The microphone smells like vomit and whiskey. I don’t know that, of course. I am making sweet love to it. I am Nora Jones; I am convinced of it. I am Fiona Apple, seducing the men sitting at the bar. Maybe one of them will pay my seventy-three dollar tab.
After my cigarette break, I will become Alicia Keys. My voice will carry out in to the alley and the locals will come flocking. There won’t be much room to flock too. Juan’s place is small and cozy. Some call it stuffy, I prefer to think of it as charming. It is no wider than the alley next to it. Juan even named it so. Jazz Alley… they love me here. This is the peak of my musical career. Here in this stuffy hallway of a bar, I am Aretha Franklin; I am Billie Holiday.
I sit in my stool at the bar and light a Camel. Juan pours a fresh drink. Double Crown and Coke. Sammy casually pokes me in the ribs and I turn to blow my smoke in his face.
“Take it easy, kitten,…” he says as he fans the smoke from his eyes. I don’t know why he cares; he has not been without a lit cigarette for the last 10 years. “You look beautiful tonight, doll…”
“Thanks, Sammy,” I say, impatiently. I slide from my stool and walk toward the front, and only, door. The current karaoke singer is attempting “Carry On My Wayward Son” and he is making a fine mess of things. I say something out loud about how a band should never name itself after a shitty state. Someone says, “Fuck you!” but I am already out the front door and into the November air.
The concrete out front seems slightly unstable, so I settle for leaning against the side of the building. Something is wet on my hand and it takes me a minute to notice how cold it is. I have spilled some of the whiskey and coke on myself.
“FCKiiiiiiiiiiit,” I say, only realizing I have said it out loud when someone responds.
“I’m Sorry??”
“I spilled.” I say, swaying a bit, “I said FUCK IT!!!” I laugh merrily to myself. The man sitting at the table, chuckles.
“You remind me of those old V8 commercials,” he says.
“Why?” I ask.
“You know how all of the people were kinda’ leanin’ to the side, like?”
Processing… processing…
The information takes a minute to compute, but I realize that I am leaning, significantly, to my right hand side. I shimmy my way up the wall, in to an upright position before I set my drink on the table. I try to light a new cigarette… I can’t seem to find the one I just had.
He asks me, “How long have you been singing?”
“Dude… only since I was a fetus,” I mumble this through a cigarette and cupped hands. I succeed in burning myself slightly with the flame of the lighter, but I won’t notice it until I see the blister in the morning.
He raises his eyebrows, “You don’t say!” His face is full of laughter, although we are not laughing.
“Yeah, man.” I am all too eager to share my history with this complete stranger, “My mom has had us on a stage since before grade school.”
“Us?” he seems genuinely interested now… and who wouldn’t?
“Me and my brothers.” I say, “They would dress us up and parade us around like little show ponies. Ever since we could memorize a song together she had us entered in all the little talent shows and shit.”
“Well, that’s pretty neat.” He says. I wonder why he has used the word “neat.” What a dumb word. It should only be used when ordering a drink.
“Well, it wasn’t, really,” I say, pretending to be slightly irritated, “It sucked a lot sometimes. You know any John Denver songs?”
“Can’t say that I do…”
“Well, I do! I know them very well.”
“He sang Rocky Mountain High… or whatever it was,” he contributes, valuably.
“Yea!” My mood immediately shifts. “John Denver was a pothead!” I laugh and laugh.
The man is laughing with me now. Later I will amend that to say that he was laughing at me.
“So what else do you sing?”
Disregarding his actual question I say, “Dude, my fuckin’ mom used to make me sing Celine Dion for company at home and for talent shows… I even sang it in church once. We changed the words so that it was about mothers on mother’s day. I mean…. What is that about, man? Celine Dion? What kind of fucked up shit is that?! I was like, thirteen, and singing all about the power of love…What kind of parents do that kind of fucked up shit, man?”
