Bill and Sasha

“Don’t be late tonight, honey. We’ve got the Gables coming over for Bridge tonight and I want to keep that Garhart family winning streak alive.” Bill’s wife kissed him on the forehead and handed him a brown sack filled – no doubt – with a turkey sandwich on rye, two homemade cookies, and a piece of fruit, most likely an apple. They both knew he was leaving the house not to go to work, but to pound the pavement for his next job, but it seemed to make her feel better to make his lunch and shoo him out. Keeps the blood circulating, she would say. So he obliged. He wasn’t much for couch-potatoing it, anyway. Bill smiled back at her, gathered his empty briefcase, and pushed the back door screen to let himself out.

The screen had seen better days; Bill knew he needed to get around to fixing it, but even minor repairs were being put aside, at least until he could get himself out of his predicament. It wouldn’t be long, he hoped, before he could pay off this . . . this loanshark (it made him wince just to think about it). Then, maybe the economy would pick up and then he could get a real job.

He slid into the driver side of the 1988 Taurus, which was running, he knew, by the grace of Almighty God. They needed a new car, but this would also have to wait. Pulling out of the driveway, he wondered how this had happened to him. Him!. Bill Garhart of the Houghton Garharts. God-fearing, protestant-ethic’d Michiganders.

Truly, he hadn’t quite pieced together how a man who worked every day of his life to support his family, didn’t drink too much, mowed the lawn every week, raised two daughters, never cheated on his wife, left money in the collection plate, and paid his dues, could end up like this, struggling for every penny to keep his family afloat, holding in such a tremendous lie from his wife. How many men did he know who hadn’t lived nearly as far from the line as he who were comfortably easing into their golden years, life intact? He sat in church every week, next to Julie, and prayed, if not for help, at least for an explanation. And if he couldn’t get that, God please spare his wife the humiliation that he was suffering – don’t let her find out that he was in for 20 large to Bobby C. It seemed, at least for the time being, that his last prayer had been answered.

“And Bill?” his wife was standing at the door, waving her hand to get his attention. “Love you,” she smiled and blew a kiss. Bill pulled out of the driveway and looked back at the small 3 bedroom house that Julie and he had called home for 22 years. This was all that was left, the bank accounts drained, and he hadn’t wanted to lose it. 22 years of repairs and mortgage payments. 22 years of memories. It was all he had left. And it was nothing.

They had sold the second car over a year ago, after he had been laid off and it was clear that he wasn’t going to be picked up somewhere quickly, and Julie had started working part-time at Carter’s, but that was really nothing more than grocery money. They cut coupons, ate off-branded products, even collected S&H greenpoints, the offspring of S&H Green Stamps. This was a tremendous source of embarrassment to him. They bought oscillating fans at a garage sale last month and unplugged their air conditioning for the summer. They cut out cable, which in Northern Michigan meant the TV was rarely used, and they stopped going to movies.

None of this had been a real hardship, at least for Bill. Keweenaw county boasted some of Michigan’s most beautiful countryside and his little town of Portage was no exception. Bill often went out to nearby Houghton, where he had grown up as a boy to enjoy the river walk and the parks, and during the summer months, he and Julie would drive up to Copper Harbor and spend the afternoon roaming around the mine museums or just enjoying the scenery. Cutting back on a few things hadn’t been a real struggle for Bill. At least at first. But then the foreclosure notices started coming, and he found himself hiding them from his wife, wanting to shield her from the very real and imminent possibility that her home was about to go up on the auction block. Things started crumbling. Laid off: a fancy euphemism for “you’re not getting your pension,” thought Henry.

His eldest was out of school, thank goodness, which left only Jenny’s tuition to pay, but he couldn’t even manage that. It has been another struggle he had lost and Jenny had been forced to take on a job to pay for her own school. That his little girl had to pay for her own education hurt Bill’s pride deeper than almost anything else he had suffered the last two years. It was a promise he had made to both his girls. A promise he had broken.

