The advisor’s face went beet red. “Let me get my manager.”
* * *
A few days later, Ray and his wife, Candice, were sitting in the office of Tim Forbes, a Certified Financial Planner. Rather than wearing a suit and tie like the guy at the bank, Tim was dressed in a casual shirt and looked more like a psychologist than an investment banker.
“I hear you’re a little unhappy with your bank,” Tim said.
“They want to charge me fifty bucks every time I want to take out some of my own damn money,” Ray said. He recounted his experience with the bank.
“It’s too bad you didn’t get to talk to someone with a little more experience,” Tim said. “The banks have qualified advisors, but they tend to hide them away except for their wealthiest customers.”
“I’m not exactly poor,” Ray said. “I haven’t got a lot socked away into RRSP’s, but I’ve got a good pension.” He slid some papers across the desk to Tim so he could see his monthly pension income and how much he had in savings.
Tim took a quick look at the papers and jotted down some notes. Then he turned his focus to Candice.
“Mrs. Ferguson, how about yourself?”
“I worked full-time when I was younger, but then quit when our daughter, Amanda, was born. She’s all grown up and married now with kids of her own. Over the last few years, I’ve worked a little bit at the library, but I didn’t make much money.”
“And how old are you now?”
“Sixty-four. I turn sixty-five month after next.”
“So, you’ll start drawing your CPP and OAS income pretty soon.” Tim made a few more notes. “And Mr. Ferguson, how long have you been retired?”
“Almost two years now. It seemed time after I reached the thirty year mark with the police force.”
“How do you like retirement so far?” Tim asked.
“It’s been great,” Ray said. “I get to play a lot more golf, which is my passion. We go to Florida for a couple of months in the winter. We went on a cruise together, two actually, which was great, but I’m not sure I want to do that again.”
Tim noticed the last statement seemed to catch Candice by surprise.
“Mrs. Ferguson, how about you? Is retirement everything you hoped it would be?”
Candice gave a sideways glance toward Ray, looking a little unsure about how much info she should share. “I love to travel and I loved the two cruises we went on. It was so romantic exploring the Caribbean. I was hoping we’d be doing a lot more of them.”
“We can’t afford to keep going on cruises,” Ray interjected.
Candice stiffened in her chair. “Isn’t that what he’s supposed to figure out?”
Tim moved the financial statements to the side of his desk. “Before we start looking at the money side of things, I think it’s important that you both figure out what you want to do in your retirement years. It’s only then that we start looking at the money side of things.”
Tim grabbed a piece of paper from his desk, turned it sideways and drew a line across the bottom that extended across the entire page. “The first thing you have to realize is that your retirement is probably going to go on for another twenty-five years, possibly more if you’re lucky enough to remain healthy.” He wrote the current year on the left side of the line and the thirty year mark on the right side of the line, then drew intersecting lines about every five years.
“You’re still in the first few years of your retirement – some people call this the honeymoon period – the time when you want to travel, take cruises, and golf until your arms fall off. But you can’t be on a cruise ship twelve months of the year or golf every day. After a while, you’ll get bored, even if you have enough money. I need you to start thinking about what you’re going to do with yourself on a plain old Tuesday or Wednesday morning. Ray, you used to work forty hours a week.”
“At least,” Ray said.
“So you’re going to have to find ways to use those newly found hours every week.”
“What about me?” Candice asked. “I haven’t worked full-time for years.”
“I bet you still did something every day that made you feel valuable,” Tim said.
Candice thought for a second. “I used to look after the kids for Amanda. She couldn’t handle it on her own, especially with Tyler. But I’m not sure how much help I can be now. Now that Tyler’s bigger, I don’t think I can handle him anymore.”
“Our grandson is autistic,” Ray offered in explanation.
“I think both of you have experienced how important it is to do something every day,” Tim said. “That doesn’t change just because you’re retired. That’s why so many seniors volunteer at various social service agencies, or take up a new hobby like painting or music. I think you’ll find that if you both just sit around the house, you’ll start getting on each other’s nerves.”
Both Ray and Candice looked at each other, as if this guy had somehow been using video surveillance on them at their condo.
“I’ve always wanted to paint,” Candice said in a half-whisper.
“I didn’t know that,” Ray said. “When have you ever painted?”
“I haven’t,” Candice said, “but I’ve always thought about it. I never seemed to have the time before.”
Tim smiled. “Well guess what, now you’ve got the time.”
* * *
It was about a week later when Ray and Candice met with the financial planner again. They had taken the timeline chart that Tim had sketched out for them at the last meeting and inserted planned activities into each five-year interval.
They had agreed to take one more cruise within the next five years, but had also inserted a trip to Europe.
“We both realized we wanted to see Paris at some point before we die,” Candice said.
Tim noticed that Ray still had golf written down as his main activity in each five year interval, indicating he planned to golf five days a week now but gradually declining to once a week when he reached eighty-five years of age.
