a questionable life Read online

  Benny’s questions had redirected my own questionable life. But I had regrets for the many wasted years. I wondered if I could ever overcome my guilt for all those misguided years of my past.

  I could hear Benny saying to me, “Everything in life has a reason and a purpose. Living isn’t a game of chance. Your life is yours to live, not wager.”

  I had gambled with my life and nearly lost it. By telling me his life experiences, Benny had enlightened me. And learning had been painful. Being disciplined by the things life throws at you was not what I would have chosen as a method of learning.

  “Pain teaches,” Benny had said in that initial hike in what now felt like a lifetime ago. He was right—I had to learn the hard way. But that’s life, I thought as I heard the minister nearing the conclusion of his remarks.

  My mind was in the past. Struggling to stay in the present, I took a deep breath, and as I slowly exhaled I remembered what he had said about the delicate balance between intention and attention.

  “The learning is in the journey. If you focus on what you want, you’ll miss what you have. The here and now is where we live. Live for the journey not the destination.”

  The minister concluded with a brief prayer. My heart was pounding. I took another deep breath and looked down at the notes I had written on an index card. As I lifted my head at the end of the prayer, I looked at Benny’s wife, Ann. She smiled a warm, half-smile. I looked to her side and saw our friend, John Helms. He made eye contact, nodding his head as if to say, “I’m here with you, Jack.”

  How did I get here? again leapt from the whirlwind of my thoughts. Every ending is a new beginning, Benny had said. I immediately felt at peace in the moment. This wasn’t an end, but a beginning. This moment was “to be.” It wasn’t by chance—there was a purpose. I had been led here to find the real me. With the help of others I had changed.

  The musical director stepped forward a few feet away from me. I would speak afterward. As she sang the words “On a hill faraway,” my thoughts returned to what had brought me here.

  My quest had been launched with a simple question—a question that had changed my life.

  Opportunity knocks only if you’re listening.

  —BENJAMIN FRANKLIN PRICE

  2. What Should I Do?

  “WHAT SHOULD I DO?” I asked my friend John Helms.

  It was a question I rarely asked—I always knew what to do. I had a plan. But this was different. Things had changed. My life was in turmoil.

  For the past year I had struggled working for a new employer, Merchants Bank. Merchants, one of the largest banks in the country, had acquired my previous employer, Philadelphia Trust and Guaranty (or PT&G as everyone referred to it in Philly). I had been a dedicated employee for twenty-seven years at PT&G and had risen from an entry-level job to the second-highest position in the bank. The acquisition of Philly’s largest bank and one of the oldest banks in the country by a bank with headquarters in Charlotte, North Carolina, was unexpected—so was the aftermath. John had called to try to help me.

  “Jack, I know you’re miserable. I can hear it in your voice. Do you want a change?” he asked.

  John was one of the few people in my life I trusted. I had met him at Wharton, one of the top business schools, where we were both pursuing MBAs. He stood out from the crowd. As a self-acknowledged redneck from the Deep South, he “came up North to learn like a Yankee” as he was fond of saying. His thick southern accent cultivated in his hometown of Little Rock had gained him instant notoriety. At first semiridiculed for his slow, deliberate enunciation of words, he quickly gained everyone’s respect with his remarkable intellect. He was as close to a genius as anyone I had ever met. To help his cause, he looked like John F. Kennedy Jr.

  “Yes, I would like a change,” I said. “But a good change—not just any change.”

  “Well, Jack ole boy, opportunity is knockin’ on your door,” he said. “You’ll thank me for playing employment consultant someday. I know all about Merchants Bank and what you’re goin’ through.”

  “Yeah, right!” I said laughing. “You’re the guy who was bellyaching about your bank being bought by Merchants four years ago if I remember correctly. If you would have stayed put, we would’ve been working together.”

  “I’m not so sure even a bank as big as Merchants could handle the two of us. But I did the right thing and left,” he said. Using his imitation of a southern evangelist, he nearly shouted into the phone, “I didn’t stay around and mope about it. Your boy, John, took a leap of faith and found solid ground. Hallelujah! Just like me, you need a change my boy—you need a change!”

  “A change would be nice, but I don’t have a lot of options right now,” I said. The idea of a change was something I had had on my mind since the Merchant takeover, but I didn’t like change, and how could I jump ship? I was entrenched in Philly and had made a commitment to stay until the end of the new employment contract I had entered into with Merchants. I couldn’t do what our CEO had done—leave with millions in severance pay and stock options. He had a golden parachute—I had, at best, a life preserver. If I stayed till the end of my two-year contract, I had a quarter-of-a-million-dollar bonus waiting for me. Another twelve months and the bonus money was mine.

  “Change is good,” John said, calming his evangelistic swagger to a more normal tone of voice. “Look at me. I’ve done pretty well with mine.” John had left Merchants after they acquired his bank to join a much smaller bank as CEO. He seemed to be enjoying life more than ever. “Listen, Jack, my friend Benny needs someone just like you. You’d be a great fit. Get away from it all and move to the beautiful countryside in Virginia. It’s not Philly, thank God!”

