Knuckles

As always, that odd feeling washed over me whenever I sat in that conference room. On first glance, it's classy. Oval dark glass table, innocuous framed water colors, pastel wallpaper backing dark wood furniture and solid black window frames. It gave off an aura of power, of competence, of "lend-us-your-money-and-we-won't-let-you-down." The chairs were a pleasant-colored silky fabric, ergonomically efficient; kind on the eyes and kind on the rump.

But after you've sat there awhile, after you've met with your advisers and asked your questions and did your business, the room seemed sad. An empty feeling ... or, more likely, a desperate one. On closer examination, nothing fit in, really. It was all so planned, so machinated, so focus-grouped. I never liked being in the room long, even when I made money. Even the framed water colors didn't want to be there.

Then there were the windows. Two, actually, right next to each other. Little knobs in the center bottom frame, opening them inward and then upward, for cleaning purposes, it seemed. I never like them. Buildings never had windows that opened any more. Except this place. Just glancing out them down to the parking lot seven floors down made my stomach churn.

My financial advisor came in with a dossier under his arm. Tall, confident, wearing an easy smile, he seated himself across from me, asked about the wife and kids in a way that made me feel he almost truly cared, then fished out a couple of sheets of fresh laser-printed papers in need of my signature.

The name on his business card's Dan Micerelli, but I knew him well enough at this point to call him Knuckles.

"So, we just need your signature here ... and here." Knuckles slid the papers across to me. I felt somewhat emasculated at the sight of his silver Cross pen; my blue Bic was quite temperamental and I didn't want to ask him to use his. "With your heart condition, you're what's known as a 'Category D.' " He gave me a sympathetic look. "I know, I know, we've been through this before, but you need the coverage. The policy for half-a-mill is $424 a month - "

"Dan - uh, Knuckles - we can't afford that." I glanced to the manila folder I had at my side.

He nodded, and a dark cloud passed quickly over his face. "Okay. Let me go back and run some more numbers. I'll be five minutes, tops."

"My wife and I have talked this over. We just want some coverage. Something, anything. If anything happened to me, she'd take my daughter and go back to her parents. We just want something to help get her back on her feet, is all."

Knuckles smiled magnanimously. "All right. I'll run a 100-K and a 250-K. We'll see what the monthly deductions come out to. Be right back."

I nervously glanced at the window. At our last meeting, Knuckles and a trainee held me outside it upside down because I wasn't meeting our pre-defined savings goals.

He was back almost as soon as he left; he was always doing that, always surprising me. We decided a $250,000 life insurance policy for $126 a month would be the best fit. I'd have to submit to a medical exam, of course, as well as an examination of all my past medical records. Even though I was healthy there was still a big chance they'd deny me. Oh well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

"Now let's see what's in your folder," Knuckles said, his fingers twisting that showy pinkie ring. A habit I came to regard very warily.

I showed him the documents. "They're raising my health insurance at work."

Knuckles whistled, then cursed under his breath. "Let me get this straight," he said as he tried to make sense of my company's emails and IRS documentation. "You're family plan's going from eighty bucks a week to two-hundred-thirty-two?" He raised an eyebrow and watched me squirm.

"Yeah," I agreed, speaking uneasily.

He leaned back in his chair, threw his arms behind his head. "Bastards."

"I agree," I uneasily spoke.

Knuckles came to a quick decision. He stood up and paced, usually in my field of vision but sometimes behind me, which made me quite nervous. "Here's what we do. First, you get your wife to call her company's HR department, and get them to put her and your daughters on her insurance. Do whatever it takes." He stopped and smiled at me, darkly. "If necessary, have your wife call me."

I swallowed. "Sure Knuckles. First thing tomorrow."

"First thing tomorrow morning," Knuckles affirmed. "Next, I want you to change your plan to a single. You can still do it?"

"Deadline's tomorrow."

"Good. Make sure that's done. That's second thing tomorrow morning. Now, third ..."

"Yes?"

Knuckles sat down across from me, a faraway look in his eye as that silver Cross pen twirled in his fingers like a baton. "This was the decision of the company CFO?"

I nodded.

"Write his name down." A blank sheet of paper slid my way. I did as Knuckles asked, and slid it back to him without a word. The slip of paper disappeared quickly inside his inner suit jacket pocket.

A minute later the mood of the room shifted. I knew it was time to leave. I gathered up my things as Knuckles asked about my family's plans for the holiday weekend. Another minute or two of banter as we walked down the hall, and then I was at the glass security doors in front of the elevators.

Knuckles shook my hand warmly. It always felt weird whenever I gripped that pinkie ring. "Remember," he said, "my goal is to make sure you reach your financial goals - retirement, college funds, and cash reserves."

I nodded, all smiles.

"Whatever it takes," he winked.

"Whatever it takes," I agreed.

I pressed the button, awaiting the next available elevator.

Knuckles turned back. "Oh, one other thing."

"Yes?"

"How's the brown-bagging going?"

Brown-bagging lunch to work was Knuckles suggestion to me to save $35-40 a week. If I did that alone for a year, my family would have almost two-grand in our cash reserve.

"It's going great, Knuckles," I said, hoping he wouldn't see through my lie. I could never quite tell for sure.