It was a dreadful ride up in the elevator, and my heart sank when I opened the large wooden door to the office. Making my way over to the counter, I greeted the executive assistant, giving her my name. After checking the itinerary, she offered me a seat where I was afforded plenty of time to review the polished granite flooring, black leather over-stuffed chairs, and cherry-wood panelling on the walls. This was where serious business transactions took place and I, truth be told, was out of my element. My eyes grazed across the titles of the magazine selection on the table beside me: Report On Business, Forbes, Canadian Business, MoneySense. Perhaps the other side of the lobby had a magazine more suitable for me: Roam on $5/day, or Homesteading Magazine.
Contacting the regional credit counselling service had been a first step on what I'd hoped could be the road to recovery, with an accountant whose keen skills could help dig me out of the hole I now rested at the bottom of. Not that I was entirely convinced the shop could be pulled out of its nose-dive after the nearly 30 percent lease increase. They had matched me with the firm whose lobby I now solely occupied. About ten minutes after my arrival I was directed by the assistant to proceed to the office, and was assured I would not be waiting much longer. The door closed and I was left sitting in silence.
It had been an exhausting 10 months since the renewal of my lease agreement. Sales were down simply because I could no longer afford to buy books in the same quantity. The rent increase virtually eliminated my salary, and collection agencies were calling me 2 or 3 times a day. My ex-girlfriend Amanda, who had also been my business partner was being telephoned overseas in the middle of the night with the same frequency.
Bill, as he introduced himself, came into the office, shook my hand vigorously and apologized for being tardy. He wore a conservative pin-striped suit and was middle-aged, sporting a pinky ring and a Tom Selleck moustache. He didn't waste any time getting down to business - he seemed to be rushing through the meeting as though he had a dogfight to attend. Worriedly, I watched as he tapped a few digits out on his calculator. He then looked over other documents I had been requested to provide him with - business statements, remunerations and income tax information from the previous year. More tapping on the calculator. Looking up over his reading glasses he said, "Yep, you're bankrupt," and then arranged my documents in a file folder. I started to feel sick, things were happening too fast.
The room felt suddenly cold. What hope I'd mustered of resurrecting the store drained away, like the last bit of water in the sink. I had convinced myself I would be introduced to a person who could help me set the store straight. Having been in business for 10 years gives one a certain sense of leverage, I thought to myself. I had heard that you could make a consumer proposal to your creditors, fixing your interest rates at a workable 5%. Instead, I sat across from a man who offered no other solution than the dissolution of my business.
Bill advised me that I should keep the store open to the end of the month, a mere 3 days away, and to remove any personal effects and files from the premises. He made a date for a follow-up meeting, a week after this "initial consultation". Bewildered, I shook his hand as I rose to my feet. I was being shown the door, and I thanked him for his help, the way you do when you thank a police officer for giving you a speeding ticket.
My mind was blank and filled with mixed emotions as I made my way to the elevator, back down to the ground floor. I unlocked the door of my VW van and for several minutes sat staring at the dash, feeling like a man without a country.
4 days later, at 3:38 a.m., alone and sitting on a milk-crate at at the back of the store, I broke down.
More days later I was back in that same office, being attended to by Bill, for our second and what would be our final meeting. In the meantime, he had made some initial inquiries and had started the bankruptcy process on my behalf. He had dozens of documents for me to sign in triplicate; my hand got sore from signing my name over my new title: "signature of bankrupt". Bill went on to warn me there may be an inquiry as to how I let my liabilities get so far out of whack from my assets. He also suggested that I, "should have come sooner...".
I went home with a black hole in my stomach. There I was, 35, at an age when I should have been at the top of my game, with nothing.