  “Benny? Virginia? You didn’t have to move from Philly to some hick town in Virginia to change jobs, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t,” he said with a serious tone. “But you should consider it.”

  “Okay, explain how this is an opportunity? Why would Benny, the banker and writer, need my help?” I asked. John had told me about his friend before. His full name was Benjamin Franklin Price, CEO of Citizens Bank of Virginia. He was at least seventy years old. Citizens Bank was one of the top-performing midsize banks in the country, based in Roanoke, Virginia. Benny had been the guiding force in organizing the business. He was renowned in the industry for his storytelling abilities and gift of gab. He had written a book, Bank on It!, about his leadership style and how to deal with change—something bankers were being exposed to now that mergers were commonplace. I had read his book at John’s urging several years earlier and reread it after Merchants came to Philly. It was a good read, even though I wasn’t fond of self-help books. John’s close friendship with the elderly banker had evolved through banking association meetings and hiking excursions on the Appalachian Trail. I always kidded John that Benny had adopted him.

  “Opportunity abounds. First, he is a great guy—you’d like him a lot. He is the wisest man I’ve ever met—hell, he’s smarter than me. Seriously, he helped me, Jack. I was going through a rough time. You know how bad things were for me. Just talking to the man helped. I know you’ll learn a lot from him. Second, you need to get out of cold, nasty Philly for some healthy mountain life in Virginia. Third, this is right up your alley. This is what you’ve always wanted. He wants a successor. You’ve always wanted to run a bank. His bank is one of the best. Just because it’s below the Mason-Dixon Line don’t make it less than what you’re accustomed to, Mr. Yankee,” John said, laughing.

  “Why would he want me?” I asked.

  “Well ol’ buddy, he didn’t—he wanted me. But I told him I was stuck here in Little Rock between exes and trying to keep all of the Arkansas southern belles happy. But I told him I knew the perfect guy who fit the bill for exactly what he wants. You’re the guy,” he replied. “Virginia isn’t that far from civilization.”

  “Thanks, John, but what’s this guy Benny want in someone like you or me?” I asked. As I listened, I kept thinking, Be
nny, what a name for a banker. He would get some real ribbing if he were in Philly. I had a feeling the man was a relic, a dinosaur, a throwback to a different generation.

  John summarized the situation: “Well, Benny is battling a takeover attempt by a large bank. I don’t know who the bank is that’s trying to buy them—it’s probably more than one—you know how sharks gather. He’s in a war with some directors at the bank. They want to sell, and Benny doesn’t want to. Even though it’s a great bank, the directors are getting old and greedy. Benny is past retirement age and doesn’t have a successor. He wants someone to join him while he’s there, to provide some succession management that would keep the bank independent.”

  “How in the world could a Philly banker make it in the rural Virginia market? They would probably want to shoot me,” I said, picturing a lynch mob standing outside the bank’s offices.

  “Yeah, if you acted like a Yankee they would,” he said. We both laughed. “We’ll need to put you through Redneck 101 if you join Benny. But seriously, after talkin’ with him, I believe this is in your swing zone. You would be heading up a medium-size bank with incredible profits that wants to stay independent and grow. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” John was baiting me for a response. “This isn’t just a dinky little bank—it’s about the size of PT&G when you guys were bought.”

  “I can’t imagine me in Virginia,” I said.

  “I can’t imagine you staying where you’re at and surviving another year, my friend,” John said. “Just give Benny a call, and let fate work its magical wonders.”

  “Fate? You still believe in that crap?” I asked.

  “Fate makes the world go ’round, Jack,” he said. “Now, why don’t you give in to my outstandin’ persuasive sales efforts and just talk to him?”

  “Okay—I’ll talk to him,” I said. “Just to have the chance to speak with the guy who adopted you. But I don’t see me moving to Virginia—ever.”

  John sounded happy to hear I would make the call. At least I made someone happy. “Let me give you his direct line. He’s expecting your call.”

  “Expecting my call? That was assuming a lot. How did you know I would even call him?” I asked.

  “I knew you would. You need a change and I’m glad to help two friends, you and Benny, get together,” John responded. “Call him now, you’ll enjoy talking with him—then you can see if you’re interested. Talkin’ can’t hurt.”

  “That hasn’t always been true for me,” I said.

  After hanging up, I kept looking at the number he had given me. Something about this idea made me feel some hope. At least it was an option. Swiveling my chair to look out my window at the Philly skyline, I thought of the many times I had gazed out at the surrounding high-rises believing that my career was progressing skyward as planned. Now, for the first time in my life, I didn’t have a plan in place. My ladder of success had reached a cloud of uncertainty. I was simply surviving—going through the everyday motions Merchants was putting me through. While Virginia probably wasn’t the place for me, at least it represented an option. My two-year contract only had a year left. Then I’d be without a job.

  I pulled my cell phone from my briefcase. I didn’t want to call from my office and felt guilty spending even a couple of minutes on Merchant’s time talking about another job, but Benny was expecting my call. As I dialed the number, the thought crossed my mind that I had fired people for doing the same thing I was doing.

