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Cornering By Dimelza Cassidy Synopsis: It's all about going in slow and coming out fast. 'What do I do?' I thought, sitting behind the steering wheel of my car, in the parking lot at the headquarters of Southern State Bank. Anthony Mitchell and the powers that be at Southern State Bank had offered me my dream job. It was exactly the one I had lusted after since entering the management-trainee program at Merchants, Farmers, and Machinists Bank after obtaining my MBA. Not only would I run the retail branch, but the loan branch as well. At last -- signing bonus, big salary, company car, and the requisite title and power -- the captain of the ship, but what do I do about my offer from Angus Mulligan? Angus Mulligan -- a man-child who was nearing thirty, who Wiggins at White City Harley-Davidson referred to as "eccentric" -- a man who wears bridesmaids' and antique dresses -- had offered me a position in his empire as a clerk in his soon to be opened combination antique motorcycle and clothing store. Sure, his offer catered to my primary passion of wearing and selling antique clothing and my newest infatuation - riding motorcycles, but did that really stack up against my career dream? The past nine months has been an emotional roller coaster. If my career were a pregnancy, my long-awaited baby would have been born at ten this morning during the first meeting of the day at Southern State Bank, yet here I sit trying to decide my future. Resolved that the decision couldn't be made in a parking lot within the confines of a stifling car, I decided to go for a ride on my little yellow friend. It had been a good solitary companion these last few months. "When the going gets tough, the tough go for a ride." That's what the Gang of Four, Dog Shit, and Declan would say, so that's what I'll do - go home, change, and then go for a ride. After a quick exchange of business attire for black jeans, riding boots, and helmet, I set out for the quietness of a lake whose smell reminded me of Dune -- aquatic and floral - the perfume I had worn during graduate school. While making my way through the city traffic to the stillness of the secondary country roads, I thought of the song that had brought tears to Angus' eyes -- and now mine. Winnie the Pooh doesn't know what to do -- got a honey jar stuck on his nose. He came to me asking help and advice; and from here no one knows where he goes. So I sent to ask him to ask of the owl if he's there -- How to loosen a jar from the nose of a bear. So help me if you can. I've got to get back to the house at Pooh Corner by one. You'd be surprised; there's so much work to be done. Count all the bees in the hive. Chase all the clouds from the sky. Back to the ways of Christopher Robin and Pooh. Upon arriving at the lake, I parked my yellow two-wheeled friend on the side of the road, took a seat on a felled tree, and then breathed in the scent of the perfume from my youth. *** Nine months earlier The Bangles screeched "Manic Monday" when the clock radio sounded at six in the morning. I hadn't been dreaming of Rudolph Valentino kissing me by an Italian stream and it wouldn't be "just another manic Monday" due in part to today being the start of a new assignment. I had been transferred to yet another loan origination office attached to a retail branch that had failed its credit and financial audit. The swat team had found a dirty office - bogus loans, looted abandoned and dormant accounts, and fraudulent entries to the cash items account. It had taken the better part of fifteen years to win carefully chosen battles -- and at long last the war. Finally, I had reached the level of Senior Vice President - Regional Portfolio Manager. The years of penance had been paid. No longer would I have to deliberately lose a tennis match to a male competitor. Nor would I have to intentionally dub a drive or miss an iron shot to the green. The glass in the ceiling had been smashed - I would no longer be the token woman, the one needed to round out a quota or to be listed on a diversity report. My place at the table had been set, to feast upon the fruits of my labor. In the bank's usual fashion, within one week's time everyone on the retail branch's staff of ten had been replaced; and the five loan officers had found new homes outside the origination office. The receptionist, who had been hired two days before the implosion was the only one left. My job, along with a new title and a company car, would be to "get a handle" on the loan portfolio and soothe the concerns of any uneasy customers after the news of a three million dollar fraud hit the local television news and newspapers. After a quick shower, a brush through my hair, a business professional face, a two-piece suit, and an oxford cloth blouse, I hopped into the company car, which to my surprise had turned out to be a Saab convertible, and made my way to the office. "Jessica Sloan. How good to see you again. How long has it been? Six - seven months since the last disaster?" Berg Nelson asked shortly after I announced my presence at the reception desk. Berg, short for Bergdorff, Nelson had been my mentor; and when the shit hit the fan, I would always be his first call. He had cleared my transfer through non "red-tapeable" channels and had me at his side within a week. "Nice to see you too, Berg," I said. "Looks like a fair-sized mess this time around." "Nothing you can't handle. The credit audit guys already had the junk transferred out and what remains are a slew of past due loan renewals, un-addressed requests for additional loans, and a stack of new business referrals. Come join me in the conference room, I'm about to hold a brief meeting to issue everyone their new marching orders." I quickened my step to keep pace with Berg's long loping strides. There was a reason track stars rarely wore three-inch heels during their dashes. "We had to change a few things around since we spoke," he said, as if he were commenting on the weather. "The Office of the Chair countermanded my request to have you run the show - instead, they assigned it to me. You'll report to me." My heart sank. "So I won't be in charge of this branch?" "No, Jess. Sorry - maybe next time. You know how it goes - best laid plans and all of that." "So what you're saying is -- I'm back to where I was before this "great opportunity" came along?" "Hey, what's to complain about? You got a car, title, and a raise out of it." The new development momentarily devastated me, but so it goes. Maybe next time? It always seemed to be "next time." "What will I have as a staff?" I asked. "You'll have an administrative assistant, and a junior and senior loan administrator." "How big is the portfolio?" I grew winded by his pace. "Slightly over two hundred million." We entered the conference room to meet the replacement employees. "Jessica, I'd like you to meet Lenny Brown, Peter Fallon, and Gail Pearson. They'll be your team. You know Ed, Paul, and Ken. They'll work with me on the new business stuff. I shook hands all around. "What do I need to know about them?" I asked Berg, after everyone else left the room to return to their cubicles. "Gail's a new hire - started Thursday. Lenny's fresh out of training; and Peter's been on the line for about a year." "Got any more good news?" "As a matter of fact I do. One of your customers already pitched a bitch to the Office of the Chair saying her request for an additional loan hadn't been addressed." "Don't tell me - high profile, pillar of the community, advisory board member." "You're getting good at this Jessica," he said while smiling. "You know if I wasn't married. . . ." "Cut it, Berg. What's the name of this squeaky wheel?" "You'll love this one," he said, as his smile broadened. "It's right up your alley, Bev's Harley-Davidson and Buell Boutique." "Christ, not another floor plan deal," I grumbled. "Yup, the whole boat: floor plan, bricks and sticks, retail paper. I think the request is for additional dirt and expansion." "Do Lenny and Peter have any dealer lending experience?" "Doubt it, but that's never stopped you before," Berg said, while flashing his toothpaste commercial smile. "Do me a favor?" "Sure, whatever you want." "Next time - think long and hard before you call me with an offer." "Come on, Jess, don't be that way." I cast him a glance that said I wasn't at all pleased, but walked away. After making my way to the office that would become my satellite home for the foreseeable future, I summoned my staff. Gail would handle all reporting and Peter would get cracking on the past due renewals. Lenny and I would tackle the squeaky wheel, and then work on the remainder of the requests for additional money. "Lenny," I said. "Crunch the numbers while I take a look at this file. I'll give the client a call and try to set up an appointment for tomorrow. Feel up to a road trip?" "Ms. Sloan, I never went on a customer call. I don't know if...." "It's ?Jessica' and you may as well learn how it's done." I smiled in response to his fears. "This one will probably be hostile so it'll be a good learning experience." Lenny took the financial statement file while I took the credit file. Much to my surprise it had been well documented. After leafing through the section containing in-house newsletters, sample mailings, and flyers featuring "Bev" doing this, that, and the other thing, I got to the meat of the matter. Her loan request for one million dollars would be partly used to purchase a tract of land adjacent to the dealership. The additional property would be paved over and used for expanded parking, motorcycle shows, and for new rider training. The remaining funds would finance leasehold improvements. Whoever handled the file before me had enough sense to attach a contract of sale, blue prints for the improvements, and cost estimates to grade and pave the vacant lot to the proposal. A Post-it note with the word "insurance" written on it intrigued me. I took a break from reading the file to get a cup of coffee. On my way back to the office I stopped at Gail's workstation. "Gail," I asked. "Print out the line usage reports, the outstanding balances on the third-party paper, delinquencies, and the balance in the dealer reserve account? Sorry, I forgot to say ?please.' " She looked up from her station and rewarded me with a smile. "Ms. Sloan your request without the added ?please' was ten times more polite than what I had to contend with before you arrived." "Gail, call me ?Jessica' and forgive me going forward if I fail to be polite. There are times when I get a bit gruff." "I don't think it will be a problem because I don't think you'll refer to me as toots, babe, honey, or sweetie." "Not likely. It'll probably be ?Gail.' " We both laughed as I returned to my office to continue my review of the file. Bev's Harley-Davidson and Buell Boutique had been started by Bev and her ex-husband as a custom motorcycle shop located in a five thousand square foot brick building. Success caused a move to a building double that size. That move also brought about the acquisition of the Harley- Davidson franchise and later on Buell had been added. Factory mandated additional fit up caused another move to a building, again twice the size. Each move brought the dealership closer to the four-lane highway. Midway through my review of the file, Lenny brought in the financial statement spread sheets. Lenny, a skinny kid, whose body didn't fit his suit, appeared eager to please. I sensed he wanted to make the best of his first opportunity to test his newly acquired money lending skills. "Lenny?" I asked. "Do me a favor and poke around on the Internet and see if you can find some Harley-Davidson dealer websites? I'm looking for a pattern in dealership design. More specifically, I'm trying to back door sight control. If all of the dealerships look the same and are located near major highways, we may have a problem." "What problem would that be?" He really is a babe in the woods. He doesn't know the impact a franchiser could have over the franchisee. "Think Wal-Mart, Target, McDonald's, and Burger King. They all look the same regardless of location. If Harley-Davidson operates the same as GM, Ford, Toyota, or Honda, or any of the other auto manufacturers, all of the dealers will have to look the same. If the franchisee refuses to do the fit up, the franchise agreement could be revoked." "Oh, I didn't know that." "Yeah, if this loan doesn't go through, or she doesn't obtain this financing elsewhere, she could possibly lose the franchise, we'd get stuck with the used motorcycles, non-repurchased parts, and all of this third-party paper. Plus we'll be the proud new owners of a limited use building and all of the potential environmental liability." I had just made the kid dizzy. He hadn't realized he had to acquire an understanding of the industry in order to grant approval of a simple land and leasehold loan. With the data Gail delivered, coupled with Lenny's financial analysis, I formulated a picture of Bev's empire. A first mortgage on the premise stood at two million five, plus a two million line of credit for new motorcycles, five hundred thousand for used ones, and one hundred thousand for parts, accessories and clothing, and an additional one hundred thousand for play money. $5.2 million total line backed by a building valued without the shingle at four million - five hundred. If the Harley-Davidson shingle was added the value would rise by an additional million. Whoever put the initial loan package together tied up all of the loose ends as the used motorcycle line and the two smaller ones had been additionally collateralized by additional mortgages plus all of the loans had been crossed collateralized and cross-defaulted. The new motorcycle line, although cross-collateralized and defaulted could only be activated by the acquisition of new motorcycles. The risk could arise if she didn't pay down the line of credit when units were sold. I smiled while remembering the teachings of a crusty old loan workout officer, "Never finance a fad." He would always give the same examples whenever the opportunity presented itself: indoor racquet and tennis courts, roller skates, and western boots. Then he would go wandering off muttering about blind kids with too much education. In some circles the motorcycle industry had been construed to be a fad; however after twenty years of double-digit growth it seemed to have staying power. Some pointed out and Harley-Davidson's demographics supported it - the market for certain products had been aging. On the surface it appeared to be the last market the post WWII boom generation would propel to prosperity. Some feared devastation as with other items touched by the boomers. To me, the boomers represented job security. Someone had to play parent and pick up after them. If one put on their banker's hat, Bev's appeared to be a strong company. It demonstrated sales growth, profits, pretty ratios, and big checking account balances. I could see the logic of the banker types who would pull down their pants and grab their ankles to get the business. Large cash balances weren't all that unusual at certain times of the month with car dealerships as cash would be accumulated in anticipation of paying off sold units come floor plan inspection time, but hers seemed to be consistent. It could possibly stem from stretching supplier payments, but I needed to get closer to the business to answer that question. After my cursory review I telephoned Bev. "Thank you for calling Bev's Harley-Davidson Buell Boutique, how may I serve you?" The faux courtesy grated on me. "Bev Murdock, please?" I asked. "Jessica Sloan from Merchants, Farmers, and Machinist Bank calling." "Hold please; and thank you for calling Bev's." "This is Bev," a gruff - female voice