Post-script:
Through the media we learn that bankruptcy is a fate worse than death for business people. Banks treat people who have gone bankrupt like criminals and simply refuse to open accounts for a person who is going through or has passed through the process. I was told by my trustee that I would have no problem obtaining a chequing account, and that it was just a question of asking for one. Not so, as I actually had several account managers from different banks actually turn their back on me, when I needed an account for a job I had. Only with my parents intervention did I manage procure one, as it was required for automatic deposit. I was fortunate, yet many are not afforded the same opportunity.
You'll find a link to part two here.
Contacting the regional credit counselling service had been a first step on what I'd hoped could be the road to recovery, with an accountant whose keen skills could help dig me out of the hole I now rested at the bottom of. Not that I was entirely convinced the shop could be pulled out of its nose-dive after the nearly 30 percent lease increase. They had matched me with the firm whose lobby I now solely occupied. About ten minutes after my arrival I was directed by the assistant to proceed to the office, and was assured I would not be waiting much longer. The door closed and I was left sitting in silence.
It had been an exhausting 10 months since the renewal of my lease agreement. Sales were down simply because I could no longer afford to buy books in the same quantity. The rent increase virtually eliminated my salary, and collection agencies were calling me 2 or 3 times a day. My ex-girlfriend Amanda, who had also been my business partner was being telephoned overseas in the middle of the night with the same frequency.
Bill, as he introduced himself, came into the office, shook my hand vigorously and apologized for being tardy. He wore a conservative pin-striped suit and was middle-aged, sporting a pinky ring and a Tom Selleck moustache. He didn't waste any time getting down to business - he seemed to be rushing through the meeting as though he had a dogfight to attend. Worriedly, I watched as he tapped a few digits out on his calculator. He then looked over other documents I had been requested to provide him with - business statements, remunerations and income tax information from the previous year. More tapping on the calculator. Looking up over his reading glasses he said, "Yep, you're bankrupt," and then arranged my documents in a file folder. I started to feel sick, things were happening too fast.
The room felt suddenly cold. What hope I'd mustered of resurrecting the store drained away, like the last bit of water in the sink. I had convinced myself I would be introduced to a person who could help me set the store straight. Having been in business for 10 years gives one a certain sense of leverage, I thought to myself. I had heard that you could make a consumer proposal to your creditors, fixing your interest rates at a workable 5%. Instead, I sat across from a man who offered no other solution than the dissolution of my business.
Bill advised me that I should keep the store open to the end of the month, a mere 3 days away, and to remove any personal effects and files from the premises. He made a date for a follow-up meeting, a week after this "initial consultation". Bewildered, I shook his hand as I rose to my feet. I was being shown the door, and I thanked him for his help, the way you do when you thank a police officer for giving you a speeding ticket.
My mind was blank and filled with mixed emotions as I made my way to the elevator, back down to the ground floor. I unlocked the door of my VW van and for several minutes sat staring at the dash, feeling like a man without a country.
4 days later, at 3:38 a.m., alone and sitting on a milk-crate at at the back of the store, I broke down.
More days later I was back in that same office, being attended to by Bill, for our second and what would be our final meeting. In the meantime, he had made some initial inquiries and had started the bankruptcy process on my behalf. He had dozens of documents for me to sign in triplicate; my hand got sore from signing my name over my new title: "signature of bankrupt". Bill went on to warn me there may be an inquiry as to how I let my liabilities get so far out of whack from my assets. He also suggested that I, "should have come sooner...".
I went home with a black hole in my stomach. There I was, 35, at an age when I should have been at the top of my game, with nothing.
Post-script:
Through the media we learn that bankruptcy is a fate worse than death for business people. Banks treat people who have gone bankrupt like criminals and simply refuse to open accounts for a person who is going through or has passed through the process. I was told by my trustee that I would have no problem obtaining a chequing account, and that it was just a question of asking for one. Not so, as I actually had several account managers from different banks actually turn their back on me, when I needed an account for a job I had. Only with my parents intervention did I manage procure one, as it was required for automatic deposit. I was fortunate, yet many are not afforded the same opportunity.
You'll find a link to part two here.
