by H. M. Mann
“List statements of owners, partners, officers and stockholders owning twenty percent or more of the business.” Do I send my name alone on a single sheet of paper?
After being stymied yet again by the federal government and the Salaciously Brainless Administration, Johnny became even more depressed, so he took the Caddy to look for money.
He knew the economy was bad. He knew that banks were reluctant to give up the free money the government and his old paychecks had given them. He also knew that he probably didn’t have much of a shot at any kind of a loan without collateral, a normal job, and a normal place to live. But Johnny didn’t care. He was an American about to start a small business, and there was nothing that could stop him.
If he could only find a parking space big enough for the Caddy.
And if only he had first shaved, showered, worn a suit, and cut off his beard.
Minor details, he thought. I will simply impress them with my business acumen, expertise, and shrewdness.
He decided against applying for a loan at a national bank like Bank of America. BOA—the money constrictor, Johnny thought—was in the news far too often to trust, and whenever BOA hiccupped, the economy spit up. He didn’t check out Check ‘N Go because, mainly, he didn’t have a checking account, but partially because of the name, which sounded suspiciously like “Chicken, go!” He avoided places like Household Finance since he had heard they could legally charge up to thirty-three percent interest, harass you on the phone any time they wanted to, and take your firstborn child.
He rode around Roanoke for about an hour when he saw a HomeTown Bank branch. That’s such a homey name. It’s so here and so not New York City. They have a golden oak leaf in their logo. Hey, I’m on Franklin Road. This is a sign! I will stop at this bank to get some gold and some Franklins.
“I’d like to apply for a small business loan,” he told a teller, and in moments, he was whisked into a simple office and told to wait for Miss Summers.
Miss Summers, a bleached blonde with black eyebrows who couldn’t have been more than twenty-one, stalked into the small room like a praying mantis, her arms much too long for her petite body but somehow in perfect proportion to her long legs. She wore what Johnny considered a business suit only without the tie, vest, or pants, a simple white blouse hiding behind a blue pinstriped jacket. She smiled and extended a hand. “Milly Summers.”
Johnny shook her hand rapidly. “Hi, Milly. Johnny Holiday.”
She sat.
Johnny wondered how. Her knees should be blocking me from her view. Maybe she has the ability to fold her legs several times. I think I’ve seen this horror movie before.
“What type of a loan are you applying for today?” Milly asked, readying what looked like an official HomeTown Bank application resting on a blotter while she twisted a fancy silver pen.
“An SBA loan, Milly,” Johnny said, smartly using only the acronym. “May I call you Milly, Milly?”
Milly nodded. “And why have you chosen HomeTown Bank, Mr. Holiday?”
“You’re a local bank, Milly, I mean, this is a local bank.” She’s too skinny and insect-like to be a bank, unless she’s one of those pod people. “I don’t trust national banks, Milly. They’re far too volatile and capricious in this disconcerted and unsettled economy.”
“Yes, they are,” Milly said with a smile. “Did you know that we have over three hundred years’ lending experience here at HomeTown Bank?”
I don’t know if that’s a good thing, Johnny thought. The old guy has to be on life support.
“Mr. Holiday,” Milly continued, “we like to think we’re here especially to help the small business owner. You are aware that small businesses make up sixty percent of our national economy.”
“I am aware of that.” Now.
Milly tapped her pen on the application. “Is this loan for a start-up or an existing business?”
Johnny nodded then realized that nodding was not a proper response to an “either/or” question. “Oh, a start-up.”
Milly drew a perfect blue checkmark in a perfect black check box. “As I’m sure you already know, SBA programs can provide you with lower down payments, more extended terms, and lower interest rates than normal bank funding.”
“That’s why I’m here, Milly,” Johnny said with a smile.
“Are you in any way acquiring this business?” Milly asked.
“Um, yes.”
“Are you in any way expanding an existing business?”
“Um, yes.”
Milly started to write something and stopped. “So you’re acquiring and expanding an existing business.”
“Um, well, it’s … yes.”