He drove toward the diner where the meeting with Bobby C. was to take place. He supposed he should be grateful that he had been able to save the house for a few months or that his wife had a job, if only part time and only $8.00/hour. Of course, what he had done to save his house put him in debt to a man who would as soon break him in two than give him an extension on the load. And here her was, about to tell this man that he still couldn’t pay him back. He knew that meant signing over the house to him. He knew the deal going in, and he knew the likely outcome. He was going to try to reason with the man.

His demise had come slower than many in his circle. Some of his co-workers had already lost their homes, and had long stopped trying to pay for their kids’ college. They’d been forced to move to God only knows where, and in some cases, were one paycheck away from homeless, living in conditions he couldn’t bear to think about. Bill knew of several families that were holed up in double-wides outside of Marquette, hoping to find employment, hanging on by a thread. At least Bill had been a manager at Grund Optical, which meant that he had gotten some severance (16 weeks) and the maximum unemployment benefits. That had kept him afloat for almost 24 months. Hi family had been unbelievably supportive, turning off the spending spigot as if it were second nature to them. Still, the injury to his pride had been severe, and despite the fact that the entire town was depressed as a result of the lab closing, he felt no small amount of personal shame that he couldn’t find a job and support his family.

The Three Sisters Diner was at the far end of Portage. The food was solid, wholesome fare, that catered primarily to truckers and vacationers who were passing through town on their way to Keweenaw County or some other vacation spot, and so it was not particularly fancy. Northern Michiganders – YOOpers they called themselves (though they spelled it Uppers) -- were not known to dine out frequently and in any case, since Grund had closed, most people in town simply couldn’t afford it. He pulled into the dirt parking lot and got out. He had been nervous all morning and how his heart was pounding. “Relax,” he told himself. “This is just a meeting.”

The décor could only be described – at least in civil terms – as no nonsense. The formica table swirl patterns had long been rubbed off by years of wipe-downs, and the chairs had seen better decades. Bill had never actually sat down at any of the tables in the place, although he had stopped off, like the rest of Portage, to pick up his share of ollalieberry pies over the years. The sisters were known for their pies and for many years, a swing by the Three Sisters’ to pick up a pie marked a special event at the Garhart household. He thought it might be nice to bring one home tonight, for the card game. He slid into a booth along the side table and made a mental note to take home a pie.

“Good morning,” the waitress said, smiling down at him. “Can I get you some coffee to start?”

“Thank you, yes, that would be fine,” Bill said, smiling back at her. For a brief moment, he felt much like he did before he lost his job – confident and relaxed. She didn’t know he had money problems. She didn’t know he had been laid off from Grund after Dick Jr., the company founder’s ne’er-do-well grandson, had decided to outsource all the manufacturing to India or Canada or some such other place. As far as this 20-something coffee drinker knew, he could buy this whole restaurant. He pulled out the newspaper he had brought with him and perused the front pages for some good news.

A lifer. Three years ago, that’s how Bill would have talked about his career at Grund. In 1921, when Horace Grund opened Grund Optical in Portage, forsaking more popular industrial areas like Duluth and Marquette for the values of a small town, he had made a promise to the community to be there. And he had kept his promise to his death. His son, Richard Sr. had assumed the reigns in 1958 and doubled the size of the company. In 1993, when Richard Jr., Dick, took his destined position at Grund, the homegrown values of his dad and grandfather were back-burnered in favor of the quick buck. Depending on who you talked to, Dick Jr. was either a festering sore on an otherwise healthy body, or simply was too green to really understand what he was doing. Uppers were like that, most were able to forgive the transgressions of a younger son. He’ll come around, they would say. But he didn’t. Some say he started running the place into the ground from the day he took over and he was lucky to have a company left to outsource at all. From Bill’s perspective, still managing to have a home in Harbor Springs and a couple of mansions on Mackinac Island hardly seemed like hand-to-mouth living, especially when Bill’s pension was probably paying for some maid to serve his wife crumpets.