announced. "Good afternoon. Jessica Slo...." "I know who it is. Did you bankers get off your collective asses and approve my request?" I expected her response as the loan request had been sitting unattended for over a month and had every intention of approving the request, but wanted to meet my borrower, and then survey the premise. "I'd like to come out, introduce myself as your new account officer, pick up some additional information, and then take a look around. If things look as good as the numbers, your request should be approved by Thursday. If the environmental, property search, survey, and title insurance turn around quickly, funding should occur within the next three weeks." "Be here at half past nine tomorrow. I don't have time to sit around and B.S. I have a business to run." The aggressive response seemed typical of a woman who operated in what I presumed to be a male-dominated industry. I walked out of my office to join Lenny. "Ms. Sl. . . . Jessica, I printed out information from five websites with pictures of the dealerships. They all look the same, all are within a mile or two of the highway, and four of the five are offering the training course." "Hmm, good work. See what you can find out about this training course and dig out the loan documentation file. Let's see if those who came before us were smart enough to obtain a copy of the franchise agreement. One last thing, print out directions to this place." I returned to my office and before I could take my seat Lenny delivered the directions. "It should take us about twenty to thirty minutes to get there from here," he said. I sensed fear. He seemed to have doubts about making his first business call. "Lenny, you'll do fine. This one will be fun because the borrower thinks she has us on the defense, but we'll soon fix that. We'll leave here about half past seven, arrive early, take a walk around, have breakfast, and then go in to meet her. We'll have the lay of the land before she shows it to us." Before Lenny left for the day he dropped off the information on the rider course and the loan documentation file. Isn't this interesting, I thought while reviewing the course brochure. Walk in the front door with check book and credit card in hand, buy a motorcycle, accessories, clothing, sign up to learn to ride, take the course, get licensed, join the dealer-sponsored riding club, and then go play big bad biker with Skippy - extreme one-stop shopping at its best. *** After my daily evening swim in my condo development's indoor pool, a short stay in the sauna, and then a shower, I retreated to the confines of my rooms for a dinner consisting of a tossed salad and chardonnay. Dressed in a red satin nightgown and propped up in bed with the contents of Bev's credit file, I formulated my presentation and defense. The loan would be a slam-dunk based on the financial statements, but the Post-it note with "insurance" scripted across it puzzled me. Did the author express concern about liability issues arising from what could be deemed a conflict of interest - selling a motorcycle, training the buyer to ride, and then handing out a license? It would definitely be a question in need of an answer. I leafed through the training course manual. It contained all of the benefits of formal training by professionals. My eyebrow rose to my hairline upon reading that the course was offered through the Harley- Davidson Academy of Motorcycling, which was in turn a division of the marketing department. My hunch had been correct. The training had been designed to sell motorcycles to the one-stop impulse shopper with a swollen checkbook. While reading through the material designed for the dealer owner and not the consumer, it outlined Harley-Davidson's demographics and targeted market. Over the years the traditional market had been aging with the median age hovering in the mid-forties. The targeted market, with the aid of product and training had been identified as women of all ages and men in the eighteen to thirty-four age categories. It also identified women as ten percent of current buyers. Women - hmm. It appeared Harley-Davidson had targeted me to be a potential buyer. The thought of riding a motorcycle had no appeal to me. My pleasures were found in the endless pursuit of estate sales. I combed through advanced copies of the Sunday paper on Saturday evenings in search of the ultimate auction. Lenny, my delicate male assistant, also fit into the targeted market. I tried to imagine him astride a motorcycle, riding along looking like Hollywood's stereotypical depictions of bikers. He would be more suited to the golf course or the tennis courts versus a rundown bar. Gail, on the other hand, struck me as a candidate. Despite her feminine appearance, I detected a spirit of adventure. I could visualize her riding a motorcycle. The mental picture of Gail seated at the controls with Lenny perched behind made me smile. The loan documentation file contained the usual items. Master Note, Loan Agreement, first and second mortgage, title insurance, insurance policy which included garage-keepers legal and garage liability coverage, trick and device, fire, theft, flood, employee dishonesty and business interruption. The Franchise Agreement appeared to have been tossed in as an after thought as it not been put on one of the file's boards. The agreement -- in addition to the usual items listing the prohibition of financial, or payment default, bankruptcy, and fraud -- also outlined the physical appearance and minimum amount of square footage required to operate as a dealership. Color schemes had been mandated and a list of recommended vendors had been provided where paint could be purchased. Ceramic tile vendors had been recommended as well. Mandated color, style, and dimension had been listed as had lighting, type of workstation for the parts counter, and sales force. Every detail of the overall appearance of the dealership had been depicted. The concept had been called a "mall effect." It would be an interesting morning at Bev's. *** Shortly after half past seven Lenny and I made our way to Bev's. We parked the car in the McDonald's parking lot opposite the dealership, and then crossed the street. "Why did we park at McDonald's?" Lenny asked. "Never park on premise when arriving in advance of a visit. Someone may be watching and recognize your car. Doing it this way gives the illusion we're passing by and possibly window-shopping." My assistant learned the first rule of client visits. Survey the premise in secret, and then act dumb when asking obviously answered questions. The dealership building and premise resembled those printed out by Lenny the previous afternoon and the virtual imaging attached to the franchise agreement. Site control seemed obvious. The lot adjacent to the building appeared small, but it appeared to be a vacant tract of land that would be paved and used for various purposes. A peak through the display windows and front door revealed a showroom also resembling the virtual pictures. To me the mall store look didn't seem like a useful venue for selling motorcycles, related equipment, accessories, and repair service. We entered the McDonald's for coffee, a muffin, and a quick strategy meeting. We wanted Bev to do most of the talking. Over the years I measured the honesty and integrity of a customer by their ability to discuss freely the workings of their business. Those who wouldn't generally had something to hide. Lenny would talk numbers while I would discuss loan structure. *** Shortly before half past nine we entered the front door of the dealership. We were greeted by a middle-aged woman dressed in jeans and a t-shirt featuring a logo of a bearded man, a longhaired woman, a motorcycle, and a slogan that read "A Way of Life." "Jessica Sloan and Lenny Brown," I said. "We're here from Merchants, Farmers, and Machinists Bank. We have an appointment with Bev Murdock." "I'll let