I have his full attention at this point. I am baffling him with the dreadful experiences of my past. He is fascinated that I survived such a psychologically damaging childhood.
“Lemme tell you another thing, dude. My mom was the first person to ever make me stuff my bra!” I say, eyebrows alert, ready for the certain look of shock from my audience.
He laughs, abruptly, startling me a bit.
“Awesome!”
“Not to me! They made me look like I had old saggy tits so I could sing about the bucket.”
“So you could sing about the bucket?” He asks through his continual laughter.
“Yeah, the hole in the bucket dear Liza. Dude! I was Liza!”
“Oh yeah?” Still trembling with amusement.
“Yeah, and my kid brother had a corn-cob pipe. He always got the cool props and shit! I just got saggy tits.”
“That must have made you bitter.”
“What are you, my shrink?”
He shrugged and continued to chuckle.
“They did that shit to me until middle school, when I started to make the rules!” I jam a thumb in my sternum.
“What happened in middle school?”
I try to think through a fog of liquor. Making a mental note that I am cut-off, I push the existing drink away from me.
“I sang a song. One they didn’t know about. I was encouraged to try out for a solo in choir and I got it.”
“What was it?”
I can’t hear his question. I am remembering the day I tried out for that solo.
My heart was pounding. I asked the teacher if I could face away from the class when I sang, so that my voice wouldn’t crack....
“Hellooo in there,” I see a hand wave in front of my face and am abruptly aware of my drunken reality. I can hear my friend, Scott, in the middle of his locally-famous Prince rendition.
“Dude, I gotta go.”
I leave my drink on the table and go inside. A group of people is in the front of the stage, singing along. All I want is your extra time and your….. Kiss!!!
I scribble on a piece of paper and hand it to the DJ.
“Let’s bring Amber back up here. Amber?”
I am situated on a barstool in front of the mic when the music starts and I soulfully begin….
“Isn’t it rich? Aren’t we a pair?......”
Two intoxicated couples slow dance. I sing with my eyes closed, picturing a time when my I wore a teal cumber bund. My hair was longer and my lungs pinker. Within the choir was my support, my motivation. I sang goodbye to my childhood, and to being a show-pony and started to sing for myself.
“I thought that you’d want what I want. Sorry, my dear.”
Juan is grinning behind the bar. Sammy is paying my tab. The man from outside is standing in the doorway, listening.
“But where are the clowns? There aught to be clowns.”
I open my eyes to look around the room. The drunk and desperate are here. The lonely, the depressed, and the hopeless sway over their drinks. This will be my final number.
“Don’t bother. They’re Here….”
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Good Ones
“I am sorry I haven’t been here in a while.” I said as I sat next to Colin. I took a deep breath of the morning air. In the west the mountains towered, sunny and snow- capped, marked by pine and flatiron rocks and set on robin’s egg backdrop. I lit a cigarette and passed it to him.
“I quit,” I said, “So this one is all yours. Turkish Royal.”
His eyebrows met his hairline.
“Well good for you!"
He took a long pull and blew out two smoke rings.
“Is it the same?” I asked.
“What?”
“The cigarette.”
“No. Nothing is. It’s better. There is no attachment.”
“Do you still get high?” I produced a joint from my wallet.
“What you call 'high' is a constant state here.”
I laughed until I realized he was totally serious.
“What do you think humans are craving in this life?” He asked me, “They are all after the same thing.”
“What?”
“Joy. Bliss. Euphoria. Pick a state-of-being.”
“Then how do you explain suffering and those who create it?” I asked a little bitterly.
“Balance.”
“Huh?”
“You remember Star Wars?” He asked as I took a long drag from the joint.
“Duh.” I choked a bit on the smoke and let out a few hard coughs, “I am a fuckin’ Jedi.”
He laughed. “Within the force there is balance, otherwise nothing would exist. You cannot have joy without suffering, just as you cannot have hot without cold… or the light and dark side…” he winked.