Milly checked off more perfect black boxes. “Will you be acquiring any real estate?”
“Yes.” Johnny dispensed with the “um.”
“Will you need equipment financing?” Milly asked.
“Yes.” I have never said “yes” this many times in my life! This is so liberating!
Then Milly Summers talked to Johnny for fifteen solid minutes, and Johnny understood every fifth or sixth word. Johnny tried to pay attention, nodding and saying, “I see,” often, but he drifted in and out of consciousness, watching Milly’s blonde tresses not move. Maybe her hair is really made of straw. Or flax. Might be flax. I bet flax is hard to come by unless you live in North Dakota. It could be really thin spaghetti.
“The seven parentheses-A-parentheses program is a possibility,” Milly said, twirling her pen like a baton, “though the five-oh-four Program has its advantages as well, but I’m sure you already know all this.”
Johnny nodded, hoping she’d just get on with the application and stop twirling that pen. He almost wanted to start marching behind her.
“So, what kind of business are you planning to acquire and begin, Mr. Holiday?”
I finally get to talk? “I’d like to open a unique pizza establishment that caters exclusively to Northwest Roanoke using the vacant and available Pizza Hut building on Melrose Avenue. It currently lists for one ninety-five K.”
Milly sat up straighter.
Six figure loans must do that to a commercial lender’s back, Johnny thought. “I also need about a hundred K for capital expenses,” Johnny added.
Milly nodded, listing the amounts. “What is your income to debt ratio, Mr. Holiday?” Milly asked.
“Um, I have no debts.” Or property. Or money. Or condiments. I do have a vacuum cleaner, oh, and my health. There’s that. The diarrhea has just about run its course. Oh, my heart aches a little, nothing I haven’t felt before, but—
“Savings?” Milly asked.
And this is where the interview should get interesting. “None.”
Milly’s entire body jerked back, the desk moving.
I bet she just bruised her knees. Ouch.
Milly cleared her throat. “Um, checking?”
“Um, no. No checking either. Like I said, I don’t trust banks very much.”
The desk moved again.
She should wear kneepads.
“Current job?”
I won’t exactly be a mechanic, so … “I’m basically an oil change engineer slash gopher at AB Auto Repair and Towing over on Williamson Road.”
Milly seemed to choke. “Current salary?”
I’d like to know the answer to that one, too. “About … two hundred cash a week,” Johnny guessed. Whoa. That’s not much. I should have said two-twenty, two-twenty-five. “But most of that will be going for parts to my car.”
Milly dropped her pen. “Do you have any cash on hand, investments, stocks, bonds, or collateral? A house perhaps?”
“I have about …” He looked at the ceiling. “Twenty-seven dollars and some change. Wait. I plan to eat at Mickey D’s for lunch. Really only twenty-three. No house, no stocks, no bonds, James or otherwise. The only collateral I have is my car.” He remembered the ring, dug it out of his pocket, and showed it to Milly. “And this engagement ring worth four thousand dolla
rs. At least that’s what it was worth when the first guy tried to use it. I only paid eight hundred for it at a pawn shop, and I technically haven’t used it yet.” He smiled. “Guess you could say it’s secondhand, though saying a ring for your finger is secondhand is kind of outlandish, don’t you think?”
Milly fell far back into her chair. “Is this a simulation?”
Johnny looked at the ring. “No, it’s a real diamond.”
Milly smiled and shook a finger at Johnny. “This is a test, right? Someone from downtown sent you to test me.”
Johnny pocketed the ring. If her finger was loaded, I’d be dead by now. “No one sent me to test you.”
Milly’s mouth moved up and down, her lips making a tapping sound not unlike a cicada. “Is this a joke?”
“No, Milly,” Johnny said, shaking his head slowly. “I wouldn’t joke about trying to get a loan for three hundred K, and I wouldn’t joke about the area of Roanoke that has been ignored for far too long by the pizza powers that be. Northwest Roanoke is a slice of the pizza market that hasn’t been cut, and I intend to own that slice of the pie.”
