Redemption

"Sit down grandson. I have a story that I'd like to share with you."

"Okay Pops! Just a minute, I have to finish this match!"

Jacob is an excitable young man. He plays videogames with the same vigor and youthful gaiety as I did playing Cowboys and Indians as a young lad.

"All done! What's your story about this time, Pops?"

I adjust in my chair and wiggle on my slippers. This story is not like the rest that I confide in Jacob- it's about crime, consequences, and redemption. I have waited a long time for Jacob to become old enough to hear this story. He's fifteen now- the same age as I was when this story takes place- so I think it's finally time to tell him. I let out a quiet but forceful exhale and look up to match his gaze. He's looking up to me with anticipation, bearing a grin that just about leaps off his face. I just hope his high opinion of me doesn't change once he knows the truth. So, regretfully, I begin the story.

I was fifteen during the Great Depression. Times were really hard for my parents- young Irish immigrants. My father relied on the bottle- even if he could find someone to hire him in spite of his nationality, his alcoholism would surely compromise his employment. My mother was a small woman, standing less than five feet tall. She worked hard at the cloth factory in Brooklyn- sometimes more than eighty hours a week- just to put soup and bread on the table. I was the youngest of five brothers and sisters. Despite the stereotype that the youngest child gets the most attention, one of my most vivid childhood memories was how my dad always called me by my brother's name. I never bothered to correct him.

One warm September morning, I was walking to school when I saw a small pack laying on the ground just beside a city dumpster. I walked up to the bag, hoping to find a couple of chocolate bars or maybe an orange soda. Little did I know, my life was about to change forever. There were only three things inside- a checkbook that said 'NYSE Stephen Anthony Bennett', a small black notepad with all sorts of maths and charts hastily jotted into it, and a very expensive-looking black ballpoint pen. While it wasn't quite a chocolate bar, a pervasive idea flooded my mind- I could write a check to myself and get some money to help out my family. Of course, I could buy myself a new baseball mitt and some candy too. I went to school that day, but I wasn't present. My mind was off wondering about the possibilities that having unlimited free money would bring.

That week, I made time in my busy teenage schedule to go to the bank. I tore out a single check, and sloppily wrote down my name, one-hundred and 0 cents, and $100.00 on their respective lines. I didn't know much about checks, but my mom taught me that I needed to spell out the dollar amount in addition to the number. This would be more money than me or my family had ever seen if it worked. I went to the bank, a local one that hadn't experienced a bank run yet, and opened an account. I handed the check to the clerk and asked for cash. She looked at me wide-eyed, pressed her lips together, and scratched the back of her neck.

"You are one lucky young boy. Stephen is a generous man. Did he give you this to help with school? I know you are probably going to college soon!"

I looked back at her, and let out a nervous stutter.

"Ye- yea, it's for school. I'm going to Colombia next year."

Of course, this was a total lie. I was only fifteen, but I knew I looked older for my age.

"Well good for you darling! If Stephen Bennett was giving me money, you bet I would be going to Colombia too!"

The clerk waved me goodbye as I walked out of the bank, tightly clutching $100.00 in cash. When I got home, I rushed through the door and hugged my mom as hard as I could. Before she could ask me what the occasion was, I pulled out $90.00 and stuffed it in her hand. She looked at me, then looked back at the cash, and burst into tears. After an equal mix of laughing and crying for a few minutes, she finally asked me the question:

"Where on Earth did you get this Thomas?!"

It felt good to be called by my actual name.

"Mother, I found it in a bag on the street! Isn't it great?"

This obviously wasn't exactly true, but it was true enough that I didn't

feel bad about fibbing.

"Saint Anthony must be watching you, my dear Thomas. What do you say we go out for dinner tonight?"

Life was good. My mother took my siblings and me out to an Italian restaurant that night, and I ordered a steamy eggplant parmigiana. I wanted my dad to come too, but we hadn't seen him in more than a week at that point. It wasn't unusual for him to disappear for over a month at a time. For weeks after I found that checkbook, my family ate good food every morning and every night. I finally picked up a new baseball mitt that I had my eye on for a while, and I went out every day to play ball with my friends. It was about a month later that it all changed.

