June 2- 8, 2005

naked city

Overdrawn

Photo By: Michael T. Regan

You can't find salvation in a bottle. Can you find it at budget bums class?

by Mike Newall

"Here it is," I said, plopping down $452.74 on the desk of a bank manager. "Every penny."

She smiled and counted the money. I shifted anxiously in my seat.

My bank had closed my account in March after it had been in arrears for 90 days. They notified all other Philly banks of my deadbeat status. It was humiliating. Since then, I'd banked at check-cashing stores and deposited my savings into an old hardback copy of The Winter of Our Discontent.

By late April, I'd saved enough to settle my tab. A thousand-pound albatross was being removed from my neck. A man pays what he owes. Plus, this particular debt reminded me of a night I wanted nothing more than to forget. It couldn't be paid off fast enough.

"Are we good to go?" I impatiently asked the manager.

She straightened in her chair and folded her hands.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but for us to reopen the account you'll need to attend our Foundations of Money Management Course, which will help you more successfully handle your finances. You'll need a certification of course completion before we can proceed."

"Like some kind of budget bums class?" I asked incredulously.

She said nothing and handed me a registration form.

"Can't you just rap my knuckles with a ruler or something?"

Silence.

I signed my name.

My budget bum fate was determined two nights before Christmas.

I was standing in front of an ATM snuffing out a cigarette. I'd been on a two-week bender and was losing sight of myself and my finances. I had $2.74 in the bank but could overdraw my account by accepting a $31 penalty fee. I deliberated for a moment and then withdrew $200.

At Fergie's, I drank beer.

At Oscar's, I drank whiskey.

At The Good Dog, I offered a pretty girl a drink but I slurred my words.

At McGlinchey's, "Moonlight Mile" played on the jukebox and I stared heavy-eyed into my glass like it held some kind of an answer.

I stumbled home and stood in front of the bathroom mirror. I didn't like the person before me. It had something to do with a girl and the nagging belief that life was something I was not good at. I broke a thick beer mug in the sink, picked out a shard, and sliced open my wrists. The cuts were deep and the blood was dark. I sat on the tile floor. The room spun. I shut my eyes.

Now, I understand it was a selfish and cowardly act. At the time, it seemed like the solution.

My brother found me and took me to the emergency room.

In the bed beside me was a woman who a few hours earlier had learned her boyfriend was still sleeping with the mother of his children. Spurned, she decided to jump to her death. But she broke her big toe kicking her bedroom window and called 911.

"Fuck that fucking cocksucker," she repeated over and over.

Next to her lay an older woman who sobbed softly. She had cut her head falling off the toilet. During the night, she stopped sobbing and went into cardiac arrest. They rushed her into surgery. I don't know what happened to her.

I was committed to the mental ward.

My roommate was Clarence. He was 28 years old and on 14 different medications for schizophrenia. Clarence showed me where extra socks and linens were kept and offered me his Valium doses so I could sleep easier. I liked him immediately.

My introductory meeting with the ward psychiatrist went south when she informed me I'd be staying for a few days. I called her a dick and told her I was leaving.

"Mr. Newall, you have a problem with alcohol and with your emotions and it's ruining your life," she said sternly. "It's hurting the people you love and it'll ruin you completely. Now, go back to your room and be quiet."

I went back to my room and I was quiet.

There were daily group therapy sessions. Clarence was sharing about how he once lived in Belgium when Francis, a slight, middle-aged manic-depressive, interrupted and asked if he had learned French there. "Yes," replied Clarence.

Francis was indignant. "Well, I don't know much," he said assertively. "But I know with certainty that France is nowhere near Belgium. Not even close."

"They're right next to each other," answered Clarence calmly.

Francis buried his head in his hands and cried. We all assured Francis it'd be OK.

The conversation had moved on to grief management when the nurse came in and told me my release authorization had come through. A big part of me wanted to stay.

Since December I've taken many steps, small and large, to deal with my issues. Some I've chosen willingly. Others have been forced upon me. Now it was time for budget bums class.

I arrived ten minutes late. It was held in a conference room on the 12th floor of the bank's Center City headquarters. There were eight of us. We sat around small circular tables and introduced ourselves. There was a shared sense of embarrassment. It was like grownup detention. Most everybody claimed their accounts were in the red because someone had perpetrated fraud against them. Only I and one other woman — who was also the only other person to show up late — accepted the blame for our financial snafus.

"My name's Mike," I said. "I overdrew my account over Christmas."

"Presents?" asked a female classmate.

I nodded my head in mock penitence.

"Hmm-mm," she said, shaking her head empathically. "I know it."

The instructor treated us respectfully as she walked us through the nuances of high finance: Writing checks. Endorsing checks. Balancing checkbooks. Direct deposit. She explained what a check card was and quizzed us on the benefits of having a checking account instead of relying on check-cashing stores. She threw out personal budgeting scenarios for us to consider, for example: "It's two days to payday and you have six dollars in your pocket."

"Maybe one day for lunch you buy the 99-cent chili at a fast food restuarant," she said. "If that isn't enough to eat, buy the extra large fries, too, for another 99 cents."

Just when it seemed the class was winding down, the bank president joined us. He was a big guy stuffed into an expensive suit who liked the sound of his own voice. He began a lengthy discourse on the "economic realties" of the 21st century and talked for a while about how interest rates and real estate values were "reversely proportionate." We listened in befuddlement. Penance can be a bitch.

After two hours of class, it was said that our accounts would be opened in the morning. We were back among the banking. Our certificates would be mailed to us in the morning.

It was raining when I left. I walked home feeling a little less complete than I thought I would and wishing for some of Clarence's Valium.