“To be honest, I have no idea what I’ll feel like doing in twenty years,” Ray said. “I’m just guessing.”
“We all are,” Tim said. “That’s why I’ve broken it down into five-year intervals. Having a plan doesn’t mean that you can’t change it, but it sure beats the hell out of just winging it the whole way. We’ll adjust the plan every year, looking at what you think you’ll need now and what you think you’ll need later.”
“So, can we afford it?” Candice asked.
“I believe you can,” Tim said, “but we’ll have to keep a handle on some of the large expenditures, like the trip to Paris and purchasing a new car every four years. Ray’s pension will cover all of your basic needs and a few of the extra fun things you want to do, but we’ll also have to dip into your other holdings to pay for some of the extras.”
A red flag seemed to go up for Ray. “I’m not sure I want you touching my pension,” he said.
“I won’t,” Tim said, “although I think you can save some money in income tax by allocating some of your pension to Candice.”
“What do you get out of all this?” Ray asked. “I doubt you’re giving us all of this advice for free.”
Tim smiled. “I’m not. I have to pay my bills too.”
He explained that he would be transferring Ray’s RRSP holdings from the bank to various investment funds. He’d be earning his fees by managing the investments.
“So you won’t be charging me fifty bucks every time I want to take out some of my own money?” Ray asked.
“No,” Tim said. “But I think we’ll be trying to manage those withdrawals a little better.”
* * *
When Max headed over to his father’s place after his day at the golf course, he was surprised to see his sister Karen waiting for him in the kitchen.
“What are we going to do about this?” she asked.
She pointed to a letter that had arrived that day in the mail. Max picked it up and saw
it was an invoice from the hospital in Ohio that had treated his father on their way back from the Masters. The invoice was for just over eighteen thousand dollars, U.S. dollars.
“They said the insurance company denied the claim and now Dad has to pay it himself,” Karen said.
“Denied the claim? Why?”
“They said Dad had an existing condition that wasn’t disclosed on the application. Said he had a history of asthma.”
“Dad’s never had asthma,” Max said. “What are they talking about?”
Karen shuffled through the papers on the table and pointed to an entry showing their father had been treated for asthma in a B.C. hospital.
“Dad’s never even been to British Columbia,” Max said as he picked up the paper. “There must be a mistake.”
“Apparently he was,” Karen said. “Back in 1982. I asked Dad about it and he said he and Mom had gone there on vacation. He said there were forest fires going on. There was smoke everywhere. He said he had trouble breathing so he went to the hospital. Lots of people in the area did. It wasn’t asthma, but that’s what shows up on the hospital report.”
Max clenched his jaw. “For Christ’s sake, that was over thirty years ago and it wasn’t asthma. How can they call that a previous existing condition?”
Karen put her head in her hands. “Dad doesn’t have any money and I certainly don’t. What are we going to do?”
Max sighed and slumped down into a kitchen chair. “I have no idea.”
* * *
The next day Max decided to call Stryker as he was the only lawyer he knew. He left a long-winded voice-mail describing the situation and hoped he would hear from him soon, as the letter from the hospital said they would begin legal action if payment wasn’t received in thirty days. He was pleased when Stryker called him back later that morning.
“Don’t worry about it,” Stryker said. “Insurance companies do this all the time. They look for any reason they can find to deny a claim.”
“So we shouldn’t send the hospital any money?”
“No, you’re going to have to give them something. What’s the deductible on your father’s policy?”
“I have no idea,” Max said.
“It’s probably five hundred or a thousand dollars. That’s the norm for this type of policy. So, find out what that amount is and just send them that. No more, no less. You’re going to have to pay that amount whatever the final outcome turns out to be.”
“So who’s going to pay the rest?”
“At this point, I don’t know,” Stryker said. “Once they realize you’re not just going to roll over and pay the whole bill, the lawyers for the insurance company and the lawyers for the hospital usually negotiate the final payment amount. That’ll take months.”
“So we’re off the hook?”
“Probably. I doubt the insurance company will come after you based on an argument of a pre-existing condition from over thirty years ago, but sometimes they do. If they try, give me another call.”
“So how much do I owe you for the legal advice?”
“Nothing,” Stryker said. “All I did was make a couple of phone calls. If they do decide to go to court over this, I’ll have to refer you to another lawyer because I don’t have the time to take this on. But I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
Chapter 18: A Marathon, Not a Sprint
As Cheech stood in line at Tim Horton’s, he was feeling quite good about himself. Things had finally started to go in his favour again. Melanie had called earlier that morning to say they had signed the new advertising contract and the partners at NBT had come through with an offer of full-time employment. His new salary was almost forty thousand less than what he used to make, but that didn’t matter. His lawyer had let him know a few days ago that his old company had agreed to give him their executive pension when he turned sixty-five. They had also offered up to four year’s severance pay if he wasn’t able to find another job. Part of the deal was that they’d top up his compensation if he had to accept a position at a lower salary. Cheech loved knowing that his old company would be paying forty grand a year to top up his salary from NBT.