“You must be Bill.” The voice came from a 50ish man standing over him at the table. When Bill put down his paper and nodded, the man slid into the booth across from Bill. Suddenly, Bill was back to feeling very nervous.

“I’m Alexader, but people call me Sasha. It’s nice to meet you.” The man held out his hand across the table. Instinctively, Bill shook it, and nodded again. He wasn’t who Bill had expected. When he had borrowed the money from Bobby C, it had been rather a gritty experience for him. This man, well, he seemed a lot like a regular guy, at least to look at.

“Did you order something yet? I like the blueberry pancakes. I think they use fresh blueberries because they don’t stain the pancakes like the frozen ones do.” The man summoned the waitress with his hand.

“No thanks, I’m just having coffee,” said Bill.

“Oh no, really, it’s on me, and the pancakes are really very good. You should try them.” The last thing Bill wanted to do was eat, having a knot in his stomach the size of Mt. Hood, but he didn’t want to anger this person. This was all very new to him, but keeping happy the man who knew the man who had your balls in a proverbial twist was probably a good thing, so what the heck.

“Thank you,” said Bill. “Blueberry pancakes it is.” He even managed a weak smile. Be cool. Smile. Be relaxed. As if Bill had ever been “cool” a day in his life. But if there was a time, it was now.

“Two orders of your blueberry pancakes, please,” said Sasha, smiling and the waitress, just as Bill had done. “And I’d love a glass of OJ.” The waitress wrote down the necessary information and disappeared. Sasha let out a sigh. Bill wasn’t sure if he himself had breathed at all in the last 30 seconds. “Well,” said Sasha. “That’s out of the way.”

“I . . . I thought I was going to meet Bobby C here,” said Bill.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about Bobby C any more,” said Sasha, with a brief smile. “He sold your debt to me, and I’m a much less scary proposition, wouldn’t you say?”

Bill had to agree with that. Bobby C had an ugliness about him that had scared the bejesus out of Bill the first and only time they met, if you could call it a meeting. Bill’s fishing buddy Mike had made a call for him and then told Bill to meet a guy named Bobby C. It was like being in a movie, Bill thought, driving to the Rock-and-Bowl over in Raleigh City. To meet a man. Who was going to loan him money. No contract. He just got the money – it was all so easy. Sort of. Mike had to explain to Bill what a Vig was, and that the payback would not be like in a bank, and that not paying back the loan could be dangerous – he might have to sign his house over to Bobby C, or worse. But Bobby C’s quick cash had saved his house and spared his wife and daughters the humiliation of leaving town or moving to a trailer park. He could deal with a little slick-and-mean, if it meant keeping his family together.

“Well,” said Bill nervously, “I guess it’s nice to meet in a place that’s . . . that’s . . .” the words failed him.

“That’s well lit?” said Sasha, laughing a little. “Well, you can’t beat the pancakes here, and anyway, I’m not much for bowling alleys, which is Bobby C’s preferred meeting place. Is that where you met him? The smell reminds me of when I used to smoke, and I’m about 15 minutes away from taking it up again.” He patted his stomach and grinned. “My wife said she’d divorce me if I didn’t quit, so, it’s food instead of tobacco.”

Bill smiled and relaxed a little bit. Maybe this was going to be alright after all. He didn’t know how to respond, what his relationship to Sasha was, or what it meant to sell someone’s loan. He figured he would find out soon enough.

They made some more small-talk, discussing the Tigers’ best chances for taking the series, commenting on the downturn in the economy, chatting about the weather. When the pancakes came, Sasha moved the conversation over to the business at hand.

“So, what brought you to our friend Bobby C in the first place, Bill?” Sasha asked, lowering his voice just a bit. Bill suspected Sasha already knew, but was too nervous to be flip in his response. Besides, sarcasm wasn’t his way.

