by Yari Stern
Yari strode alongside his father as they continued south to the intersection of Fairmount and Ridge Avenues. He watched as many of the merchants along the street showed their respect by waving at Sam.
“My father walked out just six months before that,” Sam said, returning to his story. “Bub appointed me head of the household and manager of the store, even though I was only nineteen-years-old. The decisions to be made were overwhelming. Everyone, Bub, my brother, and two sisters, looked to me as a savior. Christ, I didn’t know what the hell to do except keep working.”
“Is that when you became a repoman?”
Sam nodded in confirmation.
“I wish I could do something like that.”
“You can go into whatever business you want after you finish college.”
“School only teaches you how to fit into the system, not how to control it.”
“Not everyone can be the president or a CEO. I took the job grabbing cars because it put food on the table, and because it was the only work I could find between two and six a.m., not because it made me important.”
“When did you sleep?”
“The better question to ask in those days was when did you eat,” Sam said, dismissing the extraordinary sacrifice with a wave of his hand. “So, on Monday morning I strolled into the bank right at the opening, still oblivious to the crisis. I walked over to Mr. Cushman’s desk, sat down, and handed him a withdrawal slip for the money in our account. He glanced at me, at the piece of paper, then stared down again at the files he had been working on. ‘There’s no money in the account, Sam,’ he told me in a voice just above a whisper. He couldn’t even raise his head and look me in the eye.
“‘Mort, I just saw you on Friday. There was over six hundred!’ I reminded him.
“‘Sam, your money was in Continental Bank and Trust,’ Cushman told me. ‘That institution was closed by the government.’
“‘What do you mean?’ I said. I leaned onto his desk so he couldn’t avoid my gaze. ‘This is still Continental Bank and Trust. We’re all here, just like before.’
“‘No, Sam. Come with me.’ He got up and walked toward the front entrance. I followed. When we stepped outside, he turned around and pointed up at the huge stone letters carved on the north facade of the building, thirty feet up. ‘See?’ he explained, ‘This is a brand new bank!’
“I looked up and saw two stone masons chipping the last letters off of ‘TRUST.’
“‘This is Continental Bank!’ he beamed. Cushman almost seemed proud, in a perverse way. But no matter how I argued the point, the money was gone and we had to start over from scratch.”
“That crap doesn’t happen on the street,” Yari assured. “In the real world, you take what a man’s got or what he knows and don’t give him his due, you’re dead, either because he provides instant justice by blowing your head off, or because nobody deals with you after word gets out you’re a two-step.”
“You can’t control every aspect of life. Sometimes you have to accept a circumstance and look at it as a learning experience.” Sam extended an arm out to encompass the entire neighborhood. “You work with people to overcome adversity. That’s how we evolve. You don’t separate yourself and take on an ‘every man for himself’ attitude.
“For years afterward,” Sam went on, “Mr. Cushman personally approved every loan we needed at the store. He gave us a mortgage on our new house without ever coming out to see it. He’s just a simple man working within a complex system, but whenever he had the latitude, he leaned our way.
“It wasn’t him or Continental Bank that screwed us, it was the insanity of the twenties. All of society was bent by greed; and you can’t take revenge on the whole country. It’s easy to blame others but that doesn’t lead to insight and growth.”
“You talk like one of my history professors.”
“That’s what I majored in at Temple University.”
“Why didn’t you become a teacher?” Yari asked.
“I applied for a job the day I graduated. They were taking on cadets at the police academy right away; there was a six month freeze on hiring new teachers.”
“If that’s what you really loved, why didn’t you just wait?”
“That was a luxury we didn’t have, and that kids today will never understand.”
“Weren’t you bitter?”
“I had too much to be thankful for.” A grin spread across Sam’s face. “The depression broke a lot of spirits, but it was the people who were focused on money that didn’t make it. Those grounded by family and community muddled through.
“Let’s cross here.” Sam broke off and wandered into a street he knew well.
“Dad! Hold it!” Yari grabbed his father as he edged out on to Ridge Avenue from amidst parked cars, and pulled him back just as the vehicle bearing down on Sam continued past in an erratic manner, almost taking the paint off a silver Buick Electra and navy blue Ford Thunderbird between which his dad had emerged.
“You cocksucker. I’ll rip your head off and shit down your neck!” Yari raved at a driver whose tall black hat and long pais were the only things visible above the steering wheel.
“Forget it. It’s Irving Kofsky.” Sam shrugged his shoulder as he always did after a close call. “He’s half blind and three-quarters deaf.”
“How can he still have a license?” Yari asked, continuing to stare at the slow moving vehicle as it careened up the avenue.
“He owns most of the 2100 block and contributes big money to local councilmen.”
“But he’s going to kill someone if--.” Yari’s words were drowned out by wailing from a second story window.
“Lionel Washington, look out!” the middle-aged black lady cried out to a man standing in the middle of the street, holding two large bags full of groceries, waiting for a break in traffic. The woman, perched precariously on the sill of her second-story window, could see what the shopper had not: a vehicle aimlessly wandering over both sides of the road in search of its next target.
“I see him, dear,” Lionel responded.
