(Tidbit)

I woke up to the thought of three impending phone calls. I was to deliver great news twice, and bad news once. I was excited for all three. I tried to remember if I had ever been excited about delivering bad news. The only occasion I could remember was when I was eighteen and I told my family I had decided to move to Boulder to live in an apartment with two men. They didn’t take it well and I reveled in their discomfort.

I rolled out of bed and stood up, taking a moment to balance myself under the weight of my colossal pregnancy. I waited for the blood to return to my feet. After I steadied myself I took a shower and ate my breakfast. My workday would take place at the small built-in desk in the living room. Jeff had already left for the morning. He would spend the day in meetings while I stayed home to follow up with the new clients we had met the day before.

We held our new client meetings at the coffee shop down the road. I never liked the stupid green aprons or the fact that I had to yell to be heard over the enormous coffee grinder every few moments. The only office we had was twenty-five minutes away in Greeley, a town that perpetually smelled like cow shit, so we dealt with the overpriced coffee and smug sociology students moonlighting as baristas.

The day before we had scheduled six meetings. Two of them didn’t show, one was a woman who we later discovered was lying about her identity, and the remaining three were potential new clients. Each interview took about an hour. Fifteen minutes of trying-to-be-genuine small talk, fifteen minutes of listening to sob stories about a life devoid of privilege and dreams not yet fulfilled and thirty minutes of me asking the same generic questions.

What are your social security numbers? How long have you been with your current employer? What is your yearly income before taxes? What is the balance of your retirement account? When was your bankruptcy discharged? Do you owe any alimony or child support? How much do you currently pay for rent? Is it current?

We met with a young couple, Sam and Jamie. They shared a flooded and moldy apartment with their two children. The building was owned by a drunk who was under investigation for drug dealing. I felt for this little family. Sam had suffered an injury at work two years prior and had been rewarded with a mountain of medical bills. They had been forced to file bankruptcy, which had been discharged only six months before our meeting. Jeff told me that finding a loan for them would be a long shot. I tried not to get my hopes up.

Steve was a single man looking to buy a condo. Fortunately, he did not have any major financial issues and made great money. Slam dunk, I thought to myself.

Don and Angela were a potential golden goose. They had arrived right on time, showing us a pamphlet for a three hundred fifty thousand-dollar house they intended to buy. A three hundred fifty thousand-dollar loan amount represented a five-figure payday for us, the kind of check that would pay the bills for three months and then some. When they told us they had no debt and showed us pay-stubs demonstrating their ability to repay, it took everything in me not to look excited.

Jeff and I were in the habit of beginning the loan approval process as soon as we had access to a computer. When we arrived home the night before, Jeff stationed himself at the desk and booted up the computer. I went to the kitchen and filled a bowl with four scoops of ice cream for us to share. This was the ritual, the moment of truth. Jeff would key the necessary information in to our mortgage software and hit the “Order Credit” button. We would wait for the three magical numbers to appear on the screen. If the middle number was higher than 600, we were golden. If not, I would ask the clients if they knew where to find a quick twenty grand, a question that was always met with the same response, “Heh… are you kidding?”

This morning, I stood at the kitchen counter with the open files in front of me. I decided I would call Steve first. His was the easiest. His moment of truth had been ideal. Jeff had pushed the button while I created the drum roll…

““727… 701… 714…”

“Woohoo!!!!” I hollered, ice cream falling from my mouth on to my shirt. I was still making exclamations of joy as I cleaned it off. Steve was a guaranteed approval and a guaranteed paycheck.

I dialed his phone number and delivered the good news. Steve was almost as thrilled as I was. I recommended a real estate agent. He told me that he would be condo shopping over the weekend. All I had to do now was wait for a purchase contract. I congratulated him, he thanked me again, and we both hung up.

I looked at the two files in front of me and decided Don and Angela should be next. This one was going to be fun. Their moment of truth had shocked both Jeff and me and had led to a long discussion about the American sense of entitlement. He pushed the button and scrolled down. I thought I heard a drum roll, but it was only Jeff’s mumble of confusion.

