a questionable life

by Luke Lively

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Oliver,” the officer said, pulling the sheet over my father’s face.

  “Can I go?” I asked. “I have to tell my mother.”

  “Do you need a ride?” he asked.

  “No, I’ll be all right. I need to use a phone to tell them I’m coming.”

  “There is a phone right outside,” he said as we walked out of the room into the hall.

  I called home. Tina answered. “I’ll be back in a little while,” I said. “Is she okay?”

  “Jack, what’s wrong?” Tina asked.

  “I can’t say—just stay with my mother,” I said.

  “Where are you?” Tina asked.

  “I’m at Jefferson, but I’m leaving now. Don’t say anything to my mother, okay?”

  “Okay, Jack,” Tina said. “We’ll be fine . . . please be careful—I love you.”

  “Okay,” I said, my mind still locked on the vision of my father’s face.

  How do you tell your mother her husband had fulfilled a nightmare and jumped off a bridge? I had yet to show any emotion, and I knew that was not the issue. I had to be strong when I told her.

  Arriving back home, I saw Tina looking out the window. As I stepped onto the porch Tina opened the door and met me. We hugged. “Jack, what happened? Is your father all right?” she asked.

  “Let’s go inside,” I said.

  We stepped inside. I felt like I needed to hug my mother, but an invisible wall seemed to rise up and stop me. Our family never hugged each other. Affection wasn’t something you exhibited at the Oliver home. The closest we ever got to one another was in one of the rare family photos. Seeing my mother sitting on the couch as I entered the room, I remembered the last family photo. It was when I was twelve years old. We were sitting on the same couch. The photographer kept trying to get us to sit closer. That was a struggle. It was like we had the home under a mandatory emotional quarantine. No show of emotions allowed—house rule.

  Forgetting the rules, I decided to embrace her and stepped toward the couch. I didn’t know what else to do. Before I could make the second step across the room, she said, “He’s gone—isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” I said as I stopped.

  “The bridge?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. I reached in my pocket and handed her the note.

  I sat down beside her on the couch. Tina rushed and sat down beside her on the opposite side putting her arm around her. My mother read the note. She had tears in her tired eyes, but remained composed. She kept her emotions in check, like me.

  “Poor Joseph,” she said, continuing to look at the note. “He never could find peace.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “There is nothing to say,” she said. She sat on the couch with Tina holding her. Tina was sobbing.

  I sat back, keeping my distance, the way it had always been in the Oliver home.

  “Jack, it’s all right to talk about it—talking might help,” Tina said. Since the funeral two weeks before, I had not said a word to her about my father or his death. Instead of taking time off from work or school, I only missed the afternoon of the funeral. No tears, no show of emotions. “You know I’m here for you,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder.

  “What good would come from talking about him?” I asked, withholding the many things I wanted to say but had promised I would never utter. “I’m fine. It wasn’t a surprise. I knew he would do something like that—it was only a matter of time.”

  “Jack, I’m worried if you’re holding all that inside,” she said. “Please let me help you.”

  “I don’t need any help with my feelings, Tina,” I said angrily. “Just let me deal with this in my own way.”

  Talking about him would unleash the flood of emotions I had contained inside. His suicide exaggerated all of the paradoxical emotions I had about him. I loved him, but never told him. He never told me he loved me either. I was hurt and angry, but had no way to communicate it to him. I wanted to hate him, but couldn’t. He was my father.

  I would never see him again. The few times I visited, he was abusive and dismissive of my lifestyle and career choice. We were from different worlds, and neither could accept the other’s viewpoint. A wall had been constructed, both of us working hard to build higher and wider. How could I miss him now when he was dead when I did everything to avoid him when he was alive?

  He had never given me what I sought the most. I evidently had not given him what he wanted. I desperately wanted him to be proud of me, but for twenty-two years I was never able to get his attention unless he wanted to criticize me. I hated the way he had lived, drinking, gambling, and womanizing, but I was not too dissimilar. He was selfish, and so was I. He spent all of his time and money in the pursuit of his own pleasures and left my mother and me behind to wonder if he would come home. I wondered if that was the kind of man I would ultimately become. I felt sorry for him but could not understand why. He had never been a person who expressed himself—other than with anger—but I always hoped that he would change. Of course, I never expressed myself either, so it may not have mattered.

  While I suffered from a confused array of emotions there was one issue on which I had perfect clarity. I vowed that this was a family tradition that stopped with him. I’ll never let myself get into that condition, I promised myself. When my father’s casket was lowered into the ground, I decided that all of my emotions were being laid to rest and buried with him. But it didn’t take long for me to realize I was wrong. The unsettling wave of emotions I had held back finally surfaced.

  It was almost a month after my father’s death. I was walking across campus and saw a maintenance van, like the one my father drove. From a distance, the man who was carrying a tool box up the steps into the university building looked like my father going on a call. Instantly I missed him. I regretted not doing more to mend our problems. In that moment I understood him and felt pity for him. Tears began to stream down my face; I could not stop them. I ran toward my car hoping no one would see me. I sat down in the car and wept, realizing there was no hope. I could not fix what had been broken. I couldn’t hold back the guilt any longer.