For Yari, the scene unfolded in slow motion. The huge Negro man spun his body toward the danger. But upon discerning that the driver was an impish creature with long sideburns indicative of the Hassidics, he was not about to be intimidated. Lionel stood his ground, straddling the yellow line, staring down his oppressor with a “Com’on whitey, bring it on” look.
Yari observed the diminutive Jew fighting the wheel of the Chrysler Imperial with all the strength that his frail body could muster. Lionel kept his ugly Ridge Avenue sneer zeroed in on the car until one more tug of the wheel by Mr. Kofsky piloted the big boat directly toward the centerline. In that closing second, Lionel took a giant step to the east side of the street as the sedan zeroed in. That quick move saved him from all but the side view mirror. It clipped him on the arm and spun him around twice, with enough centrifugal force to eject dozens of grocery items all over Ridge Avenue.
Mr. Kofsky continued onward at the same rate of speed while Mrs. Washington persisted with relentless howls from above. Lionel regained his balance and began chasing after the hit and run vehicle.
The wails of the distraught wife emptied out the corner taverns of their patrons. Those supporters lined the street as Lionel delivered a sermon to the oblivious old man.
“You gonna pay for disrepectin’ me!” Lionel roared, breaking into full stride.
“Yeah, kill whitey!” the crowd encouraged with clenched fists.
Lionel pressed the chase. “It ain’t goin’ be like it was. Dis is now!” Lionel threatened. The length of the aggrieved shopper’s stride increased with the support of the champions at his back. By that time, Lionel was a block ahead of the horde and a hundred yards behind the Chrysler.
“Go git em, man!” the crowd called out, but with diminishing volume and conviction.
There were so many in the mob it was hard for Yari to see who started it, but within seconds every can of fruit, bunch of vegetable
s, and package of meat was scoffed up off the ground and making its way into the homes and apartments of the ex-supporters.
Lionel looked back over his shoulder to see where his cohorts were. In that instant he lost contact with Irving Kofsky and lost possession of his groceries.
“Can you believe that?” Yari asked, not knowing whether to cheer or bemoan. “They’re stealing his groceries!”
“That’s the reality down here. It’s never just been black against white, only the haves against the have-nots. The newspapers play up race to sell subscriptions, and the government uses it to gain support for social programs that allow for more control. But what it really is, is dollars and cents.” Sam grabbed Yari’s arm and guided him back toward the bank.
“The reason it’s so serious on The Ridge is due to the differences in wealth between merchants and residents Sam continued. “It’s the same thing I tell the groups I address for the Human Relations Division. I never get invited back.”
They reached their destination. The façade, still adorned by the name Continental Bank, greeted them. Yari silently entered the mausoleum-like structure, mindful not to disturb the tomb-ish essence, and followed his dad until they came upon an old man hunched over his ledger. He had only wisps of matted down hair on an otherwise bald head. His eye glasses were as thick as a windshield. A plaque, proudly polished, on the desk read: “Morton Cushman - Vice-President, Loan Department.”
“How do you do?” Mr. Cushman asked as he looked up, temporarily confused. He was a dispirited man dressed in a suit with three-inch wide lapels and bright red suspenders. The banker rose from his seat in a manner emulating his antiquated wooden swivel chair, slowly and noisily.
So that’s what forty years of sitting at the same desk does to a man. Yari’s thoughts moved from sardonic to sorrowful. With pale skin, stooped posture, a befuddled look, and a handshake capable of pressing no more than a pencil, Mr. Cushman, and the bank, he decided, would both be better served with the man at home.
“Mort, I’d like you to meet my son, Yari, the scholar.” Sam couldn’t stifle his obvious pride.
“Well, young man, it’s a pleasure. Your father talks of little else besides you these days. Please, won’t you sit down?” Mr. Cushman offered while holding himself up unsteadily. “What can we do for you?” he sputtered while slumping back into the waiting arms of his seat.
“I’ve been studying financial analysis at Drexel,” Yari repeated from memory. “My objective is to open a tax and investment advisory office. I need five thousand dollars for furniture and equipment.”
“Now that’s a proposition this bank can get behind.” Mr. Cushman responded, then turned to Sam. “You have every reason to be proud. However, I’m relegated to equity loans these days. Let me introduce you to my assistant, Mr. Kimball. He’ll take care of you.”
Yari followed his father and Morton Cushman as they walked across the antediluvian marble floor. Stone columns rising up at each corner absorbed the bright sunlight gleaming through clerestory windows three stories high. All but the executive offices shared the cavernous open space, with desks laid out in checkerboard fashion throughout.
Both Sam and the old banker nodded politely as they passed men and women making notes in journals in longhand, or snared in reserved phone conversations.
“Ken, I’d like you to meet Sam Stern,” Mr. Cushman halted abruptly, tottering in front of the prominent desk. “I’m sure you’ve heard me speak of him.”
“Yes, I--,“ Ken Kimball began.
“And this is his youngest boy, Yari,” Mr. Cushman interjected innocuously.
Cut off, the young banker struggled to remain civil. “Won’t you both sit down?” Ken asked as he pulled over another chair from the vacant desk nearby.