her know you're here." As she walked away I noticed the logo on the back of her t-shirt read "Bev's Harley-Davidson Buell Boutique." Diminutive would best describe Bev, as she and her receptionist came out of her office to approach us. "I see you brought your ?boy toy,'" she stated, while shaking my hand and ignoring Lenny's attempt. Her grip felt firm, but feminine. "You're a busy woman so we won't take much of your time," I said, recalling her brusque remark to me on the phone. "Well -- follow me and I'll give you a quick tour." While we walked through the dealership's showroom I asked, "After we fund the loan, how long do you think it will take to be up and running?" "All of the environmental and zoning approvals are in place. I used my own money to pay for everything. I want to recoup what I've already spent, and then use the rest to push out this wall to expand the space dedicated to motor clothes. Without glitches, the additional space should be functional within four months." Nearly one-third of the floor space had been dedicated to what she called "motor clothes." Shoes, boots, t-shirts, sweat shirts, nightgowns, pajamas, robes, pet dishes, automobile floor mats, jeans -- both denim and leather, leather jackets, hats, bandannas, gloves, helmets, riding suits, and rain suits hung from racks and mannequins. Interspersed amongst the garments stood display cabinets filled with commemorative plates, shot glasses, beer mugs, sun glasses, books, wallets, cell phone holders, CDs, cassette tapes, jewelry, and porcelain statues. The retail parts section had two turret-style workstations. Displays of oil and a shiny array of chrome things hung from the walls. I had never realized the amount of chrome one could put on a two-wheeled vehicle. The remaining space housed row upon row of motorcycles, with some placed on pedestals, while others had been showcased on circular platforms or in bay windows. Lenny appeared to be in awe of it all, while I thought of easy inventory counts, with all of it in one spot versus car dealers, who stored vehicles at various remote locations. "This is the entire line of Harley-Davidson and Buell motorcycles," Bev said proudly. "We are one of the few dealers that stock the entire line. No waiting. We have what they want when they want." "Are all of the motorcycles located here or is there another location," I asked, to be certain. Her face showed no emotion other than some obvious pride. "Whatever isn't on the floor is in my storage room. I'll show you." We passed by motorcycles that had the Buell name painted on the side. "This is the Buell line of bikes. This model here is what customers' will use to learn to ride, once the parking area is paved and painted." "Painted?" I asked mildly surprised. "The training course has to be laid out. If you're interested I could call my program manager over. He can explain it. I sent him off to school in Milwaukee to learn how to run it." "Perhaps another time. Let's focus on the loan transaction. We'll come back again when you're not so pressed for time." "You know Jessica; you'd look good riding around on this yellow one. Hey, it's almost the same shade as your blouse." "I'll pass." Ever the sales person, she tried to sell me a motorcycle knowing full well I had no clue which end was the front. "What about Lenny here?" she continued her pitch. "I can see him riding that black Sportster. Yeah, it suits him." Lenny blushed while I viewed visions of impulse buyers dancing through Bev's head. The service area featured the mandated tiled floors and bright florescent lighting. Each of the technicians had his own service bay. As I examined the storage area, the reality of the two-wheeled world raised its head. I counted a dozen crashed motorcycles waiting for repairs. After our tour, we sat down and discussed the transaction. My preliminary impression, formed when speaking on the telephone, appeared to be pre-mature. She gave us information - not as freely as I would have liked, but it had been far from pulling teeth. She answered my questions, but did not offer additional information. Our meeting thus far had been cordial. I traded a lower interest rate for additional collateral to secure the loan. Bev traded an unlimited personal guaranty for fewer restrictive loan covenants; and finally we both agreed to absorb our respective legal fees. "Bev," I asked. "What type of insurance will be needed to operate the training course?" "The not-for-profit organization that granted use of the curriculum offers a one million dollar liability policy. It will be separate and apart from the dealership's policy." "Should a person taking the course get hurt or something, would you be held liable?" I asked. "No. According to the Motor Company, I'll be sufficiently protected. They called it ?site insurance.' It covers the training motorcycles, students, and property -- provided the unfortuitous event happens within the boundaries of the training area." "So -- if a student happens to ride off the confined area he or she wouldn't be covered?" "Exactly." "That would seem hard to prevent." "Nope, the lot will be fenced-in and only the trainers and members of my staff will be allowed to ride the training motorcycles to and from the area." "Was a policy and procedures manual issued to you and your manager?" Bev held her smile, although I could see the effort that took. "I believe they were. After we've laid everything out; I'll be sure to send you a copy of it." "From the information we had available to us it looks like the training program is offered as a public service by this and most states. Is that your intent?" "Public service?" She laughed harshly. "Don't be silly. There's money to be made. One of the dealerships in the Eastern Dealer Group began offering the course last year and his sales increased by almost one million dollars. The students bought bikes, accessories, clothing, and had the bikes serviced. He only taught fifty people. My plan is to run courses from April to October - three weekends per month. Six students per course - eighteen per month time six months - that's over one hundred - if each one buys a bike that would yield a minimum one million-five. Throw in accessories, clothes, etc. I can't see not doing it." "Wouldn't the profit from that go away if someone gets hurt, and then files suit?" "That's the trouble with you bankers, you always look at the dark holes and not the potential to make money. We're sufficiently insured. I don't see it as a problem. The assumption of risk defense is a strong part of our state law. Anyone who can afford a motorcycle is smart enough to know what they're getting into when they buy one." "Bev, one thing still confuses me about the look of your dealership. Help me understand the logic behind the ?mall effect.' " "We want to give the potential buyer a three hundred -sixty degree look at the bike in a setting that's familiar. It isolates the product as well as accenting it with additional accessories. Take a look at the bike on the circular platform. Note the manner of dress of the mannequin. That display in its entirety causes the buyer to identify and bond with the product. It also causes the buyer to feel more comfortable due in part to a familiarity with stores they generally frequent. Our store presents a motorcycle as safe as a loaf of bread you'd buy at the grocer." I had to admit the motorcycle looked more appealing as it was presented. The poster used as a backdrop gave the illusion it had been parked in a pastoral setting with the mannequin posed to depict a rider resting after a journey. Bev beamed with satisfaction. "The ?mall effect' is also used as a hook to help the customer feel at home regardless of where he or she may travel. Since all dealerships have the same look, our customers will always feel as if they're in their local store." I could see the logic of it all, but couldn't help feeling the premise lacked