“Well, I guess like a lot of us in town, I used to work for Grund Optical and when they closed down the plant here, well, there wasn’t much call for what I do. At least not in town.” Bill took a sip of his coffee and continued. “We thought about moving down to Detroit, but, well, our life is here and my wife, well, I just don’t think she would like it down there. Besides, there was no guarantee I could get work there. I mean, I sent out a few resumes and didn’t get a bite. It’s kind of depressed down there, too.”

“Uh huh,” said Sasha, his mouth full of pancake. “Well, our friend Dick Jr. made a lot of people pretty unhappy when he outsourced the plant to Canada. That old bastard. I wonder what he’s doing with all that money he made. Probably just stays up in Mackinac raising horses or something and counting the cash. Old Michigander money, those Grunds. Used to golf with Dick’s father, before he died. Never thought Dick Jr. would amount to anything – his mother was always paying off someone for the trouble he caused.” Sasha motioned the waitress to heat up his coffee. “Yep, that old bastard is responsible for a lot of people in this town bein’ out of work. Wouldn’t put it past one of ‘em to shoot him dead if he ever set foot in Portage again.

“Not like his daddy. Dick Sr. cared about the community up here. He wanted to make a difference. But soon as he died, Dick Jr. just ran roughshod over the place. I think a lot of people are in a worse predicament than you.” Sasha put down his fork and leaned in, his face and tone suggested he wanted to change the subject. “Speaking of work, Bobby C tells me you had some special skills working at Grund. Tell me about that.”

“I don’t know if I have any special skills. I think I mentioned to Bobby C that I was the efficiency expert for the Solutions division at Grund.” Bill had been so frightened in that first meeting, he really didn’t know what he had said. Sasha listened, continued eating and motioned Bill to keep talking.

“Uh, I, you know, was responsible for managing efficiencies. Like for instance, I might take a look at a production line and increase the number of people on it if I thought we could grow the production exponentially. Or maybe we were getting some of our compounds from a single vendor and it was better to spread it out because we could get a price war going. Things like that.” It had been a long time since someone had been interested in Bill’s job. He perked up as Sasha nodded.

“So you worked with the ocular solutions?” Sasha asked.

“Yes, all the sterile products that Grund manufactured. Most of it was for optometrists and opthamologists, but also the commercial grade, you know, consumer over-the-counter stuff,” said Bill. Sasha nodded again so Bill continued. “Contact solutions, grinding chemicals, lens coating solutions, you name it.

“I guess one of the biggest cost saving measures I implemented was streamlining shipping and tracking costs by shipping to a hub first and then re-shipping to national locations. I got the idea from Federal Express; you know, how they ship everything to a hub? Anyway, it worked well for us. I cut 18% off the shipping costs.” Bill was beaming. This man actually seemed interested in what he had to say. He started to say more, but stopped until Sasha motioned him to go on. Bill might be new to the loan sharking world, but he knew enough to respond on cue.

“I’m not a scientist or anything, but you know, to be good at your job you have to go that extra mile. So I took some extension courses at NMU and learned a little about chemistry. It made it so I could talk to the scientists about some of their formulations, you know. See about substituting cheaper products for their compounds. Some products produce more waste by-products which can really add to the production cost because you have to pay for the disposal of the hazardous chemicals. I worked with the scientists to come up with cleaner processes.” Bill hastened to add, “I got three awards when I was there.” There. He was done. Sasha smiled, and motioned him to eat.

“Please. Eat. Your pancakes are getting cold,” said Sasha. “Let me tell you what I have in mind. You see if it agrees with you.” Sasha appeared to Bill as casual and friendly as if he had been one of Bill’s vendors back at Grund. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad after all, now that he wasn’t dealing with Bobby C any longer, who he thought sure was going to break his arms.

“We have a number of businesses in and around this area. Some are pretty mundane, you know, a local trucking company, a few convenience stores, a Subway franchise. Others are, shall we say, they tend to the more exotic side of things. We deal with the same sort of efficiency issues that every kind of business does: maximizing profits, human resource issues, and a few other special issues, if you get my drift. I mean, a business is a business, but some are more lucrative than others, especially in economic downturns”

“You mean like bankruptcy companies?” asked Bill.

