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Charity
by Mark Keane
A fifty-year-old man should reappraise his life, ask himself difficult questions, and confront regrets.
Hector Small worked for an investment bank, analyzing the performance of stocks and bonds and recommending what to buy or sell.
What had he accomplished after twenty-five years in investment banking? Had he provided anything of intrinsic value? A butcher in his shop can point to a pound of minced beef, and a greengrocer to a bunch of carrots. Hector had dealt in intangibles that accrued or diminished but added nothing to the stock of goodness.
A malaise descended on Hector, bringing with it an insidious nausea. In a moment of clarity, he understood his life had to take a different direction.
The day after his fiftieth birthday, Hector Small quit his job.
He would spend his remaining years doing tangible good for the vulnerable and helpless. That didn’t mean giving his money away, exculpation, and a life of penury. He would use his knowledge and experience to make a difference. Entire sectors of industry had acted on his recommendations. Think of the good he could do in the non-commercial world.
Who were the most vulnerable and helpless? Hector weighed his options as he’d done in his professional life. After careful consideration, he decided to begin by helping animals. Caring for cats and dogs and other creatures was surely a selfless and compassionate objective. Hector went to an animal shelter and spoke to the woman in charge.
“We’re always happy to consider new volunteers,” she said.
What relevant skills did he have? He knew nothing about animal grooming, let alone vaccinations, neutering, or microchipping.
“Why not adopt a dog?” the woman suggested.
“I’ll have to think about it,” he said.
“Take your time.” She pursed her lips. “Donations are always welcome.”
Hector started working in a charity shop. It meant learning how to fold clothes properly and arrange items on shelves and in the window. Hector was all fingers and thumbs and had no eye for color or shape or the requirements for an effective window display. He performed better behind the counter, adding up prices like a human calculator. During idle periods, he sorted out the accounts, dealt with tax exemptions, and put the books in order. Handling customers was much trickier.
“What size is this?” A stout woman held out a pair of shorts.
Clearly not your size, Hector thought but he smiled and checked the label.
“The price on this plate can’t be right,” an old codger complained. “I’ll give you five pounds for the lot.”
“But it’s for charity,” Hector said.
He came in early one morning to find the other volunteers going through recent donations, picking out the best items for themselves.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.
“Wind your neck in.” Molly, a retired civil servant, waved him away. “This is the only perk of the job.”
Hector handed in his notice.
It was time to re-evaluate his approach. What did he actually understand? Money, of course—how to manage and invest it. Why not pass this knowledge on to others, families on a tight budget, poorly paid nurses, and teachers?
He set about establishing Small Financial Services. Registering the company posed no problem, but he soon ran into complications. Accreditation, certification, one restriction after another that he’d never encountered before. Narrow thinking had no place in investment banking. Bogged down in short-sighted regulations, he would never get anything done. Hector shut down Small Financial Services before it even got started.
Time for Plan B—apply first principles and keep it simple. He took a fold-up table and chair and set up shop on one of the busier pedestrian thoroughfares. Seated behind a sign that read Money Advice, he waited for takers. Passers-by eyed him suspiciously. Some approached and then veered away from his welcoming smile. Two uniformed policemen stopped at his table.
“Is this a gimmick, some sort of street performance?” Policeman One asked.
Hector explained it was anything but a gimmick.
“You do realize you’re violating Section 45 of the Police Act,” Policeman Two said. “Pack up your things, or else accompany us to the station and face a fine.”
Another setback, but it only bolstered Hector’s commitment. If his time in investment banking had taught him anything it was the inestimable value of persistence. He placed an advertisement in a local newspaper: Finding it hard to make ends meet? Call this number for free financial advice. Twenty-five years of professional experience in budgeting and planning. No charge and no commitment on your part. Satisfaction guaranteed.
He didn’t have long to wait for his first call.
“I can’t pay my rent. What’ll you do for me?”
“Tell me your current financial—”
“I’ve no time for that. Can you give me a loan?”
He tried to reason with the caller who showed no interest in reasoning. Hector ended the call.
“How can I trust you?” the second caller asked.
“I assure you everything is confidential,” Hector said.
“You could be a conman.”
“I have twenty-five years’ experience in investment banking.”
This time, the caller hung up.
More calls followed—requests for money to bridge the gap until payday and cover the cost of food, baby clothes, broadband charges, and a down payment on a holiday. Pathetic begging, cajoling, tears and even outright threats. Hector stopped answering the calls.
The only feasible option was to work with organizations set up to distribute money to the needy. Not handing out cash willy-nilly, but a collaboration that drew on Hector’s expertise in financial risk management. This would still require an appreciable outlay of money.
He telephoned his old boss, Julian Wheeler.
“Hector, good to hear from you.” Wheeler sounded as affable as ever. “How are you getting on in the real world?”
“Actually, I’m considering coming back, maybe on a flexible basis.”
“That’s not so easy. We’ve gone through a major reorganization.” Wheeler paused, and the silence told Hector everything he needed to know. “Things move quickly here. There have been wholesale changes.”
“It’s been less than a year. I’ll get up to speed in no time.”
“I thought you didn’t want anything more to do with investment banking. You called it deplorable and parasitic. I distinctly remember you saying that.”
There was no going back, Hector could see that. His nausea returned, the malaise descended and he wore it like a second skin.
Hector began giving money to charity. Small amounts at first—a fiver or a tenner slipped into collection boxes, sponsoring guide-dog puppies or supporting a local hospice. He made regular donations to larger causes.
Each month brought new requests for money. The number of charities grew and the amounts increased. Hector stopped monitoring his expenditure. He sold his house and rented a bedsit.
The money flowed from his bank account, resources ebbing as remorselessly as the tide.
He pawned his watch. On his way home, he dropped some coins in a beggar’s cup.
Come winter, he limited himself to one meal a day and stayed warm in the public library.
The drip-drip of money dwindled to nothing.
Hector waited, preparing for the eventuality when he would find himself dependent on charity.
By Mark Keane
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