Milly looked rapidly around the room. “Where are the cameras?”
“Um,” Johnny said, also looking around the room rapidly, “this is your bank, Milly. Shouldn’t you know where your cameras are?”
“I’m not getting punked, am I?” Milly asked. “Yvonne didn’t set this up, did she? She would do something like this to me. And all I said was, ‘That dress looks good on you.’”
Johnny sensed Milly’s angst. “Um, I don’t know Yvonne, and I’m sure the dress did look nice on her, but you’re not getting punked by me,” Johnny said. Commercial lenders sure are paranoid. Maybe it’s part of their job descriptions.
Milly folded her long skinny hands together on top of Johnny’s application, smudging some of that perfect blue ink. “You’re completely and totally serious about getting a loan of this magnitude with only twenty dollars to your name?”
“Um, it’s twenty-three dollars, Milly,” Johnny said sincerely, “and yes, yes I am.”
Milly took several quick breaths. “You mentioned a car. What’s it worth?”
“Well,” Johnny said, “it’s practically priceless. It’s a seventy-four Vega. They don’t make those anymore, you know.” I better tell her the whole story. Wouldn’t want the Feds to hammer me later for not telling the complete truth during an SBA loan interview. “It’s in the shop, though. It will be restored to its former glory, maybe all original parts, hopefully by the end of the summer.”
Milly didn’t seem to be breathing.
Do insects have lungs? Maybe her skin just absorbs the oxygen from the air. “So, Milly, what do you think of my proposal?”
“Um, Mr., um, Holiday, I can tell you without processing your application any further that you do not qualify for this amount.”
Shoot. I should have said two-fifty K. I could have skimped on the sauce like Hector does for a week or two. “What will I qualify for?”
Milly stood to her full height. “You wouldn’t qualify for any kind of loan, Mr. Holiday.”
Ouch. Small talk is best when you’re in pain. “Um, I went to Tech, Milly. Where’d you go?”
“National College of Business and Technology. Why?”
“Just curious, Milly.” She has a two-year degree, and she’s telling me, an engineering graduate, that I can’t have a loan? Who empowered her to have control over my potential money? What’s this country coming to? “Um, if you don’t mind my asking, how do most folks get SBA loans through HomeTown Bank?”
She pointed at the application. “They already have all the things you’re missing before they ask for the loan.”
Johnny thought for several moments. He frowned. He looked at the ceiling. He pursed his lips. He looked at the floor. He tried to avoid looking at Milly’s swelling knees. “Um, forgive me for being blunt, Milly, but, um, how can I get those things unless I have a business to provide them? I need the horse before I can pull the cart, Milly. You give me the horse, and there will be a cart. Right now you’re saying that you want me already to have a cart and the horse. If I had those, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
Milly blinked.
Johnny stared at her knees. She’s going to bruise for sure. I bet they’ll be really splotchy. She’ll have to wear pants for a couple days. Or dark hose.
“I think we’re done here,” Milly said. “Have a nice day, Mr. Holiday.”
Johnny stood and nodded. “You have a nice day, too, Milly.” Hope your knees feel better.
What now? Johnny thought on his way back to AB Auto Repair and Towing. How am I going to come up with all that money? If I put away five bucks a week … okay, ten a week … Johnny sighed. It will take me sixty years to raise that much money! I’ll be ninety and won’t be able to eat pizza let alone make it or walk it up to someone’s door.
Johnny realized then that he needed partners, people with spare money, maybe men like … Armstrong and Byron. Armstrong can probably eat him some pizza, might even be nice to have him on the register now and then. He couldn’t be a delivery man. He might not fit through the average house door. He could, however, carry fifty pizzas at a time. Byron could man the phones and play some funky music …
Byron waved him over when he came into the garage, Johnny’s Big Mac and fries still fresh on his breath. “Any luck?”
“Yep,” Johnny said, “but it’s all bad.”
Byron patted him on the back. “It’ll turn.”
