Personal Banking - 1. Chapter 1

I flipped through the magazine pages as I sat in the loan officer's outer office, but I didn't really read anything. Mostly I stewed, annoyed at being kept waiting. I'd begged Stewart to come in early to cover for me just so I could get here on time and now Mr. Big Shot, or Ms. Big Shot, whoever, had me on hold. Big enough shot to have a secretary, anyway. Oh, excuse me, executive assistant. Anna Porter, according to her name plate.

"Mr. Phillips will see you now." Ms. Porter's voice startled me. Well, well. Only fifteen minutes late. She showed me into the inner office. That would be Mr. Phillips at the desk, reading something on a clipboard. Since when does a banker have a beard? A well-trimmed, full beard, true, not some pencilled-in circle around his mouth, and short dark hair with some gray, in a brush cut, which does something to me, don't ask me why, must be that photo of Pierre Curie I cut out and kept hidden when I was fifteen, and the suit does something, too, and--

"This is Mr. Andrews." She turned to go. No, don't leave me here alone with this man, I'll say something inappropriate, I'll do something inappropriate, and then I'll never get the loan and I really need the loan and--

The door clicked shut.

"Please have a seat, Mr. Andrews." Rich baritone, maybe bass. "Richard Andrews?"

"People call me Rich," I managed. "Kind of ironic under the circumstances."

Mr. Phillips put the clipboard down and looked at me. I looked at him. He looked at me some more. I squirmed. He looked back at the clipboard. "I'll call you Richard, if you don't mind."

"Sure. OK." Silence. "What shall I call you?"

"You may call me Mr. Phillips," he said, a tiny trace of a smile appearing. "I've been reviewing your application and your credit report. I appreciate you being early for your appointment."

I probably sounded a little testy as I said, "I was on time. It's not easy for me to get off work, but I managed to get here at 4:30 on the dot."

"Your appointment was at 4:45."

"No, it was 4:30. I printed it out the email right here--" I looked at the appointment reminder. 4:45, right there in black and white. "I'm sorry, I -- wow, that's embarrassing. I must have told myself to think of it as 4:30 so I wouldn't be late and then I got it in my head that I really did have to be here exactly at 4:30 and I--"

"Are you nervous about this, Richard?" He leafed through my forms.

"Well, yes, sir, I am."

He stopped and looked at me at the word 'sir.' It was more like his eyes snapped to attention. "I don't hear many young men address their elders as 'sir' these days."

"Oh, I didn't mean you're old, it's just how I was raised. I mean, it's more a matter of your position. Sir."

He regarded me steadily.

"I can stop calling you 'sir' if it bothers you."

Now, a little bit more a smile. "I don't mind." He muttered something. I could swear it was, "Don't say it if you don't mean it."

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"I was just thinking aloud about your application, that Jose hasn't seen it. He's one of the other loan officers."

He picked up the clipboard and stood. "You've had checking and savings accounts with us for a few years. And a credit card, fairly low limit, but no real problems. What you're asking for, as I understand it, is a personal loan to consolidate your debts. How did you end up owing money to, let's see, Money Connection? and Cash Line? and Best Payday?" He walked around to the front of his desk and sat on it, facing me.

"I had to have some emergency dental work. Root canal. I didn't have dental insurance and they wouldn't take me without payment up front."

"I see."

"And then I sliced my hand pretty badly and I had to go to the emergency room."

"You work at a restaurant. Are you a cook?"

"No, sir, if I were a cook I would probably know how to handle a knife. I'm a waiter. And it didn't happen at work."

"No health insurance?"

"I have health insurance, but the emergency room co-pay is a thousand dollars."

"Right."

"And now I can't seem to dig myself out of it. Week after week, the fees and interest, I don't make any progress."

"You have a car -- a fairly old car -- but you haven't listed any other collateral."

"I don't really have anything else, sir. I'm employed. Same job, three years. It's a good restaurant. Been in business forty years."