“Um…. 401… 389… 380… “ He stared at the screen, bewildered.

My only response was “holy shit” through a mouthful of rocky road. These were the lowest credit scores I had seen in my year in the mortgage business.

I picked up the phone. When Don answered, I identified myself and asked if Angela could listen in on the phone call as well. When I heard her pick up, I began.

“I thought it important for both of you to be listening because this is something that impacts you greatly.”

“Can we get an approval letter?” Angela interrupted.

I stifled a chuckle and instead feigned some concern.

“On the contrary, there is no way of obtaining an approval for you at this time.” I said, “It would be impossible for me or any other lender.”

“WHAT?!!” They said in unison.

Angela began a rant of incoherent sentences. I picked up the occasional “I don’t get it” and the whiney, “But WHYYYYY???”

Don angrily asked me why.

“Don, your credit scores are well below the necessary level for approval.”

“Well, what are they?” He demanded.

“401, 389 and 380.” I said, calmly.

“So WHAT does that mean?”

“Don, I have your credit report here. Would you like to go through it?”

“YES!” They said, again in unison.

We began on page one of the seventeen-page credit report.

“First of all,” I said, “There are no positive trade lines on your report. What I mean is there are no accounts on your report that are active, current and in good standing.”

They both began to argue, and I had to politely interrupt and tell them I would give them all of the details. I began with bounced checks to every store imaginable, Wal-Mart, JC Penny, Best Buy, even Red Lobster. I continued by listing all of the credit cards that were maxed out and had not been paid on time in years. There were nine of them, totaling approximately twenty-seven thousand in debt by themselves. I continued.

“Don, you have unpaid child support dating back almost ten years and a judgment from the Larimer County Court in the amount of thirty-eight hundred dollars for unpaid rents.”

“I will never pay that asshole landlord!” He said, “And I am fighting the child support. That bitch doesn’t need anymore money.”

“Well, regardless, Don, this is something that has destroyed your credit. As long as you have these delinquencies, no bank will loan you money.”

I mentioned an account from a jewelry store that had rolling lates dating back over five years. I learned that this was for Angela’s wedding ring.

“We paid that LAST month.” Angela whined.

“Angela, the payment last month does not erase the history of the account.”

“God damn motherfuckers!” Don said.

I cleared my throat. “I am sorry to have to be the bearer of bad news,” I lied, “But you should both know that just because you don’t pay your debts doesn’t mean you don’t have any.”

“Well, FUCK that.” Don said. “I ain’t payin’ shit!!!”

“Well, I am very sorry, but there is nothing that I can do.” I said. I couldn’t help but picture Don and Angela as the personification of American greed, draped in stars and stripes.

“So what the hell are we supposed to do now?” Don asked me, as if I cared what they did with their ignorance.

“I am in no position to give you legal advice, Don,” I said, “But if you are interested in improving your situation I would recommend you speak with a bankruptcy attorney.”

Angela let out a gasp and Don said, “Will that get that money-grubbing bitch off my back?”

“If you are referring to your ex-wife, no,” I said, “Child support will need to be handled legally. You cannot discharge that or your old student loans in the bankruptcy. But, again, I am not an attorney.”

I promised I would email a copy of their credit report and some attorney referrals and I hung up, relieved. I laughed to myself. I found the entire situation hilarious.

I had learned a long time ago that when you have news or feedback to deliver, or tasks to complete, you should use the Oreo method. I used it with my bartender trainees. I would praise them with something, positively mention something they should work on, and then end by praising something else. It was the best way to get positive results. This morning, I was using the method on myself. I called Steve first, then Don and Angela and saved Sam and Jamie for last.

I had not bothered with a drum roll for Sam and Jamie because I had been holding my breath. Jeff had completed the steps and I closed my eyes while he read the numbers.

“585… 614… 601…”

“REALLY???” I asked, elated and in total disbelief.

I picked up the phone and dialed. Sam answered and put the phone on speaker. Given my raging hormones, I could not help getting choked up as I heard them scream for joy. I ineffectuality fought the tears as they said over and over,

“THANK YOU! OH, GOD, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!!”