warmth, character, and charm. We ended our meeting with a handshake. While Lenny and I drove back to the office I asked, "So when are you going to put a deposit on that shinny black thing?" He smirked. "When you buy the yellow one." We both laughed. "When we get back," I said. "See if you can find any information on injuries to participants involved in motorcycle riding training." He nodded. Lenny, Peter, Gail, and I soon settled into a routine. Our days were filled with report gathering, customer visits, financial statement analysis, and loan proposals. Within three months, the office once again operated at peak efficiency and had the capability of passing both a financial and credit audit should the home office or the regulators spring one on us. When things operate smoothly, I become restless and bored. The day-to- day operations pale in comparison to the run and gun crisis management frenzy I had learned to crave. It was time for a change. I longed to be called to put out another fire. *** The goings on in the office caused me to forego a number of auctions that had caught my eye. With the slowdown in banking activity, I could once again devote time to my passion of searching for antiques - in particular turn of the twentieth century women's wear. I had located what appeared to be a great estate sale. While waiting in line for my credentials, I reviewed the list of items that would be available. Pages had been devoted to silver, flat, and glassware. Furniture, lamps, books, garden tools, vehicles, and shop tools had also been listed. The last page of the brochure listed clothing. Over the years I had developed a system based on circles. I would walk around the perimeter of the grounds, and then move closer to the main building. Once inside the building each room would then become a series of circles. I entered one of the second floor bedrooms where a portion of the clothing had been displayed. Despite their elegance, the clothing didn't excite me. The bulk of the items seemed to be circa 1950's and included suits, casual dresses, cocktail dresses, and gowns. The items had been picked over by vintage clothing dealers, as competition had become fierce over the years to locate, and then re-sell quality pieces. I peeked into the second room, which contained more of the same - picked over items of one time exquisite clothing that failed to pique my interest. As I entered the room I noticed someone facing a wood framed freestanding full-length mirror holding one of the dresses to her body. A second look revealed the person I had presumed to be a woman was actually a man. The reflection of his face in the mirror told me he couldn't be more than thirty. His eyes and face showed signs of positive critical examination of the dress and how it would look on his body. The sight of a man holding articles of women's clothing in such a manner didn't surprise me as I had seen it before. From time to time such men frequented these sales in search of their ultimate fantasy dress. The one he held before him wouldn't fit his frame. For that matter it would barely fit me. He caught sight of me, turned, and then said, "Beautiful - isn't it." "Yes, it is," I said, while leaving the room. "Pity it's so tiny, it suits your eyes." He nodded and gave me a wry smile. Although I found him interesting and not at all unattractive I moved on without further comment. After completing my inspection of the remaining rooms of the second and third floor, I took a seat in one of the rows of folding chairs in anticipation of placing a bid on a night table from one of the second floor bedrooms. It would match my bed. "Hello again," the baby-faced man who had been admiring himself in the mirror said as he took his seat one chair away. "Find anything of interest?" "A night table caught my eye. What about you? Find the dress of your dreams?" I had kept all judgment out of my voice, as what he did was his business and not mine. "No," he chuckled, "but I did find a drill press. Been looking for one like that for a long time." "Good luck." Finding what you want and purchasing it for a reasonable price often didn't pair. It surprised me he could go from fantasizing about buying and wearing dresses to contemplating a bid on a piece of machinery. It also surprised me that what I had originally taken for a baby face was actually quite handsome. A bidding war broke out over the table that had caught my interest; and I didn't see the need to get caught in it. I left the auction after the table went to the highest bidder, not knowing if the man with the boyish face had placed a winning bid for his treasure. *** "Jessica," Gail said, "I have your morning mail sorted. The letters in the folder are addressed to you personally." I ignored the nameless correspondence and tended to the personal stuff. Bev's return address caught my eye. Her envelope contained an invitation to a private grand re-opening reception. The envelope also contained a raffle ticket for a chance to win a Buell motorcycle named the Blast and a gift certificate entitling me to participate in Bev's first rider training course. I giggled at the thought of learning to ride a motorcycle, while checking the "will not attend box." Before enclosing the raffle ticket and the gift certificate in the return envelope, I dashed off a note thanking Bev for her generosity, and then told her about the bank policy prohibiting me from receiving such a generous gift. I thought nothing of it. Matters of that nature had been part of the new world of banking whose roots extend back to Jimmy Carter's buddy Bert Lance. The bank's policy stated "no gifts" even though federal banking laws allowed gratuities limited to items costing up to fifty dollars. Three days later I received a call from Berg. "Jessica, what did you do? We have a meeting with the Chairman at two this afternoon." "I have no idea why he would want to see us. Maybe he wants to congratulate us for doing such a speedy job in righting this office." "I doubt it. He'll probably rip us a new one. Someone probably complained about something." At one fifty-five Berg and I sat outside the Chairman's office listening to our stomachs digest the remainder of dinner from six weeks earlier. We both knew nothing good ever came from an audience with Eric Utley. His secretary led us into his office. Mr. Utley sat behind his fortress desk, with Bev Murdock off to the right. Berg and I took seats facing our fear. He started right in without introductions. "Jessica. . .Bev tells me you declined her invitation." "Yes I did, sir," I said while forcing my heart back into my chest cavity. I turned to Bev. "I would have loved to accept it, but your very nice gift violates our bank's Code of Conduct." "I'll handle this Bev," Mr. Utley said, while gesturing for her to leave. She smiled, and then took her leave while Berg and I wondered what fate would befall us. "Jessica, I'm going to issue a waiver of the Code of Conduct in this situation. We've been trying to get a contact in the offices of Bev's accounting firm, law firm, and with her investment advisor. Senior representatives from those firms and her investment advisor will be in attendance at the re-opening and participate in the training course. I want you to be our point person. It will be an opportunity to share in new business as well as a chance to polish our community activities. We took a pounding after the announcement of the fraud. "Mr. Utley," I said. "I'll gladly attend the reception, but I have no desire to learn how to ride a motorcycle. Might I suggest one of my staff attends, instead -- perhaps Berg?" "No, no. It has to be you. Bev wants a woman in her first training group. She insisted. Her first class will be composed of what she calls her team - accountant, attorney, investment advisor, doctor, insurance agent, and banker. You're her banker so...." As I drove back to the office I cursed the politics. Rules were