“Something like that, yes. Times are tough all over, Bill,” said Sasha. “We’ve all got families to feed and kids to put through school. It’s not the world you and I grew up in, is it? We’re all just trying to make a living. Used to be you could make an honest living working at a place like Grund, but nowadays, well, I guess I don’t have to tell you, do I?”

“No, I hear you loud and clear,” said Bill.

“Of course you do. You’re a hard worker, I can see that. I think we’re going to get along just fine, Bill. What we’d like you to do is to use those efficiency skills on our behalf in some of our less public businesses. We’ve got some real inefficiencies in one of our labs and well, we think with your background in chemicals and your understanding of production, you could maximize our profits.”

“Chemicals? Are there other plants in the area?” asked Bill.

“Well, not ones you’re likely to see advertising for jobs,” said Sasha. “As I say, they’re slightly more exotic, but still have the same sort of challenges that, say a Grund Optical company might have. We’ll acquaint you with the details soon enough, but let me continue.

“We’ll set you up as a regional accounting specialist at one of our franchises, probably the Subway. That’ll be nice for your wife, you know, to know where you work. We’ll even give you a paycheck so old Uncle Sam doesn’t repossess your home. How does $12.50 and hour sound to you?”

It sounded like an insult. “Fine. Fine.” Said Bill.

“Good. Now, of course, all that doesn’t belong to you. Let’s see, Bobby gets the Vig at $2500.00. We’ve advanced him that and paid off your debt so you don’t have to worry about seeing his ugly mug. That makes your total to us at $22500.00. At 35% for let’s see – we’ll give you 4 years – that’s $876.00 a month to us. Let’s see, that leaves you enough, about $600 after taxes to hold on to that nice little place over on Cherry Lane, doesn’t it? I don’t like my employees to be homeless.”

“Well, I . . .I mean, the mortgage is $583.00 and that doesn’t count things like food and electricity and, well, my daughter’s in college now, and I thought maybe we could help her out some, too.” Bill was beginning to understand his predicament. The shoe, it appeared, was dropping.

“Uh huh,” Sasha seemed unconcerned. “Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out, Bill. You’re an efficiency expert.”

“If I can get a better paying job, that would be fine, right? I mean, I would pay you back, of course, but maybe it would be easier on my family if I could get a better paying job.”

“Bill, Bill, Bill. It doesn’t work that way.” Sasha’s manner was steady, but the pleasantness had left his voice. “You work for me now and you will work for me until your debt is paid. If you want to get a job at some other plant or waiting tables at the TraveLodge or picking up fucking dog shit in the park, I don’t care, as long as you understand that your ass needs to be where I tell you when I tell you until I tell you I don’t need you.”

“I --- I mean, I could sell the house. Put it on the market today. Sign it over to you right now if you like. That would be a fair trade, right? You can have everything. That would more than cover the debt.” Bill thought sure that was a reasonable offer. More than fair, in fact. He wanted to get out of there.

“What the hell am I going to do with that piece of shit you own – you’ve already got two goddamn mortgages out on it. This economy? Where do you think you live, New York City? That dump wouldn’t cover its own closing costs. Besides, your special skill set is more valuable to me than that tinder box.” Sasha’s voice trailed off as the waitress warmed their coffee. When she disappeared he began again.

“I don’t think you fully comprehend what a generous offer you’re getting here, Bill. I’ve got you a nice legitimate paycheck and I really struggled to make this as comfortable for you as I could. I’m a little insulted if you must know, Bill, by your attitude.” Bill watched as Sasha’s face lost it’s even tempered look.

“If I hadn’t bought your debt from Bobby C, you would be laid up in a hospital with a broken vertebrae and no goddamn house at all, and that’s if Bobby C decided to have pity on you. Otherwise, your ass would have been at the bottom of a goddamn ditch somewhere. What did you think, that we were charity lenders? You came to us, Bill. And like I said when I sat down, I’m just a business man. Now, if you’d like to pay me what you owe me right now, then let’s see the cash. Otherwise – how can I say this – Shut. The Fuck. Up.”