Early on a Saturday, I heard a knock on the front door. My oldest brother, thinking it was my dad, quickly ran to the door and flung it open in eager suspense. Instead, it was two police officers.

"Our dad isn't here. Hasn't been for a while. Sorry we couldn't be of more help," my oldest brother said as he began to close the door on the officers. The closest officer jutted his hand out and pushed the door back open.

"We're not here for him. We're looking for a Thomas Kelly. Is he present right now?"

I walk up to the door, adjacent to my brother, and look up at the officer.

"That's me. What can I help you with?" I asked, my voice shaking. The foremost officer grabbed my shoulder.

"You will be coming with us."

I spent that week in a cell. I was awaiting trial for check fraud. I didn't even know that using a check I had found was a crime, but it makes sense. I just thought, 'finders keepers, losers weepers', but I guess that doctrine doesn't apply in a court of law. They set my bail at $300.00 to make an example of me. I knew my folks would never be able to pay that, so I was stuck in a cell for the time being. I ate stale bread and one rotten apple every day, a far cry from the eggplant parmigiana which I had gotten used to. One morning, a knock on the cell bars jolted me awake. Before I could even rub my eyes, I heard the door of the cell slide open.

"Kelly, you're bailed out. You can retrieve your things at the front desk," a guard bellowed.

"H- how is that even possible? My mom can't afford my bail," I replied as I got up from the cold cot that I was sleeping on. The guard didn't answer my question, but instead waited outside my cell with his arms crossed. I got dressed in my clothes from the front office and step outside, only to be completely blinded by the sunlight. As my vision slowly adjusts, a man in a black suit comes into view. He has a well-maintained beard, short black hair, and distinctive crow's feet that complement each eye. He is much taller than I am, so I have to move my head back and look up to make eye contact.

"Mr. Thomas Kelly. I am Stephen Bennett. So nice to finally meet you."

Everything made sense now. The NYSE on the checkbook, the familiarity that the bank clerk had with his name, the black notebook with charts and graphs, the expensive suit- this guy works on Wall Street.

"Why did you bail me out? I stole your checkbook," I said, maintaining eye contact. I said it with confidence, not stuttering a single consonant.

"Wrong. You found my checkbook. And I bailed you out for two reasons: one, it's rare that someone your age knows how to research a bank, open an account, and write a check. Many adults fail in that department. And two, given the opportunity for unlimited wealth, you only took $100.00. Why?" he asked, the lines on his forehead contorting with his furrowed eyebrows.

"W- well, $100.00 is more money than I know what to do with. I gave 90% to my mom and kept 10% for myself. I'm really sorry sir, it won't happen again, I p- promise!"

"So son, you understand percentages? Why didn't you just go and spend it all?" he rebutted.

We kept talking as he drove me home in an automobile. I had never ridden one before that day. We talked about math, the economy, stocks, and even baseball. I went home to my mom and siblings, who all gave me big hugs. They asked me all sorts of questions about jail, and I asked them about their crazy weeks. I told them how I got bailed out, and how Mr. Bennett drove me in his automobile. Later in the month, I had my trial, where I pled guilty. Mr. Bennett knew the judge and district attorney personally, and I was afforded a generous plea bargain of just a small fine- which Mr. Bennett paid.

As time went on, life passed me by. I went through school, had girlfriends, and worked jobs, but I never did forget the generosity of Mr. Bennett. With what little money I saved working in restaurants, I attended Colombia University for a degree in finance. I eventually ran into Mr. Bennett again, just after my graduation, and he offered me a job. He told me something I would never forget that day:

"Tommy, you never let your mistakes define you. You paid the price and moved on. You didn't become miserable when life got hard, and you didn't act irresponsibly when life afforded you luck. That's how I knew I wanted you to work for me someday. Stocks are a lot like life- if you can stick through the downs without panicking, and ride through the ups without getting cocky, then you stand a chance of seeing a profit."

As I concluded my story with Jacob, I noticed that he was still staring with excitement.

"So that's how you became the CEO of S.A. Bennett? Woah... That's awesome! I don't even know what to say! That was a great story Pops!"

I let out a sigh of relief. It seems that Jacob won't think less of me despite my mistakes. More importantly, it seems like he learned something. I hope he can be resilient in his life- preferably without having to see the inside of a jail cell first.