rules by convenience. When the smell of money raised its head, rules suddenly didn't matter. Mr. Utley, and now Berg, would be watching the money meter after my completion of the training course. What would contact with those individuals and firms yield? In the past any relationship with an accounting firm meant taking one bad deal for every three good ones. The doctor and the investment advisor would no doubt request some type of loan to participate in a tax shelter. Lord knows I had seen my share of them. The law firm would want to be placed on the approved list and look for settlement and workout business, as well as toss the occasional client our way. Rest assured the insurance agent would want to be added to our business referral list as well. Where's Lenny with that report of training casualties I asked for months ago. In the short time it took to hold that meeting fifteen years of effort and sacrifice went down the drain. I found myself back at the beginning -- reduced to a fluff decoration -- the lone woman in a group of men -- a token to be used to lure business from the randy eyed. No doubt a suggestion or two would be made to "dress" the part. The reality of it all hadn't gone away. My place in certain parts of the bank would remain - the designated woman to round out the diversity quota. The ceiling had been repaired and I had been relegated to looking through it once again and hating every new minute of it. *** "What to wear?" I asked myself while standing at the door of my walk-in closet. A sensible dress, pearls, and heels - jeans with a torn, dirty, t- shirt, and work boots - a business suit - a leather mini, mesh top, fishnets and stiletto boots. . . . I'll come up with something. I walked through the dealership's front door wearing a sensible dress, pearls, heels, a business face, and conservative hair. Bev greeted me, gave me an air kiss, and then began an unending stream of introductions. Over the years I had become a veteran of the grand opening/re-opening celebration circuit. My skills included wearing the obligatory smile, balancing a wine glass, plate, napkin, toothpicks, and the occasional silverware -- all performed while shaking hands and chatting up potential customers. I met in order of importance: her Motor Company zone representative, the Academy of Motorcycling regional lead trainer, the lawyer, accountant, insurance agent, doctor, and investment advisor. Later on I met the director of Bev's chapter of the Harley Owners' Group. He wore an embroidered patch of some kind on his vest. He entertained me with tales of Sunday rides and camaraderie of the road. He also added he owned his own computer consulting firm - another business card to be added to the collection. He, in turn, introduced me to the head of the local outlaw motorcycle club, "The Iguanas." No business card that time. Emblazoned upon his filthy denim vest was the name "Dog Shit." His lady friend, who had dressed in the leather mini, mesh top under her dirty denim vest, fishnets and stilettos I had contemplated earlier, wore a nametag that read, "Property of Dog Shit." Ahhhh, I thought while smiling upon learning what seemed to be a secret handshake, Mr. and Mrs. Dog Shit, or would that be Mr. and Mrs. Shit -- possibly The Shits. "Hi, I'm Brent Lewis, Bev's investment advisor," an Aryan-looking gentleman dressed in garb freshly removed from one of the Motor Clothes racks said. "We're going to be classmates this weekend. Have you ever ridden before?" "No," I answered. "This is all new to me." "Not me," he said with bravura. "I took the state course and have been riding for a couple of years. Mostly I ride with Bev and the other members of what she refers to as the ?trust.' After the class you'll be joining us. Yeah, this will be a kind of refresher because I crashed my bike. It's in the back as we speak. She's going to make it more powerful, give it a custom-paint job, and then add a chrome front-end." He went on with details that sounded as if he spoke Chinese. It did bother me some that he had crashed, yet wanted to make the thing more powerful. Maybe it was his way of saying he wanted to get to the next crash faster than the previous one. Lenny where are those statistics? I spent the remainder of my time exchanging chitchat with other guests while sipping white wine spritzers. Thankfully, they contained more spritz than white wine. Between chats I wondered why a woman would openly announce to all she was someone's property. Maybe the hard-core motorcycle people thought of their mates as chattel; or perhaps he bitch-slapped her into wearing it. I would find it difficult to wear something like that - me Jessica Sloan - "Property of Pigs' Feet Breath." Not. The next day I sought out Lenny. "Lenny, remember when I asked you to look up injury statistics pertaining to rider training?" "Yes, I have them right here," he said while handing me pages printed off a blog site. I quickly read through one of the pages, dropped them into the waste paper basket, and said "oh my god" while walking back to my office. Seated with my hands over my ears and nodding my head in faux motions of banging it against the desk. I'm about to take a training course that caused three people to die and two people to sustain critical injuries while learning since 2000. Maybe it was Mr. Utley's way of saying my banking days had come to an end. Perhaps he thought it was cheaper to kill me than package me. Over the next three days visions of falling off, crashing into walls and fences, crashing into other learners, losing control and having the bike take me into traffic, and then crashing into the front of a car rendering me a hood ornament, haunted me. Why couldn't Bev be a golf or tennis professional? It would be so much easier. *** I arrived at Bev's at three forty-five Friday afternoon for the first part of the training course that would span the weekend and Monday evening. As outlined in the pre-course mailing, I wore jeans, a long- sleeved t-shirt, boots, and a jacket. I had no intention of spending money on a wardrobe that would never be worn again. Despite black jeans and boots being fashionable in motorcycle circles, given the choice between a dress and jeans my choice was always to wear the dress. I felt they accented and enhanced the figure I worked so hard to maintain. While waiting for the class to start I overheard a conversation between two individuals who were standing next to a combination TV/VCR and an overhead projector. They were discussing the evening's events. One person kept asking "what do we do" while the other leafed through what appeared to be the curriculum book calmly explaining the course material.. A third person, a woman, joined the two. The remainder of my classmates joined me at the door. Each of them wore bits of Bev's inventory and each had ridden before. Our weekend would amount to a publicity and community service event. It might also lead to my demise. We took our seats at three tables. Blank nametags, pens, note paper, product catalogs, and waiver forms had been provided for each of us. Bev gave a brief introduction and the Academy guy told us that our three trainers, Declan, T.J., and Ben would be teaching their first course after graduating from their training. Steven Covey's words flashed across my mind. "What would you want printed on your tombstone?" as I cringed. Ben introduced himself first. In addition to being a trainer for Harley-Davidson, he also had been teaching the state rider training course for one year. T.J., the female of the trio, announced she too taught for the state and had one-year teaching experience. I thought she might be an ally, but she turned out to be an egotistical bitch. She told us she should be referred to as the "goddess of the riding range." Declan reminded me of Lenny - a guy whose body didn't fit his jeans, t- shirt, and boots. He told us he had been teaching for fifteen years and held