The Loan is Due

Years are loans. Time, that shyster among us all, is the banker, ever loaning, never giving. Its credit is conditional.

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Today, December 31st, our loan for the past 365 days comes due. Payment is demanded, like it or not. Such is the way of all loans…they mature.

We dance around due dates. So soon, we lament. We squander the year’s remaining resources in profligate carousals and the pagan idea of buy now, pay later. We choose to spend the last pennies of our credit line on wanton celebrations and manic revelry.

Who can blame us? Living on somebody else’s largess is easy. But all bankers keep ledgers. Debt is hard as iron on our balance sheets. Our assets are soft as marshmallows. We run, we pretend, we rationalize, but the deadline always looms. Time’s bill collector is a relentless pursuer.

Loans are not earned income; hence the cliché, ‘easy come, easy go.’ We’ll pledge our first born to get Time’s easy cash in our palms. We’ve had 365 days of reprieve to plunder the treasury, to pilfer the vault that overflows with Time’s specie. Now it’s due. What’s to show for it?

We check our diaries, our calendars. They’re filled less with thoughts than packed with action. But just sand nevertheless, ever flowing through our hour glass. Nothing retained. Palms empty. Where did the time go, we ask?

What if banker Time, as a condition of loan renewal, required evidence of how we spent our days? Would it discover how we squandered the use of our allocated assets of time? How we wiled away gold talents in wild schemes and mad pursuits?

Most loans contain a clause that in the event of default the loan is due ‘on demand.’ That was a foreign concept to me until I signed loan documents. The day remains a black spot on an otherwise lackluster career of credit.

We were assembled around a large conference table. The banker, his lawyer (where there’s money, there are lawyers!) and me. Lying in neat windrows around that colossal table were stacks of forms written in letters so minute they would qualify for a used car contract.

Leo, the lawyer, asked, “Do you have any questions, son?”

“Uh, well, only one, sir. What exactly is in these documents?” I asked.

Leo grinned at the banker. “Nothing that’s good for you, my boy. Sign here.”

Like dogs, loans appear harmless. They mostly sleep until they’re hungry. Like excessive loan interest, they’re voracious eaters. It was the ‘on demand’ provision that bit me!

Time has an ‘on demand’ clause. We remain here at the forbearance of the Banker. The loan can be called due at any time. Fortunately, tomorrow, for most of us, the loan will automatically renew. Fear is the vigorish we pay.

Last Sunday on the coast we had an early spring. I sat on the steps leading to the beach. The well-trod pathway of summer, a white sandy trail, lay in front of me. Close to the water grew a desiccated clump of sea oats, a barrier to the trail’s straight-line continuation.

The trail diverged into a ‘Y’ to circumvent it. A dilemma was created. Which route to choose? Right or left? I weighed the options. It really didn’t matter. Both trails led to the same swirling sea. Maybe Darwin was right all along.

As I mulled over the alternatives, a lone butterfly, obviously a leftover from the fall migration, flittered by. I watched it float effortlessly over the granite riprap. It seemed to be in contemplation also.

It landed on a wilted, yellowed flower whose loan from the Banker had come due. Disappointed, the butterfly then lit on the sand at my feet, apparently considering its preferences. It chose the rocks as a refuge. We all choose something.

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The poet, Louise Gluck, chose a fortune teller, and writes:

“Great things, she said, are ahead of you, or perhaps behind you; it is difficult to be sure. And yet, she added, what is the difference? Right now you are a child holding hands with a fortune-teller. All the rest is hypothesis and dream.”

So, is this what we’re left with as we face 2015…a memory of yesterday and a dream of tomorrow?

Friends, just renew the loan, buy the ticket and take the ride. Happy New Year!


Bud Hearn
December 31, 2014

The Frantic Shopper

Bob’s a procrastinator. Loves the last minute. He’s a microcosm for men at Christmas.

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It’s 3:00.Christmas Eve. Bob sits at his desk. The office party’s over.
Holiday cheer has evaporated. Scents of stale wine still linger.
Everyone’s gone. His computer hums a mournful lament.
He checks his shopping list. The white sheet’s filled with names.
So many names. No gifts. He taps it with his pen, chews his nails.

