I had talked about improving customer service.
But Benny’s way was more expensive, I thought. It was a dreamland of wishes that could never come true. I saw an old man reminiscing about the way it used to be. Get real, I thought, as he talked about his bank’s simple approach.
He’s out of touch, I told myself as we wound our way down the narrow highway’s steep descent. Then I saw something ahead that stood out.
It was a sign.
Right now is the most important time in your life.
—BENJAMIN FRANKLIN PRICE
26. How Much Is Your Time Worth?
“HOW MUCH IS YOUR TIME WORTH?”
After driving over one hour, we were nearing a community, albeit a very small one. We had reached a clearing, and I saw a small, white wooden church ahead on the right side of the road. It could have been out of a Norman Rockwell painting except for what appeared to be a portable, illuminated sign parked in front of the sanctuary. The sign’s message asked, HOW MUCH IS YOUR TIME WORTH?
“What a shame to clutter up a beautiful little church with a sign like that,” I said. “The only time I’ve seen signs like that is in front of 7-Elevens.”
“We have our fair share of signs and billboards here. My favorite one was outside a church in downtown Roanoke,” Benny said. “The message on it said, GOD IS LIKE ALLSTATE: YOU’RE IN GOOD HANDS!
“I believe the pastor is an insurance agent and leaves no doubt about his allegiances,” Benny continued. “He obviously never misses an opportunity to get his message across. I just hope his business card isn’t on the back of the hymnals.”
“Whatever you do—don’t tell him your idea—it sounds like he would do it!” I paused. “Religion and insurance kind of go hand in hand,” I said.
“What did you think of the message on the sign we just passed?” Benny asked.
“What’s my time worth? Is that meant to begin negotiations over my salary?” I asked, only partially joking.
“In some ways, I guess you could look at your salary as a part of the value of your time,” Benny said. “But I thought the message was a very good one. I believe the most valuable time in your life is right now.”
“What other moment has more value? You can’t go back in time and relive the past. You don’t know what’s going to happen in the next second. What are your thoughts, Jack?”
I was momentarily stumped by his question. “If I could go back and redo some of my worst mistakes, that time would be the most important—much more important than now.”
“But you can’t go back in time,” Benny said. He took a quick look at me, briefly turning his attention from the now much straighter roadway. “Or can you?”
“Time travel—that would be great; I could go back and mess up again.”
“If you could go back in time, why would it be to a time when you were unhappy? Wouldn’t you want to go back and revisit the best of times?” he asked.
“No, I wouldn’t,” I said. “I would want to fix things. That would make the future better.”
“Would going back in time and trying to do something differently make you any happier?” he asked.
“No, but I wouldn’t feel as guilty,” I said, emitting a small laugh. “It would relieve some of the pain.” I’d just met Benny, and here I was opening up to him. I wondered if John Helms had done the same.
A convenience story, Harry’s Stop & Shop, was the first sign of any commerce since we left US 220 over one hour earlier. Another back-lit message sign on wheels, parked in front of the store, gave the price of milk and bread and beckoned people to visit the Bait Shop. I thought that was an odd combination. “I’ll take a gallon of milk, a loaf of bread, and a dozen worms,” I could hear a customer say. I’m sure that type of request was commonplace at this end-of-nowhere mini Wal-Mart. The portable, back-lit signs were everywhere, not exclusive to churches. I wanted to ask if he used them at the bank, but I was afraid to hear the answer.