“Can’t have heaven without hell.” I said with a toothy grin and bloodshot eyes.
“Just made up words: 'heaven and hell,' he said, smiling dreamily at the thunderheads creeping over the mountains. Afternoon thunderstorms were his favorite.
“So you’re saying there is no such thing as eternal damnation?” I asked, faking disappointment.
He laughed again. I enjoyed watching his eyes sparkle.
“I definitely wouldn’t say that.”
“Oh yeah?! So the Lake of Fire is real?” I asked, with all the hope of a child on Santa’s knee.
“Think about what it would be like to be a mosquito.” He said.
“Yeah, that would suck.” I said smiling. Colin laughed with me.
“Now think about being a mosquito, being smashed and killed, then waking up the next day to do it all over again.”
“Oh, snap!”
“What do you think happened to Hitler?”
“Karma is a bitch.”
I handed the joint to him.
“I thought you were already high.” I said, smiling as he inhaled.
“Well,” he said letting out the smoke, “That doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy the way it tastes and smells. That’s the whole thing… senses… and emotions… that’s what it’s all about, the experience, ya’ know?”
“What about good people?” I asked. “Do we get to become eagles or great whites or some shit?”
“Good Karma allows you to be, do or have whatever you want.” He said, “I imagine the happiest people on earth are those with the best Karma.”
“How is your Karma?” I asked, completely serious.
He turned to me and smiled.
“My choices are good ones,” he said.
I looked up as the sky as it began to rain, despite the bright sunshine, another one of Colin’s favorite phenomenon.
“Well, would you look at that!”
But when I looked down, I saw nothing but the ashy remains of an unsmoked Turkish Royal in the grass on my kid brother’s grave.
Beep Beep! I had a new text message.
My friend is pregnant. I dropped the phone. She wasn’t supposed to be able to have children.
I looked up at the sky and felt raindrops on my sun-soaked face.
My choices are good ones.
“I quit,” I said, “So this one is all yours. Turkish Royal.”
His eyebrows met his hairline.
“Well good for you!"
He took a long pull and blew out two smoke rings.
“Is it the same?” I asked.
“What?”
“The cigarette.”
“No. Nothing is. It’s better. There is no attachment.”
“Do you still get high?” I produced a joint from my wallet.
“What you call 'high' is a constant state here.”
I laughed until I realized he was totally serious.
“What do you think humans are craving in this life?” He asked me, “They are all after the same thing.”
“What?”
“Joy. Bliss. Euphoria. Pick a state-of-being.”
“Then how do you explain suffering and those who create it?” I asked a little bitterly.
“Balance.”
“Huh?”
“You remember Star Wars?” He asked as I took a long drag from the joint.
“Duh.” I choked a bit on the smoke and let out a few hard coughs, “I am a fuckin’ Jedi.”
He laughed. “Within the force there is balance, otherwise nothing would exist. You cannot have joy without suffering, just as you cannot have hot without cold… or the light and dark side…” he winked.
“Can’t have heaven without hell.” I said with a toothy grin and bloodshot eyes.
“Just made up words: 'heaven and hell,' he said, smiling dreamily at the thunderheads creeping over the mountains. Afternoon thunderstorms were his favorite.
“So you’re saying there is no such thing as eternal damnation?” I asked, faking disappointment.
He laughed again. I enjoyed watching his eyes sparkle.
“I definitely wouldn’t say that.”
“Oh yeah?! So the Lake of Fire is real?” I asked, with all the hope of a child on Santa’s knee.
“Think about what it would be like to be a mosquito.” He said.
“Yeah, that would suck.” I said smiling. Colin laughed with me.
“Now think about being a mosquito, being smashed and killed, then waking up the next day to do it all over again.”
“Oh, snap!”
“What do you think happened to Hitler?”
“Karma is a bitch.”
I handed the joint to him.
“I thought you were already high.” I said, smiling as he inhaled.