His watch reads 3:05. Time for action. Time to shop.
He gets up, grabs his coat, keys and walks briskly to the parking garage.
He remembers Christmases past. Always the same, last-minute shopping.
He heads to the mall, confident in his quest. The roads are clogged.
Traffic is a Gordian Knot. The mall closes at 6:00. Anxiety sets in.

Nothing moves. He utters expletives, blows his horn. 3:18. The clock ticks.
He fidgets, curses. He pounds the steering wheel, sweat soaks his collar.
One lane moves, not his. Cars cruise by. Drivers yack on cells, celebrating.
He inches forward, cuts off a grandmother. She wrecks. He’s oblivious.
He finally arrives. The lot’s almost empty. He’s confused. 3:27. Tick, tick.

He sprints inside. Vacuous-eyed men roam clueless. Time gets shorter.
He checks his list, plans his route. Bare shelves in Brookstone stare back.
He searches Macy’s. Not much. Moves to Brooks Bros. Nothing.
Neiman’s, over-priced and picked over. He stops at Starbucks.
A coffee. The barista moves like molasses. He paces, tick, tick, tick.

Saks is his savior, he smiles smugly. He saunters in, thinks of his wife.
Clerks lounge, yawn, lethargic. They shun him. He loathes them.
He inspects shoes, Jimmy Choo, then Blahnik. So many styles.
The prices stab him, surpass his comprehension. He moves to cosmetics.
He dawdles with perfume testers. The air smells sweet. He can’t choose.

He moves to the handbag section. Three indecisive men loiter there.
Choices are few. One Bottega Veneta. They all want it.
Words erupt. Someone is shoved. Elbows fly, two men grapple on the floor.
He grabs for the bag. Too slow. A fist punches his face. The bag vanishes.
He shakes it off, looks at his list. Half complete. 4:29. Tick, tick, tick.

Time’s tick taunts him. He runs into the corridor. Shops close early.
He checks out Belk’s. Doors are slamming fast. He scores at Sears.
He stops at Victoria Secret. A mob of men assemble there. They gawk.
Young models in black lace drape the manikins. The men drool, dream.
Bob guesses their list to Santa. Disappointment will fill their stockings.

His watch frightens him, 4:58. The pressure builds. He becomes manic.
He shops the tawdry kiosks, grabs the garish junk, satisfied with the scraps.
He’s a pinball, bouncing shop to shop, running wildly down empty corridors.
His cell rings. His wife calls. A party? Our home? 6:30? Expletives flow.
He now hates his watch. 5:24. Doors are closing fast. No gift for his wife.

He becomes a feral savage, delirious. His bags bulge, his wallet wilts.
He’s punished by time, assaulted by the tick, tick, tick. It’s 5:48.
Most shops are closed. A dim light shines in the distance. He’s hopeful.
He remembers his wife. No toaster, blender or picture frame. Last year’s failure.
She cried. His children despised him. She quit cooking, took up yoga.

He bursts into the store, grabs the clerk, shakes him violently.
“My wife, my wife, something for my wife.” He’s hysterical now.
“The best you have for her. What is it, man, what is it? Price no object.”
The clerk recovers, shows him a shiny see-through model, the latest rave.
“I’ll take it, I’ll take it. What is it?” Clerk says, “An Oreck vac. The best.”

“Yes,” he shouts, “at last, at last.” He’s ecstatic. It’s 6:05. He’s done.
He sprints to the exit. The doors are bolted shut. He’s trapped.
He rages, shakes them uncontrollably. Alarms sound. Security subdues him.
He pleads his dilemma. They kick him out.6:15. Tick, tick, tick.
He finds his car, drives madly, weaving wildly, a lunatic at the wheel.

He arrives home. His pulse pounds. He’s disheveled. His necktie is a noose.
He races in, kisses his wife, dumps his bags. His watch tortures him. 6:26.
She’s calm, smiles, says Merry Christmas, reminds him guests are arriving.
She sees his panic, pours him eggnog. Says to calm down, relax.
“Don’t buy me a present this year,” she says.