teaching certificates in two states. His voice, to me, caused cautious re- assurance. After his introduction he began the class by asking us to complete the waiver forms and to pick a team name for ourselves. The waiver stipulated I had signed up for the motorcycle training of my own free will, not really I knew the training involved a degree of risk, and I acknowledged physical injury and/or death could occur. I thought back to the meeting with Bev and the discussion about insurance. Granted, an individual could not completely waive his/her rights; however enforcing them would prove to be difficult after an individual willingly chose to engage in something that had been clearly stated to involve risk of injury or death. It appeared to be a very neat moneymaking package with minimal downside risk. Even a dumb attorney could wave a signed document and pontificate that the student knew and accepted the risk. The lawyer and the accountant chose "Wild Hogs." How John Travolta and Walt Disney, I thought. The insurance agent and doctor chose "The Wild One(s)." How Marlon Brando. Brent -- her investment advisor -- and I argued between the "Scared Shitless" and "Money Grubbers." After the team name game we had been asked to introduce ourselves, express our expectations and fears, and then offer a significant date in our life. The purpose of giving a date had been to tie something personal in our lives to some significant event in Harley- Davidson history. The logic being we were about to become members of the family and would share history. Swell - Mr. and Mrs. Dog Shit are now part of my extended family. My classmates offered birth, college graduation, marriage, and divorce dates as being "significant" to them. "June 17, 1972," I said when it became my turn. "Why that date?" Declan asked. "It's the date of the Watergate break in. It marked the end of trust in government." No one laughed except Declan. "By the way, Jessica," he said. "That's my wedding anniversary, so it proved to be a bad day all around." That time everyone laughed except the Academy guy. Declan used a low key and conversational style. He seemed to have the power to relax his audience. He used both open and closed-end questioning and had a cute habit of asking rhetorical questions, which unnerved the others, but caused me to smile. After about an hour of answering and discussing study questions designed to guide us through our handbook, he announced what he called a "field trip" -- a tour of the dealership. After stops at Motor Clothes, Parts and Accessories, Sales, and then Service, we were ushered back into the classroom. During our tour we met the managers of each department and listened to unveiled sales pitches. This must be what it's like living inside an infomercial. Declan's mannerisms soon caused us to wonder if he was gay. Whenever he spoke about a motorcycle he would use passive, almost feminine words. His hand gestures appeared to be gentle. Nothing about him remotely resembled the two other trainers or my new family members, the "Dog Shits." He seemed to fit into the gray area between hard-core outlaw and Nuevo biker. I became fascinated by his duality, which was especially evident when we discussed the motorcycle's controls. He would constantly correct our use of words. My classmates would say "Pull in the clutch" or "Release the clutch," or "Grab the front brake." He would always say, "Ease out the clutch," or "Squeeze the front brake" or "Press gently on the rear brake pedal." He explained people say what they do, and then do what they say. He also asked us to act out words like "pull," "release" -- and then "squeeze" and "ease." He wrapped-up by reading a quotation from a road race school curriculum. "Think in a smooth flowing language; and you'll find your actions will tend to match." My teammate and the two other teams grumbled, while I continued to watch his hands and listen to his words. What appeared to be the stereotypical movements and words of a gay person ultimately turned out to be the language of motorcycling. We were then taken on a shopping trip. Our assignment was to try on and hopefully buy various items of Motor Clothes, talk to the Parts and Accessories manager about the ease of purchasing items, discuss the ease of purchasing a new motorcycle from the ever-ready sales staff, and then visit with the Service Manager. It appeared all of the dealership employees had been well schooled in the art of the subtle, but hard sell. Bev's dealer agreement hadn't listed extreme selling; however her regional manager had suitably driven the point home -- the training course served as a selling tool. I escaped from the infomercial nightmare and scurried back to the classroom to witness another negative scene. Declan had become the recipient of criticism levied by the Academy guy. Evidently, he had been straying too far from the curriculum. After his dressing down, Declan ducked out the fire exit to have a smoke. I followed him. "I wasn't eavesdropping, but couldn't help overhearing what was said." "His shit don't bother me. Harley's trying to convert motorcycle training and motor skill development into corporate training. It don't work, but they're sold on it." "Yeah," I said, "I got that feeling. Lord knows I've attended a sufficient amount of those. Do you have a corporate background?" "Nah, I read a great deal though." After he finished his cigarette we rejoined the class. During the last portion of the session he asked if anyone needed to borrow riding gear. As he said it the Academy guy flashed him a derogatory look. Declan covered his faux pas by saying helmets and gloves could easily be purchased in the dealership. No way would I spend in excess of two hundred dollars for gloves and a helmet that probably would never be used again. If I played it right, not having the proper equipment could be my excuse to be tossed out of the class on the first riding day. The course waiver mandated students would be responsible for bringing their own riding gear. He read my facial expression and through eye contact he asked to meet him when my classmates had left. "I have a spare helmet you could use," he said when we got together later. "Bring a bandanna or kerchief tomorrow. Wrap your hair in it so it doesn't make too much contact with the sweat-stained lining of the helmet. You might want to bring an air freshener along as well. Cut down on the sweat smell. One last thing, do you play golf?" I shrugged. "I do, as a matter of fact. Why do you ask?" "Do you wear a glove on each hand?" "Yes." "Wear them. They're better than the crap they sell in there. Better feel on the controls, if you know what I mean. Go home, get a good night's sleep, and I'll see you in the morning. I have to go back in and get a new ass-hole installed." Upon returning home I flipped on the television and channel-surfed while eating my evening salad. A motorcycle show flashed by causing me to go back two channels. It was some kind of race. I watched for a brief time before deciding to try another channel. My intent had been to take my mind off my possible demise. Motorcycles flying through the air toward probable bodily carnage wasn't my idea of relaxation. As I was about to press the channel change button a motorcycle- oriented commercial came on. It talked of language and showed various riders dressed in leather suits, gloves, and helmets using hand signals to communicate with others. Declan hadn't made it up. It didn't eliminate my anxiety, but it did make me feel better that my life would be in the hands of someone accomplished. My attempt at sleep was fruitless. Whenever my eyes closed I saw myself crashing into the fence surrounding the parking lot where we would ride. When I didn't hit the fence I smashed into the side of the building. When I collided with neither, the ground reached up to tear me apart. *** I arrived at Bev's one half hour before the appointed