“It can only turn,” Johnny said.
“Ready to get dirty?” Byron asked.
Johnny nodded. My luck is turning already.
43
After tossing and turning for two weeks about “the question of Paul” and his effect on her daughter, Gloria decided to give Paul a tryout.
“You are taking Angel shopping tomorrow,” she ordered.
Angel returned with a dozen archaeological books, a fancy reading light, and a half-drunk large Arabian Mocha Sanini from Starbucks.
“You gave coffee to a five-year-old?” she scolded.
“She likes it,” Paul said.
Angel did a great deal of interpretive dance in her room that night.
Angel also spent a great deal of time in the bathroom the next morning.
“You are taking us to church tomorrow,” Gloria ordered him.
“I do not go to church,” Paul said. “I do not believe in that superstition.”
“Superstition?” Gloria cried. “Archaeologists have found proof of everything that’s happened in the Bible.”
“Not reputable archaeologists,” Paul said.
Gloria knew the easiest way to win the argument. “Angel likes church, Paul, and it will give you another free morning to see her.”
Paul went.
Gloria felt proud to be seen with her new man, who wasn’t really her man, and no one at Faith Ministries had doubts about the man who brought her to church. Paul’s suits fit, he looked sharp, he was more than handsome, he was well-spoken and had that sexy accent, and most of all, he was there. He sat between her and Angel. The space in the back of the sanctuary where Johnny used to stand had already been filled by another man. Gloria absolutely enjoyed being seen with Paul, the sight of a gorgeous man sitting next to her creating twitters of jealousy and delicious rumors among the ladies in the church, some of whom were already rumoring the two of them into marriage. And after only four consecutive Sundays, Paul had actually approached Pastor Payton after the service. Their conversation was brief, but Gloria was certain Paul was on his way to salvation.
“Where’s our driver?” Marion had asked.
“He’s talking to Pastor Payton,” Gloria had whispered. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
“What’s so wonderful about it?” Marion had said. “It’s starting to rain, and he has the keys.”
“Mama, I think Paul is talking to Pastor about getting saved,” Gloria had said.
Marion had shaken her
head. “Then why didn’t he go up at the end of the service?”
“He didn’t want to call attention to himself,” Gloria had said. And if Paul gets saved, Gloria had decided, I may do more than just sit beside him.
“Well, can you hurry him along?” Marion had asked.
“All right, Mama.” Gloria had walked up the stairs just as Paul was coming down. “What were you and Pastor talking about, Paul?”
“I asked if it were possible to turn down the volume on those speakers,” Paul had said. “It’s much too loud.”
On the fifth consecutive Sunday, Gloria had peeked at Paul during prayers and saw that his eyes were open, his expression beyond bored, his face grimmer than grim. Like a good single, Christian mother, however, she continued to pray for him, prayed that he would see the light, prayed that he would feel the Spirit, prayed that he would keep his freaking eyes closed during the prayer.
After two months of church, Gloria had felt sure enough of Paul to invite him home for Sunday dinner.
“I do not wish to impose,” Paul had said. “You know I have a delicate stomach.”
“But Angel’s going to cook,” Gloria had said.
“I will be happy to eat my Angel’s cooking,” Paul had said.
Though Angel had only stirred the beans, helped mash the potatoes, and drizzled glaze on the ham, Paul had pronounced Angel’s cooking “exquisite.”
Angel had, dutifully, rolled her eyes. She hadn’t yet warmed up to the man, but she was tolerating him about as well as she tolerated Johnny. This, Gloria thought, was a good sign, a welcome change, a monumental shift of affections from the Pizza Man to the exquisite archaeologist.
All this, of course, was enough to make Marion Minnick want to puke, and she let her concerns be known right vociferously.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Marion asked while she and Gloria did the dishes while Paul and Angel went for a walk.
“What do you mean?” Gloria asked.
“You know what I mean,” Marion said. “You’re throwing yourself at Paul, and he isn’t exactly catching you. He’s only around you to get more time with Angel.”