  Why didn’t I do something to help him? How could I have missed the warning signs of his depression? Why didn’t I spend more time with him? What was the last thing he said to me? He saw that I was just like him.

  “I don’t hate you. What I hate is the thought you’ll end up like me. That’s what I hate.” My father’s last words to me were a warning.

  “Now look at me,” I said to the four walls of my apartment as I rubbed tears from my eyes. In true Oliver family fashion, my mother and I never discussed it—never. What could we do? He was gone. Life moved on. I never shed another tear over him. It wasn’t because I was strong. I was empty.

  I got up to get another drink before I called Benny. This will be a waste of time—there’s no hope, I thought. I picked up the phone and started pushing the buttons.

  Every second is a new beginning.

  —BENJAMIN FRANKLIN PRICE

  8. What Are You Looking For?

  “WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR?”

  Benny’s question took me off guard. The memories of my father had fueled a frustration and anger that I could not contain. I had been in attack mode for much of the conversation. I was out to prove he was a relic from a bygone era, lucky at best to find success. At first, I had challenged his simplistic business approach.

  “How can you put your Purpose Statement on the front page of your Web site and expect people not to complain? Haven’t you set yourself up for failure?”

  The simple Purpose Statement for Citizens Bank read:

  At Citizens Bank we promise to exceed the service you expect and the trust you demand. Our goal is to be the best bank in your world. If we fail to live up to our goal, let us know. We are here for you.

  “Well, Jack, if a business doesn’t make a commitment to a client, then how will clients ever t
rust the business. That’s what we do—right up front we make a promise. Then we do our best to practice what we say. If you keep your word, you keep your clients. Does your bank have a Purpose Statement?”

  “Yes, but we call them declarations: value declarations, service declarations, ethics declarations, client acknowledgement declarations, code of conduct declarations.”

  “Jack!” Benny said laughing. “I’m not being critical, but you sound like Bubba from the movie Forrest Gump describing all of the ways shrimp can be served.”

  I laughed. That was funny, I thought—I need to remember that one. Merchants had a declaration for everything. I was glad he didn’t ask me to recite any. “Yeah, I guess our way appears a little complex, but all big banks are the same. It’s the same in all big businesses, not just banks.”

  “Simplicity is our organization’s goal and my own personal objective,” he said. “If we don’t understand what we’re doing, how can a client?”

  “What I don’t understand,” I said, “is putting your direct line phone number as the number to call if someone is upset. You must stay on the phone all day hearing people gripe.” I thought listing his direct line number on the Web site as the client’s helpline was stupid, but refrained from saying so, waiting to hear his answer.

  “Actually, I don’t hear complaints all day—and that’s a good thing,” Benny said, “but if I did, what better use of time could I find, Jack?”

  “Hearing complaints doesn’t seem like a good use of time to me,” I said.

  “If you don’t listen when someone complains, you’re admitting failure,” Benny said. “I encourage complaints! I want every client that is having a problem to complain—we then have the opportunity to fix whatever is broken. If they don’t complain, they typically leave quietly to a competitor. I call that ‘silent death’ for a business.”

  Silent death? That was almost funny, but it occurred to me that was what was happening to my group in Philly after the Merchants takeover. We weren’t hearing complaints—people were simply leaving, quietly. Unable to persuade Benny, I changed subjects.

  “Everything is so simple in your products,” I said, looking at a copy of the types of accounts Benny’s bank supported. “How can you continue to grow your business being so simple? People need a wider variety.”

  “Do they, Jack?” Benny responded. “We have three types of checking accounts. How many does your bank have?”

  Thinking rapidly so he would not see my own trouble keeping count, I said, “We have six different personal checking accounts, five interest-bearing accounts, and six business checking accounts—seventeen total.”

  “Can your people explain the difference in the accounts to your clients?” he asked.

  “They’re supposed to,” I said. “If they can’t, we find someone who can.”

  “Is that working for you?” Benny asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you growing? Are your clients happy?”

  “Well—no—but this is a different world from Virginia,” I said.

  “I looked at the number of competitors you have in Philly,” he said. “Interestingly, we have more competitors here. Your market has been the target of considerable consolidation. For a small city, we have a remarkable number of competitors, and the list expands every day. But we’re continuing to grow—not because we offer everything—but because we keep it simple and allow the clients the confidence of feeling good about their choices.”

  We, however, were shrinking rapidly. Customers were leaving us in droves. It was not an area I wanted to debate. I tried to find another subject to discuss, but before I could, he continued.

  “If clients don’t have confidence, they’ll leave. Client confidence isn’t found in more—but in less. Freedom is the same. More choices don’t equate to freedom. More is less, and less is more.”