He’s stunned, confused. Asks her why. She grins, points to the garage.
“I saved you the trouble she says. I bought my own with your Amex. Go see.”
He does. A shiny black Benz convertible occupies the garage.
He stares in stark horror. Terror overwhelms him. Images of bankruptcy flash.
The doorbell rings. Guests arrive. The clock chimes. 6:30. He faints.

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Men, don’t panic…Time and Amazon are still on your side. Merry Christmas!

Bud Hearn
December 19, 2014

This Time of Year

Christmas begins earlier each year. It now kicks off around Labor Day.

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Somebody resurrected Burl Ives who woke singing in CVS about a Holly Jolly season. Legions of chocolate marshmallow Santas populate the aisles at Walmart. They keep company next with last year’s Easter bunnies. Walmart squeezes pennies.

Our household stoically refuses to buy into the early frenzy. We don’t budge until December bumps up on the refrig calendar and pictures of poinsettias and dollar-down mattresses dominate the newspaper inserts. Everybody’s selling something.

Last Sunday on the coast was bleak, cold, rainy and windy. A perfect day to begin the tradition of Christmas preparation. Maybe it was the Advent sermon, the one about light coming into the world and how men loved darkness because their deeds were evil.

People react to sermons differently. Some people listen and are inspired. As for me, I tend to doze off and miss the punch line, but always wake up refreshed. Listen, women love darkness, too. It covers a multitude of evils, not to mention wrinkles and blemishes. Chew on that candy cane.

Anyway, a lady of antiquity in the pew in front kept humming Deck the Halls. It energized my Christmas spirit. She had a wicked smile and a heavy emphasis on Falalalalalalalala. It led me to believe she was remembering a time long ago. Maybe the Christmas when Santa slid down the chimney with his bag of gifts, anticipating more than milk and cookies. Whatever. Church is a safe place to air such memories.

On the way home we stopped into the vacant lot and bought a nice 8 foot Balsam fir tree. Two high school boys did the heavy lifting. One attempted to master the chain saw to square off the end. Unfortunately, the saw got away from him. The mechanical monster spun round and round on the ground in a bizarre rampage. It chewed up dirt as well as my tree before it headed on its own down the row of trees. The scene was surreal. We bought another tree.

We tied the Balsam on the roof of the car and headed home. I felt like a member of the Joad clan en route from Oklahoma to California with a mattress strapped on top of the jalopy. Chevy Chase adopted this scene.

We dusted off the decorations boxes and unpacked elves, the candles and the lights. I unwrapped the manger scene, which after almost 50 years looks about as ragged as I suspect Joseph felt. The ninety and nine manger animals were out to pasture, lost sheep forever. Mary was missing four fingers, Joseph’s staff was broken and the angel’s feathers were falling out. Even the baby Jesus looked disgusted. Shelf lives are getting shorter.

The tree occupied a nice corner spot over the heat register, a hospice of sorts. It was the least we could do to insure its comfort, seeing as it was already on its last leg. I felt sorry for it, so my daughter and I clothed its nakedness with about five thousand tiny lights, remembering the sermon.

I like to name our Christmas trees after biblical characters. This year its name is Amos. The name is translated from Hebrew, of course, which means literally ‘fire tower.’ It didn’t improve Amos’ disposition that Mac, our male Westie, found its vertical stature intimidating. While the challenge was enormous for him, he never failed to give it his best squirts. Amos is well-watered.

In a few hours the house looked festive, ready for whoever might be coming down the chimney in a couple of weeks. As the day closed, we turned down the lights and admired our handiwork. We poured ourselves some eggnog, spiked with a skosh of brandy. The gathering gloom began to close in. Our eyes got heavy.

Conversation in these reflective moments is sparse, lacking all evidence of intellectual profundity.

I say, “Beautiful, huh?” Silence.

“Yes, beautiful,” she answers. More silence.

“Our best tree ever,” I say.

“Yes, it is,” she replies.

“Lots of space for presents, huh?” I’m ever hopeful.

“Yes, seems so,” the reply.

And on and on with longer gaps in silence as conversation transcends into sleep, allowing visions of sugar plums to dance in our heads. Through the darkness Amos shone brightly.

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“….(And) The Light shineth in darkness, and the darkness overcommeth it not.” Amen!