time. Declan was there alone. His co- trainers and the Academy guy were nowhere to be found. My fellow classmates had yet to arrive. He rode each motorcycle to a spot marked by a cone and would then shut it off. Before he parked the last one he rode around the parking lot. I paid particular attention to his hands and feet. They seemed to be in constant motion, but didn't appear to be moving at all. He appeared to be riding like the guys on television. The words "smooth" and "efficient" bubbled in my brain. Could the actions he used be learned -- or were they natural. Declan handed me his spare helmet, a fancy blue and silver one that covered my head, face, and chin. He showed me how to put it on, how to fasten it, and then how to open the clear face shield. My reflection in the window of his truck told me I looked like a ninja turtle. The rest of the class streamed in five minutes before the scheduled time. The "goddess" read the first set of instructions, and we students sat on the motorcycles and identified all of the controls. It unnerved me when she reprimanded me for making a mistake. Ben did the same as he walked from student to student. I received most of their attention because of my cluelessness. Declan's teaching style seem to be completely opposite. His soft words comforted me, as well as my five classmates who allegedly already had skills. "Go with the bike," he said while introducing the use of the clutch and throttle. "Don't try to fight the forward movement." I had operated a standard shift car so it became a matter of transferring the skill of my feet to my hands. "Don't be afraid to ride the clutch. It's designed to be slipped. It won't hurt it." Declan's advice was contrary to what my dad had said when I would "ride the clutch" in the family sedan. As the day wore on I found myself enjoying the class and learning how to actually ride the thing that spread my legs. From time to time the motorcycle's vibrations caused embarrassing wetness. I hoped no one would notice if it showed. "Look where you want to be and not where you are," Declan would say. It un-nerved me at first to look off to the left or right to make turns knowing that the motorcycle would still be heading in a straight line. Our riding day ended with a stopping exercise. Too tired to eat my evening salad, I showered, and then tucked myself into bed. Sleep didn't offer escape as my dreams were filled with motorcycle terror. *** My classmates and I decided to meet for coffee two hours before the start of the training session, which was scheduled to start Sunday morning at eight. Brief discussions amongst the five of us during the Saturday session prompted additional talk. Two topics high on the list were Declan -- and me. I had been evasive about my reasons for attending the training course. Apparently my "it seemed like fun" hadn't rung true. It would be best to fess up and stop the deception. "Guys," I said. "When I was assigned this account the last thing on my mind had been to learn to ride a motorcycle - it's really not my thing. Chairman Utley pressured me to attend believing it would be good for public relations. He and the bank are still reeling after the fraud. Plus, I'm ashamed to say he wanted me to establish contact with you guys as a way to get to know you and as a way to have you guys toss the bank some business. Sorry guys." "I figured as much," the attorney said. "You lack that fire in the eyes thing that people get when they want to do something. "Yeah," the accountant added. "It's like they tell you to do something and you just do it to get it done versus doing it and liking it. They were correct in saying I lacked interest, but Declan was making things different. I wanted to please him by trying my best. He seemed to be going above and beyond with us. His efforts appeared wasted on my classmates, because they had been riding a bit. They realized that he knew his stuff, but they didn't really want to hear what he said, because it went contrary to what they perceived to be "riding." Declan stressed things like posture and clutch control. He kept telling them to bend their arms and cant their upper body forward. They'd look at him and just ignore his requests. I tried my best to attempt what he asked, but my state of mind hadn't been motorcycling. "When we're finished with this training, tell Utley that I'll toss him a bone," Brent chuckled. "Me too," the doctor said. "I'm thinking about building an office complex and I'll give you first crack." We all laughed. I couldn't help feeling badly, but at least my credibility with them rose after coming clean. Our attention shifted to Declan. They all were convinced he was gay. "Guys, I saw this commercial on television about the language of motorcycling. These racer types used their hands to talk. Maybe Declan is like them." "No, Jessica," the accountant said. "Last August I went to the Sturgis rally and I didn't see anybody talk and use words like him. In between all of the ?f-ck this' and ?f-ck that's' no one ever mentioned anything about ?smooth flowing language.' Did you see that wrist movement he said we should use? Talk about a priss." "Hey wait a minute," I said. "Did you try what he suggested? It works. Damn, it's almost like the grip I use when I swing a golf club." "What's all this stuff about calling us ?a bunch of Orange County Chopper clones' and accusing us of riding like ?the simpleton son Mikey'?" the attorney asked. "When he said that to me, I turned the fairy off. Who is he to tell me what to do? I've been riding a couple of years now -- and I do okay." Brent added. "Is that why you crashed?" I asked, ducking my head a bit. Brent glared. "That crash had nothing to do with what he talked about. Something happened to the bike." "Yeah, Brent," I added. "Blame the bike because you missed the turn and ran off the road." Brent turned his back, but I could tell he was seething. "What is it Jessica," the accountant laughed. "You horny for the gay guy?" "Sex has nothing to do with it. I think he knows his stuff and wants to share it with us. Sure as all hell, the other two could learn a thing or two from him - especially that T.J. - "Goddess" of the range, my left shoe." "She's a piece of unfinished work," Brent allowed, apparently over his snit. The attorney added, "Ben could do with a personality infusion." "Hey we better get going," Brent said. "It's almost time for class. *** The training exercises we practiced the second day increased in their degree of difficulty. I found by using the techniques Declan explained the previous day, things were easier to perform. The doctor commented that he found it difficult to do it his own way. When he tried it the way Declan had suggested he had been able to perform the skill. At the end of our riding day we were told we would be tested Monday evening; and if we passed both the skill and written part, we would become licensed. The guys all already had licenses so it wouldn't matter to them. I struggled with the concept of being licensed after riding around in circles in a parking lot for two days. Maybe it meant I would be properly licensed to ride in parking lots. Despite the fact my classmates, T.J., and Ben continuously complimented me, I remained less than convinced riding in traffic would be the same as trying not to run over orange and green cones. After our last riding exercise we had been given a fifteen-minute break. When we started back up we would be tested. One by one we made our way through the exercises representing the road test. Ironically, the exercises chosen were the ones my classmates had found difficult to perform. They struggled with stopping the motorcycle quickly, cornering skillfully, and swerving around fixed objects. I performed each move along with the exercise everyone called "the dreaded u-turn box." We could accumulate up to twenty points and still pass. Surprisingly, the guys tallied between sixteen an