“Sam, let the two young men conduct their business. We can go over the papers for the purchase of the new store.”
Yari was momentarily distracted by the calm issuing from his father and Mr. Cushman as they wandered off arm in arm, surrounded by their own self-sustained quietude and peace.
“Well, son, what can I do for you?” Ken Kimball asked, focused more on his pencil than on the customer in front of him.
Yari glanced over at the banker who was barely ten years older than he and not nearly as tall.
Son? I’ve only got one father and you’re not qualified to wipe his ass.
Yari swallowed his silent protest and verbally reviewed the parameters he had so precisely drawn out in the days before the meeting. Economics classes helped him develop a business plan that met the traditional guidelines of an old-line bank. He reeled in the overly confident loan officer using carefully doled out bits of eloquence. Yari felt Ken bite and swallow the bait.
* * *
“So, these monies will be used only for the purposes delineated in your proposal and in this written agreement?” Ken asked, pushing the standard loan contract across the desk, spinning it around so that it stopped right in front of Yari with the print facing toward him.
Actually I’m going to fire every dime on a five-year-old gelded pacer that hasn’t won in two years. That wouldn’t affect your decision, would it?
Yari saw in front of him a corporate player who was moving up fast in the financial world; one not about to approve a loan where he didn’t have the applicant’s testicles as collateral.
“Sign here, and be sure to leave the pen,” Ken Kimball directed, dispensing the funds like they came from his own pocket. “You’ll call me immediately if any payments will not be on time or in full, right?”
Yari nodded affirmatively to each demeaning question. “Yes, sir. I have the greatest respect for you and this institution and intend for this to be the start of a long-term relationship, just like with my Dad.” Yari pushed up forcefully on his tie to choke the truth down his throat.
“What’s this clause here?” Yari slowed down to peruse the document.
“It’s a standard insurance provision. If you become incapacitated, or otherwise incapable of paying the loan, insurance will indemnify and pay the principle and interest in full. “You can wait here,” Ken said, pointing to Yari like a master to a dog seated on newspaper. “I’ll be right back with your check.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Drexel University. Economics Class. Phila. Pa.
Yari got to the college with time to spare, but only by cutting off a public transportation bus and several delivery vehicles at the entrance to the campus.
He ran thorough the halls, bumping other students out of the way like they were bowling ball pins.
He managed not to be the last person to enter class, getting there just before the bell rang.
Yari buried his head in his books, trying to avoid the wrath of a professor he had stirred up previously numerous times.
“Mr. Stern, what is the first law of economics?” Professor Monroe asked.
Yari looked around, hoping there might be another Mr. Stern in the classroom. His hopes dashed, he replied, “Scarcity.”
“Correct. And how does scarcity apply to a modern society like ours where scarcity is rare?”
“Scarcity is only rare if you wait for someone to sell it to you when you have limited funds or they have a monopoly.”
“And how might one avoid the reality and eventuality of running out of funds?”
“Well, you can buy it hot or steal it.”
“You’re suggesting theft as a viable alternative?”
“What do you call it when companies sell things that break the first time you use it, or catch fire, or suffocate someone?”
“There are laws that cover such situations.”
“And if the aggrieved or injured party has five hundred dollars available for an attorney and the company in question has a billion, on which side do you think the scales of justice will end up on?”
“And what part do ethics play,” the professor suggested. “Surely they have some weight?”
“History shows that where ethics and economics come
in conflict, victory is always with economics,” Yari argued. “Vested interests have never been known to have willingly divested themselves unless there was sufficient force to compel them.”
“Economics is a tool that can balance out buyers and sellers, providers and users,” the professor countered. “Our workforce and our entire economy are strongest when we embrace diversity to its fullest, and that means opening doors of opportunity to everyone and recognizing that the American Dream excludes no one.”
“Economics is extremely useful as a form of employment for economists,” Yari quipped.
“Not a very fair and balanced appraisal, Mr. Stern.”
“The doors open to most workers are the back doors, menial jobs for people who do not participate in the rewards of ownership,” Yari countered.
“And you have found a better way to run the system?”
“Sure. Eliminate the middleman. Direct sales between the manufacturer and the consumer. That lowers the price of goods by 40% - 50%.”
“An interesting theory, Mr. Stern.”
“It’s not a theory. It’s my job.”
“A fence?”
“Well, that certainly is one way to phrase it,” Yari quipped.
“Ethics is not something exterior to the economy, ethics is an interior principle of the economy itself, which cannot function if it does not take account of the human values of solidarity and reciprocal responsibility.”
“Ethics? You're suggesting the companies that sell products made with lead paint or other toxic materials, or known to catch fire, or who exploit indigenous people, rape their land, turn them into slaves and poison their water are ethical?”
“If you feel that way, then learn what’s needed to fix the problem.”
‘”I’d have a better chance of building a rocket to Mars in my back yard.”
“Cynicism is not a quality our forefathers embodied,” the professor warned.
“There’s a difference between cynicism and reality. Cynicism is when you think people or other companies are breaking the rules, cheating the system. Reality is knowing that banks launder the money of dictators, and corporations manufacture products that poison and kill consumers.”
