The Loan

John Vanderbeek was a simple man. His life was uncomplicated but comfortable. John worked as a personal banker at a Wells Fargo branch downtown, he helped people manage their bank accounts and apply for loans.  He was good at his job. The straightforwardness of banking suited him well and he liked to think he was making a difference in others’ lives. People sometimes worry too much about money, and having someone like John in charge of theirs put them at ease.   

Everyday, John awoke alone in his modest apartment. He washed, dressed, and made himself a breakfast consisting of exactly two slices of toast spread with margarine and a half of a grapefruit. He walked to work instead of taking the bus. Walking was better for the environment and John liked the fresh air, besides, he didn’t like to get to be too near other people. He arrived at work promptly at seven forty-five—slightly earlier than the other bankers—to set up his cubicle for the day. He sharpened his pencils, restocked his store of account forms, and straightened his three “Personal Banker of the Month” certificates in their plastic frames. At nine o’clock the bank opened and John began his work. He quietly handed out brand new checkbooks and patiently explained mortgage rates to his customers. At one o’clock John ate a dry turkey sandwich at his desk and at five-thirty he checked to make sure everything was in order before heading home. Every night, John prepared supper for himself and ate it while reading The Wall Street Journal. He washed his dishes while watching the news. At ten o’clock every night, John went to sleep. This was his life. It was consistent and uniform. One day, something unusual happened to John.

They day commenced like any other. The alarm beeped, the toast lightly margarined and the grapefruit sliced. John left his apartment right on time. On his normal path to work, he collided with an obstruction. The street he consistently took—a tranquil one—had transformed into a barricaded mess, swarming with boisterous orange-clad, construction workers.  They were laying a line for a new light-rail and the noise was inconceivable. John grew uncomfortable and agitated in the noise and commotion. His head pounded and his palms became greasy with sweat. He panicked as his mind processed the ramifications of this construction. He could not take this route to work. Not today, not ever? This is the route he always took to work. How would he get to work? He was going to be late for work. In his panic, John made a rash right turn down an alley, thinking only of escaping the terrible racket. The further he got away from the jarring clamor of the drill, the more relaxed he became. Finally John escaped the din of the drill, but just as he was breathing a sigh of relief, he realized with a start that he had become completely lost in a maze of narrow side streets. Trying to wrap his mind around this problem when he heard something else. It was as smooth and soulful as the drill was clamoring and metallic. John followed the velvety melody down the street directly in front of him and pinpointed the source: an old man playing a violin on his fire escape. Or was it a Viola? John wasn’t sure what the difference was, or if there was a difference for that matter. He didn’t know very much about music, but he knew that if this music were to stop something would go terribly wrong inside him. He sat down on the dusty curb and listened eagerly as the old man swept the bow delicately and purposefully across the strings. As the mournful tune drew to an end, the old man melted into another. John listened as the man played through song after song, some sweet and cheerful, others full of sorrow.  The tragedy that had befallen him earlier this morning seemed like a distant memory, as did his job, his dreary apartment. When the old man was finished John sat on the curb, evaluating this experience. He finally came to the conclusion that—for the first time in his life—he should take the day off.