It's hard to open the mail these days. Or go on a few particular websites, e.g., Fidelity, Vanguard, Schwab et al. The behavioral literature of finance describes me well. I don't want to recognize the "now condition" of my portfolio. My personal balance sheet, battered by the stock market storm. The last time I opened my 401K statement, it reminded me of the scene in Godfather One, when Don Corleone carries Sonny's bullet-riddled carcass into the undertaker's basement, then extends his arms, crying out..."Look what they did to my beautiful boy...use all of your restorative powers...I don't want his mother to see him like this."
Better to recall what was, or what might have been. Maybe if I just avoid those statements, and those headlines, and that chatter around the water cooler, I'll feel better. Sleep through this one. Pull an investor Rip van Winkle, and wake up to a wonderful new reality. That 50's hit repeats in my mind, with substitute lyrics...He fell asleep in the woods one day, Dow then rose and made his day!
Which got me thinking. About bailouts. How could I get one? After all, why not? As my mother-in-law is fond of saying, "What am I--chopped liver?"
So I pulled everything together--gathered up all those statements, asset lists, obligations, etc.--and sat down with my local banker. Mark. A good guy. Also a member of the same church. He'll help me out, I reason.
Mark-the-friendly-banker-and-fellow-believer pushed my paper pile around his desk for a few minutes, grunting, then rocks back on his chair, so he's balanced on the back legs. Now that's risky, I think.
"So what's your question?" He's still delicately perched at that 40 degree angle.
"Am I eligible?" I ask that in a low voice, a bit embarrassed. It feels like the fiscal equivalent of ordering Depends.
"Nope." Dismissive. No "it depends". No probing questions. No helpful advice. Just nope.
"How come? I mean, what would it take to get me eligible?" Come on, brother, I'm thinkin.
"You have to be bankrupt. Insolvent. Illiquid. Caput."
"But I must be," I whine. "Can't you see? Actually...actuarially...I am bankrupt. Think about it. I'm 60 years old. In the 4th quarter of life. My best income producing years are behind me. The big cash outlays approach--long term care, hip replacements, and who knows what else. I'm toast..." My hands are open, palms up, on his desk. I try to get a little quiver going in them.
"No sale," he opines. In spite of my whines.
"OK then, tell me this. What would it take? What would I have to do to prove I'm eligible?"
"Liquidate everything. The house. The clothes. The cars. The 401K. Use it all to pay off your debts. If you have $1 left, you're ineligible." All delivered with that smug expression, to boot.
"But wait a minute," I protest. "Citibank didn't have to do that. They didn't have to do anything. Why should I? That's just not fair."
"This isn't about fair, friend. It's about bailouts. You don't get to decide the terms. He does."
He? Who's he? What is Mark-the-unfriendly-banker-and-maybe-fellow-believer talking about?
"The big guy," he answers my unvoiced question. "He decides. It ain't about eligibility. It's about grace."
My mind spins. Grace? What's grace got to do with commerce? And bailouts? Stunned, I bolt up from the chair, ready to fight my corner. And awake. The bedcovers are mangled around my legs. The pillow's a bit moist. Must have been grinding those molars again. It's morning. A new day.
Yet for some reason, I feel better. It's not up to me. What a relief. I don't have to prove I'm worthy, or eligible. Or anything. He--the Big Man--knows I'm bankrupt. Spiritually. All I have to do is liquidate everything...my faith in my position, my dependence on toys and trinkets, my confidence in my own goodness, my pride...and declare myself insolvent. In need of a bailout. Incapable on my own. In desperate need of a rescue...a savior. Nothing in my hand I bring, only to the cross I cling.
That's good news. That's gospel.
Chris Joyce
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