When Cheech stepped out of Tim Horton’s, he was approached by a pretty blonde woman wearing shorts and bright blue tee-shirt.
“I was wondering if I could talk you into sponsoring me in this Sunday’s run. It’s to raise money for breast cancer research.” She pointed to a pink ribbon on her shirt just beside a name tag that read “Susie”, with a little heart dotting the “i” in her name.
This woman didn’t need a pink ribbon to draw attention to her chest. Cheech’s focus was already there. “I’m sure you could talk me into pretty much anything,” he said.
Susie smiled, which highlighted the dimples in both of her cheeks. “It’s a 10K run. You can sponsor me for each kilometer I run, or just specify a flat total amount.”
Cheech looked at her sponsor sheet and saw a few people had sponsored her for twenty-five or fifty cents a kilometer, but most had simply specified a flat fee of five or ten dollars.
“I better specify a flat fee,” Cheech said. He took a quick glance at her long, silky legs. “With legs like those, I have no doubt you’ll run the full 10K.” He wrote fifty dollars down on her sponsor sheet.
“Oh, thanks so much. You’re so generous.” She studied his physique. “Are you a runner?”
“Whenever I can,” Cheech said.
That was an absolute lie. He hadn’t run anywhere in over twenty years.
“You should come run with us on Sunday,” Susie said. She touched Cheech’s arm. “There’s a bunch of us going to run together. You should join us. It’ll be fun and they have a BBQ later for all of the runners and organizers.”
Cheech’s brain knew he should turn down the offer, but he wasn’t thinking with his head at this point.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
* * *
Cheech was quite fortunate to find one of the last parking spots in the lot beside the park where the 10K run was scheduled to start. It was a beautiful Sunday morning and the crowd was growing quickly. He wondered whether he’d even be able to find Susie in the hundreds of people milling around. She spotted him first.
“Cheech, Cheech, we’re over here,” she shouted.
Cheech turned toward the sound and saw her standing with several of her running mates. The two guys that were part of the group were young and muscular, obviously people who took their physical fitness seriously. The five women in the group were more varied. Two women looked to be in their late twenties, one of whom was pushing a toddler in a jogging stroller that had three large spoked wheels. One lady looked over forty and she was wearing a tee shirt that said she was a breast cancer survivor. Susie and the other woman were probably in their late thirties.
Cheech knew he would be the oldest one in Susie’s group of friends and had been worried about it in the days leading up to the event. In fact, he’d started applying something to his hair over the last few days to see if it would reduce the amount of grey. The instructions on the box said there would be gradual change in his hair colour, but as far as he could tell, it hadn’t done a damn thing.
Some participants in this event simply walked the course and didn’t care how long it took them to complete it. Others were more competitive and were always trying to better their times. Cheech could tell that Susie’s group were the competitive type.
Susie pulled him aside and whispered in his ear. “We’ll probably run a little slower than you’re used to.” She pointed to the older lady in the breast cancer survivor tee-shirt. “Barb isn’t normally part of our group, but she asked if she could run with us today. We’re going to let her set the pace. This run is really important to her.”
“No problem,” Cheech said. “We’re just out here to have fun and raise money.”
For the first kilometer, Cheech found the pace quite comfortable and used the opportunity to chat up Susie while they were running. The o
rganizers had water stations positioned every kilometer along the route, but the group didn’t give the first rest stop any consideration and kept on running.
When they reached the second water station, Barb signaled she needed a break and the group stopped to grab some water. The two young guys continued to jog on the spot, but Cheech took the opportunity to catch his breath. His lungs were starting to burn and his left quad muscle was starting to object to this new activity. He now wished he exercised on a more regular basis. Barb took two quick gulps of water and signaled to the group she was ready to go again.
For the next two kilometers, Cheech found it difficult to keep up with the group, but he continued to push himself. He was so out of breath, he could no longer continue to chat with Susie while they ran.
The kid in the stroller started to kick up a fuss when they reached the half-way point. His mother stopped to see what the problem was. The two young guys in the group decided to keep going, but Cheech decided to stay with the ladies.
“Are you okay?” Susie asked Cheech when she saw his face. “You don’t look so good.”
“I might have tweaked my left quad,” Cheech said, “but it’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be fine.”
He was lying. Everything was hurting now and he was glad the toddler had forced them to stop.
“Problem solved,” the toddler’s mother said a few seconds later. “Let’s go.”
The group started up again. Shortly after, Cheech knew he was in trouble. He desperately wanted to stop, but didn’t know how to do so without losing face. Hell, I can’t even keep up with a bunch of women anymore, including one who’s pushing a goddamn stroller. He considered grabbing his quad muscle and faking an injury, but that just seemed pathetic.
Suddenly he felt something hit his right leg. He looked down to see that the lace on his right shoe had come undone and the long lace was hitting his leg on every stride. That seemed like a legitimate excuse to stop for a breather.
The Back Nine: A Novel About Life After Fifty Page 11