“Well,” he said letting out the smoke, “That doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy the way it tastes and smells. That’s the whole thing… senses… and emotions… that’s what it’s all about, the experience, ya’ know?”
“What about good people?” I asked. “Do we get to become eagles or great whites or some shit?”
“Good Karma allows you to be, do or have whatever you want.” He said, “I imagine the happiest people on earth are those with the best Karma.”
“How is your Karma?” I asked, completely serious.
He turned to me and smiled.
“My choices are good ones,” he said.
I looked up as the sky as it began to rain, despite the bright sunshine, another one of Colin’s favorite phenomenon.
“Well, would you look at that!”
But when I looked down, I saw nothing but the ashy remains of an unsmoked Turkish Royal in the grass on my kid brother’s grave.
Beep Beep! I had a new text message.
My friend is pregnant. I dropped the phone. She wasn’t supposed to be able to have children.
I looked up at the sky and felt raindrops on my sun-soaked face.
My choices are good ones.
(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!!”
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!!”
...
The room was stuffy and packed with chairs. The west wall had huge windows that were sadly sealed shut. Men and women were scattered in the seats. Jeff and I found two chairs in the middle of the cluster and sat, waiting for our turn to be called. A morose game of musical chairs was played each time a name was read. The named person would move to the front of the room and take a seat in front of an ill-tempered man behind a pretentious wooden desk.
Do you swear all of the information you have provided regarding your assets and debts is true to the best of your knowledge? Do you understand your rights under Colorado law? What is your plan with your current automobile? I see you have a recent tax return. You will be required to pay a sum of twenty-five hundred dollars to the court. You will have to sell your truck, Mr. Jones.
“Allen/Jarvis…”
Jeff and I took our turns at the desk. With our attorney present to assist, we raised our right hands and swore to our identities. The four-eyed trustee opened our case file and began…
“…Do you understand your rights under Colorado Law?”
“Yes, Sir,” Jeff and I said in unison.
I awaited the same script I heard the trustee recite with every person before us, but it did not come. The man peered through steel rimmed frames at our file, flipping through each page as a frown grew on his forehead.
“Sooo…” he said after a deep breath, “You were in the real estate business?”
Jeff and I looked at each other as we confirmed the trustee’s assumption. The heat of the room caused sweat to bead and run down my back. The tick of the clock on the wall echoed in my head and the sound of pages turning caused me to flinch several times. I eagerly anticipated the sunshine and cigarette that waited for me outside.
The trustee began a conversation, which I let Jeff handle. I made few comments and answered only questions directed toward me. I let my mind wander back to the day it all began. It all started with a steak dinner.
Do you swear all of the information you have provided regarding your assets and debts is true to the best of your knowledge? Do you understand your rights under Colorado law? What is your plan with your current automobile? I see you have a recent tax return. You will be required to pay a sum of twenty-five hundred dollars to the court. You will have to sell your truck, Mr. Jones.
“Allen/Jarvis…”
Jeff and I took our turns at the desk. With our attorney present to assist, we raised our right hands and swore to our identities. The four-eyed trustee opened our case file and began…
“…Do you understand your rights under Colorado Law?”
“Yes, Sir,” Jeff and I said in unison.
I awaited the same script I heard the trustee recite with every person before us, but it did not come. The man peered through steel rimmed frames at our file, flipping through each page as a frown grew on his forehead.
“Sooo…” he said after a deep breath, “You were in the real estate business?”
Jeff and I looked at each other as we confirmed the trustee’s assumption. The heat of the room caused sweat to bead and run down my back. The tick of the clock on the wall echoed in my head and the sound of pages turning caused me to flinch several times. I eagerly anticipated the sunshine and cigarette that waited for me outside.
The trustee began a conversation, which I let Jeff handle. I made few comments and answered only questions directed toward me. I let my mind wander back to the day it all began. It all started with a steak dinner.
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