  “Good morning, this is Benny Price. How can I help you?” The voice had a rich sound with almost no accent, unlike John’s definitive drawl.

  “Good morning, Mr. Price,” I responded. “This is Jack Oliver. John Helms asked me to give you a call.”

  “Jack, I’m so glad you called. John speaks in the highest regard about you,” he said. “And please—call me Benny.”

  “Okay, Benny. I’ve heard a lot about you,” I nervously exchanged. “I read your book, Bank on It!. It was very interesting. Actually I read it twice.”

  “Thanks for using your valuable time to read an old man’s mumblings set to print,” he said, laughing. “I hope you gained at least some benefit from reading it.”

  “I did,” I said. I hadn’t really thought about the book’s value to me over the past year until I spoke the words. “The book has a lot of passages that meshed with my situation.”

  “Change is always interesting,” he said, “but that’s life.”

  My change had been more than interesting, but I wasn’t going to discuss it with a stranger. “John says you may need some help. I doubt if I am the one you’re looking for—Virginia is a long way from Philly.”

  “Not really. One of my heroes is my namesake, Benjamin Franklin. I know a lot about your great city,” Benny responded. “I’ve visited Philadelphia several times. I want to visit again before I get too old to enjoy walking the streets and visiting all the sights.”

  “Tell me what you’re looking for, if you don’t mind,” I said, feeling the pressure to dispose of the conversation quickly.

  “Well, I know you’re probably at work making talking difficult,” he said, appearing to read my mind. “I know from talking with John that you’re a very ethical person. I’m sure you’re probably nervous speaking to me while you’re earning money from your employer. So, if it’s all right with you, let’s talk this evening. Will that work for you?” Benny asked.

  “That would be fine,” I responded, feeling less than compelled to talk further about the job.

  He gave me his home phone number and told me to call around seven o’clock that evening. He laughed and said, “We go to bed with the chickens and get up with them.” While I did not understand exactly what he meant, I was sure he didn’t have chickens in his house—or at least I hoped he didn’t.

  After hanging up the phone I thought, Jack, you’re dealing with a different world. I wasn’t wrong.

  If you only focus on what you want you will miss out on what you have.

  —BENJAMIN FRANKLIN PRICE

  3. What Is Stopping You?

  “WHAT IS STOPPING YOU?” I asked Naomi.

  After my conversation with Benny, I left my office and drove to our Fifth Street branch bank to speak with Naomi Preston, the office manager. Less than a year ago she had been one of the most productive office managers in PT&G, but since the Merchants takeover her performance was languishing at the bottom—a nightmare for a former high performer. I could relate. I wanted to find out what was holding her back. Adding to my curiosity was the pressure from my new supervisor: “Get her performance up or get her out!”

  “I just don’t believe in myself anymore,” Naomi said. “Mr. Oliver, I feel like all I do is put out fires. My job isn’t fun anymore—it’s torture.”

  “I understand, we’re all going through change,” I said. “But we have to move on and keep doing our best.”

  “My best isn’t good enough anymore,” she said, now with tears forming in her eyes. “I liked things the way they used to be.” I knew this was a problem for over five thousand people in greater Philadelphia. We were the former employees of PT&G—but now we were employees of Merchants Bank. It was like changing from a horse to a zebra—the change was evident to everyone. I couldn’t find anyone from PT&G who said they liked the change to Merchants. Not one.

  Our customers were noticing the difference and voting with their feet by leaving us for competitors. Once the dominant bank, we had lost our top spot in market share in less than one year. But, good or bad, I had a job to do.

  “Naomi, if you can’t get yourself together you know what will happen,” I said firmly, reminding her of the guillotine awaiting underperformers. “Now, quit whining and get fired up the way you used to be.” As I spoke I did my best to mask my own doubts.

  Driving away from the office, I started to think about my conversation with Benny and my agreement to call him later. I was torn. Why should I even talk to him? It’s a waste of time, I said to myself. The phrase reminded me of th
e person who had said it so many times before.

  I sounded like my father.

  “Why are you wasting your time?”

  The question was one of my old man’s favorites. Coming home unusually early with the smell of alcohol accompanying his entrance, Joseph Oliver was on the verge of launching into a familiar diatribe about how my mother spent her time. But this time was different—and worse.

  “You spend hours wasting your time,” he said to her, raising his voice with each word. “Why can’t you find something to do that pays?”

  Unlike my father, who never showed a passion for anything other than complaining, drinking, or gambling, my mother had a fervent desire to serve others. Limited by time and financial restrictions imposed by my father, she had found a way to give something to others—quilting. Carolyn Oliver could do almost anything with simple cloth, thread, and a needle. But she never made any money from her efforts, which aggravated my father’s frustrations. She gave the quilts away, typically to new mothers who attended Sacred Heart Catholic Church where we were members (but rarely attended). These were no average quilts. With incredible care my mother created near works of art. No two were alike. She always put the child’s name at the bottom right-hand corner. Her name never appeared anywhere.

  “How can you give something away like that? You could sell it and make some money,” he said, resuming his verbal barrage, scorning my mother’s efforts to help others without charging a fee.