Bill was silent. He wasn’t sure what to think. He still wasn’t sure what he was being asked to do, but it was not working at Subway, and he was not at liberty to negotiate his own terms. Sasha breathed in and out through his nose, as if he were trying to contain his own anger. When he finally spoke again, his voice was calm, steady.

“Now, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that it’s in your family’s best interest to work with us in confidence. What was your daughter’s name? Jenny? How is she doing up at Michigan State?”

Of course, this comment had been designed to frighten Bill, since he’d never actually revealed his daughter’s name or where she was going to school. And it had worked. The more terrified Bill became, the more relaxed his dining partner seem to be.

“Now, me? I couldn’t hurt a fly,” said Sasha, dragging the last of his pancakes through the syrup puddle on his plate. “My wife can’t even get me to clean out the mouse trap in the garage, and when my kids were little, I’d tear up just giving them a whack on the head. I guess that’s why I keep Bobby C around. Now that boy!” Sasha shook his head and laughed. “He’s the devil himself. I honestly do not think the man has a soul, but I’ll tell you this: he’ll gut a lovely 19 year old co-ed with a butter knife if I tell him to. No soul, that one. No soul.” Sasha appeared to regain his relatively friendly tone.

“So, now, today’s Friday, so we’ll get started on Monday, shall we?” said Sasha, his smile returning. He handed Bill a business card. “You’ll need to fill out paperwork, of course, so that we can start that paychecks coming, so stop by my office and my secretary will have everything ready for you. Then we’ll drive out to one of our labs and I’ll fill you in. Who knows, you might even find the work challenging.”

Bill was silent. He didn’t know what to say or do. He only knew that 3 months ago he had made the wrong choice. He should have sold the house when he had the chance, even if he couldn’t get what it was worth because of the depressed economy. Julie could have lived in Detroit or Chicago or some other big city. They could have managed in a 1-bedroom apartment or a studio; looking back, they had been through worse. Whatever made him think now that he had to borrow from a loan shark he didn’t know. He couldn’t believe that one wrong decision in a lifetime of right decisions could derail his life so. He looked down at the card and back at the man who gave it to him.

“Thank you,” said Bill, as he scooted out of the booth. It was all he could think to say. He didn’t stop to get a pie.

Walking back to his car, he wasn’t sure what to feel. He was mostly numb. He wanted to cry but wasn’t sure he even knew how. He wanted to hate this man who bought him the blueberry pancakes, but he was too numb, and at some level Sasha had been right: it had been Bill’s choice to come down this path. Bill had no reason to expect kindness from a perfect stranger. Sasha was a businessman. Bill wanted to die.

Pride had led him down this path. Pride, and eternal optimism that his circumstances would turn around. He was a likeable enough guy with a good track records. Surely this was merely a temporary set-back. But when the severance ran out and the unemployment ran out, he should have picked up on the hint. He didn’t.

He thought back to his job at Grund. He had been happy. He had taken pride in his work. He had saved the company hundreds of thousands of dollars over the years and never asked for a raise or even recognition. Although Dick Grund Jr. rarely showed his face at the plant like his father did, and everyone knew he was the boss’ useless son, Bill had always showed him respect. When others stopped trying after Dick Sr. died, Bill stepped up to the plate. Like his breakfast companion, he wondered, too, what Mr. Grund was doing with all that cash, while Bill and people like him were struggling to make ends meet. He had never been to Mackinac Island, but had heard people talk about it. A playground for Michigan’s elite. As he thought about it, his anger grew. They should have seen this coming. They should have learned from Flint how layoffs could devastate a community. He hated Dick Grund for what he had done to his town, his family, and to him. He wished he had the courage to put a bullet through his head.

It was only 9:45am, but Bill headed home. His wife had gone to work. He changed into his pajamas and crawled into the bed to sleep. If he was lucky he wouldn’t wake up.

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