"No doubt." He tapped the clipboard with the pen. "Since the financial crisis, lending standards are a lot more stringent. We have to go by the book on income requirements. Approving your loan isn't up to just me. My boss has to sign off on it. And you're right on the edge of qualifying. You're just a hair under what we'd normally like to see. We don't sell our loans to anyone else. We need to know that this loan will be paid.

"I can go to bat for you. I can argue that the requirements should be relaxed a little in your case. Your income is close enough that we have some discretion. But I would need to be convinced that you are particularly strongly motivated--"

He had still been tapping his pen. It flipped out of his fingers and onto the carpet. Without hesitation I dove to pick it up, and, still on my knees, I held it up to him.

I didn't quite manage to keep my eyes on his. I mean, his crotch was more level with my face, so of course I glanced there for a split-second. Twice. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

He smiled. "Thank you." He took the pen, leaned forward, and lost the smile. "Is there anything else I should know about you?"

Like the fact that my salivary glands just became hyperactive? "What do you mean?"

"Any debts that don't show up on your credit report? Private loans? Sharks?"

"Eight hundred to a guy a friend steered me to." It seemed like he knew already anyway.

"Is that it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you drink?"

"Socially."

"If I get you this loan, it will be one beer or glass of wine a day. Do you smoke?"

"No."

"Drugs? Marijuana, cocaine, meth, heroin, oxycontin, anything?"

I laughed nervously. "I'm a waiter. Who ever heard of a waiter who never gets high?"

He stared at me. "If I get you this loan, you'll be the first. No drugs, for the duration of the loan."

I blinked at him. He was serious. "You want that in writing?"

"We can shake hands on it, if a handshake means something to you. Does it?"

"What's it supposed to mean?"

"It means you'll do what you've said you'll do." He held out his right hand. I took it and he pulled me up from my knees. I tried to shake his hand, but his didn't move.

"We don't shake on it now, Richard. We shake on it if you get the loan." But he didn't let go of my hand.

My phone buzzed. I pulled my hand away and looked at it. "Sorry."

"Boyfriend?"

"No, I don't have a -- I'm sorry, I forgot to turn it off before the appointment. I meant to, really."

"Meaning you thought about it, just not at the right time."

Whoa!

"That came out harsher than I meant it to. I have a thing about cell phones."

"I'll make sure to turn it off next time."

He smiled. "I'll appreciate that. How often do you get paid?"

He was like a driver who shifts gears too often. "Once a week, sir." I have to stop calling him that.

"If I push this through, would you be willing to make a payment every week?"

"Is that standard?"

"No, once a month is standard."

"I could make a payment every week, if it makes a difference."

"It might. It would be a second thing showing the right kind of motivation."

"Second thing?" In addition to grabbing any excuse to kneel in front of him?

"In addition to arriving early for your appointment, of course."

"Oh. Right."

"Now, you might have been hoping to get an answer on the loan today, but that's not how it works. I like to get a personal impression of the borrower before trying to get loan approval. Even though this was a very brief appointment, it is a critical part of the process. You should have an answer the day after tomorrow." He walked to the door and opened it for me.

"Should I call you?"

"I'll call you. But take my card." He pulled one out from his wallet and handed it to me. "You'll be hearing from me." As I brushed past him, he inhaled. Was he smelling me?

I walked out and he shut the door behind me.

My right hand felt hot. It sort of buzzed. My blood was pounding in my ears. My knees were a little shaky. The room kept drifting to the left, which Ms. Porter didn't seem to notice. Other than that, I was fine.

'Boyfriend.' Hey, he assumed I was gay, and I didn't call him on it! I always notice these things when it's too late. And since when do you have to sign a no-drug pledge to get a loan?

And how did he know I had been early for my appointment?

Should I report him for having sex with me, right there in his office? Oh, that's right. He didn't.

I looked at the card. "Nathan Phillips - Vice President." No wonder he had an executive assistant. Why the hell was a vice president doing a low-level loan interview?