  “With that type of thinking you’d get run out of Philly, Benny,” I said, frustrated with his perspective.

  “What works, works, Jack,” Benny said.

  “Well, Benny, we’ll have to agree to disagree on simplicity,” I said, trying to move away from the subject. It was time for my secret weapon. I was sure I would expose Benny as something much less than the tremendous leader John and many in the industry believed him to be.

  “Why are you looking outside your organization to fill your position?” I asked. “I would’ve thought you had a succession plan in place when you retire.”

  “Over the years we developed people to be specific in their functions,” he said. “The goal was to have clarity and simplicity as the foundation for everything we do. You don’t get that having, pardon the pun, jacks-of-all-trades in key positions. We also paid our people very appropriately to do a good job. We are now faced with the interesting challenge of having very satisfied, successful people doing what they love. We looked very closely and discussed the opportunity with a good number of people. No one was interested. They love what they do and are doing it very well. The other reason I am looking outside the organization is to find someone with a fresh approach—an objective perspective—on how to do business. We can all get stuck in a rut, even when we’re successful, so bringing in someone with the leadership, experience, and knowledge to do better is our goal. I’m looking for an energetic, brave leader, a person that can take Citizens Bank to the next level.”

  “John said you’re being pressured to sell to a large bank. I know you can’t tell me who, but why is that happening?” I asked.

  “Pure and simple greed,” Benny said. “Several of our directors have forgotten their commitment to why we formed this business. They see an opportunity to make some fast cash. I understand their greed but do not agree with it. We have a number of banks that would love to acquire us. But, Jack, you said it yourself; the big banks do business differently. I don’t see that working here, and I can prove it. I’m dedicated to keeping the bank independent, not for greed, but because of a promise I made and the fact we are doing pretty well.”

  I didn’t know what to say in response. I could only ask a more personal question. “Why would you consider me?”

  “I respect John Helm’s opinion, and he says you’re the best available person. You’ve been very successful, obviously, in your career. But Jack, I have a question. What are you looking for?”

  That was the question I had been afraid to ask myself. Now, after arguing with Benny for over thirty minutes, the simple question of what I wanted emerged, and I paused. “Actually, I’m not sure. I have roots here in Philly. I have been successful, but I’m not sure I can continue forward with Merchants.”

  “You may fit here or somewhere else—that is something you must choose. But from our brief time chatting, I believe you could use a change,” Benny said in a calm, reassuring voice. “It sounds like you don’t fit into your new environment.”

  After a pause, he continued, “I’d like to extend an invitation to come visit us. I’ll pay for the plane flight and all expenses for you and your family. I would like you to come down to Roanoke for a weekend so we can talk outside of the office. My wife Ann and I will show you the beauty of our little corner of the world in southwest Virginia. No obligation. We can fish and hike. Look at it as a weekend in the country away from Philadelphia. I promise you’ll enjoy it. You can bank on it! Are you interested?”

  The offer surprised me. Before the conversation began, my goal had been to identify Benny as a living dinosaur in banking. I had not been able to do so. Not yet. Now I had an invitation to visit. But he said my family, something that wasn’t possible. Fishing? Hiking? It sounded more like a Boy Scout expedition than a job interview. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think so right now,” I said. “I do appreciate the offer.”

  “Jack, will you do me a favor?” Benny asked. “Sleep on it and then let me know. I promise you’ll have a great time. I feel like I know you from talking with John over the years. You need a getaway weekend I’m sure. Will you consider it?”
<
br />   Before I knew what I was saying I responded, “Okay, I’ll think about it and get back with you tomorrow.”

  “Great! Do you like to fish?” he asked.

  “The only time I ever went fishing was with my father at Penn’s Landing. We sat there for an hour before he got frustrated and decided to pack up and leave. I doubt if fish could even live in the river because it’s so polluted.”

  “Pollution is not a problem here,” he said. “Sometimes it gets a little crowded at the lake, but I’m learning to live with the company.”

  “I’ll give you a call tomorrow,” I said, trying to reclaim control of the conversation.

  “I strongly believe in fate, and it’s at work here,” he said. “You need to know what you want in life. Searching for the answer is never a waste of time. You need to do what is right for you and your family. I’m sure you will.”

  “Thanks, Benny, I appreciate the offer,” I said. “I really do.”

  After hanging up the phone, I looked across the room and saw my reflected image in the blank television screen. I could see the outline of a person. I could not see the face in the reflection. My weight had ballooned to over two hundred fifty pounds. The bloated form was not the Jack Oliver I expected to see. What I saw was a lonely, alcoholic, obsessive man on the verge of failure. I had achieved almost everything I wanted in my career but was not allowed to take the final step—the one that would signify my ultimate success: I wanted to be a bank president—and answer to no one. But I had failed. The person I married and loved was not by my side. Instead, she was living in the home I had worked many years to give to my family—but I wasn’t there. I had no real connection to my two children. I was not where I thought I would be.