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Financial crisis? Recession?
I wasn’t always a cab driver. I messed about with real estate at one time.
Most economic woes can be slated home to the lenders.
*enters combined space/time capsule; types ‘1974’ on keypad, tweaks more precise details regarding date with the scroll menu to the right, sets desired latitude and longitude on gps, and clicks ‘GO’ . . .*
* . . .Foyer of imposing old sandstone bank building. The wall calendar shows 2nd April. The manager approaches . . .*
“Ah, OX, sorry we had to meet out here. The painters are redecorating my office. Now what was it you required again . . . $22,000, wasn’t it?”
“Mmm, that’s it. I thought perhaps an interest-only advance would suit me best. It’s only a little bit of speculation in some real estate. Land subdivision. Got a chance to make some quick money.”
“Ah, yes, well we all have to get it where we can, don’t we?”
Silly old fart. He is about six months away from retirement, and I have learnt the week before, in a breaking-the-ice meeting, that his total salary package is no better than what I am pulling in as a real estate salesman lazing along at half throttle.
He continues, “You know my son Dick has just started his own law practice? I thought I’d help him get established by slipping him the paperwork for this one. Here’s his phone number. Give him a call and sort out the details between you.”
So that is what we do. Dick draws up the papers and sends them off to his dad. I phone the bank, speak to some dopey underling, tell him the paper work has been done, ask how long it will take to receive my money.
Somewhere there is a communication breakdown and the bank pays the $22,000 into my account without me signing anything.
And no one notices except me.
So I start my little bit of wheeling and dealing, and commence paying the bank their monthly interest. I make my profit – something like 100% - the bank learns of my success via the grapevine, and a week or so after all the land deals are settled my phone rings one morning. I look at the calendar as I lift the receiver. The date, as they say in all the worst novels, is etched in my memory. 26th September. The phone call is from some clerk at the head office of the bank, ringing to find out when I intend to repay the principal.
Gentle Reader, you know where this is going, don’t you?
“Repay?” say I. “You never said anything about repayment.”
*re-enters capsule for return journey*
I don’t remember the precise words that were then exchanged, but do remember the bank johnny gasping and stammering. Perhaps he was quaking in his boots, wondering how many heads would roll and how he might avoid being splattered by the shit (You can see I’m no writer – that was a mixed metaphor if ever I saw one).
I let them mess their tights for about two weeks, then my better nature came to the surface and I repaid their money.
But nothing’s changed. Banks are still making mistakes. Always have done, always will.
Last edited by The Backward OX : 09-25-2008 at 08:14 AM.
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