Black Street

By Sidney Cooper

Black Street is about Shane Jackson, an African-American young man that is handed the task of assisting his mother in securing a two hundred and fifty thousand dollar small business loan at the tender age of fifteen. The experience inspires aspirations for a career on Wall Street.

Shane's original mission to work on Wall Street grows into much higher aspirations when the opportunity to become managing director of the most prestigious and profitable trading desk on Wall Street presents itself. In his efforts to create more opportunity for African-Americans on Wall Street he is pushed by a vision of the first all black trading desk on Wall Street, but his dream faces an uphill battle and resistance from Junior, the heir apparent to the executive director position over the trading desk that is currently held by his father Mr. Mackey.

Black Street shows a young man in his zealousness to pursue his dream is haunted by his conscience about some decisions he made that may cost him his job, his friendships, and the love of his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sidney Cooper
• Release date: Apr 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458199065

Sidney Cooper

Sidney Cooper Jr. was born and raised in San Diego California. Hailing from a family where entrepreneurship was the foundation of economic means, Sidney quickly learned the fundamentals of business and the value of a dollar. His business acumen shined through brightly at an early age where he developed a marketing and financial budget for the family business. At the age of 19 Sidney had his first experience in the finance and investment field as a financial planner. Bitten by the investment and capital markets bug, he earned his degree from San Jose State University in Business Finance.Over the next 20 years Sidney pursued a career in finance and investments. His experience included capital management, investment advisement, portfolio management, and economic analysis. He founded his own company in 1994 SCJ Investments, LP, where he managed an investments portfolio and advised clients on retirement and savings. An avid community activist, Sidney developed a financial literacy curriculum that was presented at the Walden House, Leadership High School, and the Ellah Community Center in San Francisco, and Smart Start in Los Angeles and Palm Springs.

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BLACK STREET

By Sidney Cooper Jr.

Copyright 2010 by Sidney Cooper Jr.

Smashwords Edition

To Flora and Shane my constant inspirations, and to the memory of

Howard Ransom Jr. and Marvin Jackson.

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Prologue

We were waiting. My mother and I, both dressed in our best business attire, sitting at the desk of a loan officer at a local bank branch in Los Angeles. This was one of the larger branches in L.A. Twenty-five foot ceilings, marble floors, oak wood chairs and desks. All the tellers and loan officers were wearing navy blue or charcoal gray suits. I was a little overwhelmed by the whole environment. At age fifteen, this was my first time being involved in a potential financial transaction of this size with my mother’s business.

My mother was an interior designer, applying for a small business loan to expand her growing business. Her business had flourished since its inception five years ago. She’d operated a successful business to this point, but her goal was to take it to the next level. I, her only child, had been involved with the business from the beginning. My mother thought it would be a good experience for me to get involved, and that it would keep me off the streets and out of trouble. She worried about my development due to the absence of my father. What happened to him, I couldn’t begin to tell you. I never knew him. I remember when she sat me down at the age of eight and told me my father had left her before I was born. It wasn’t a reflection on me. It was more of a reflection on him. She said it was just something we would have to deal with together, but it wasn’t going to stunt my growth, or hers.

Our loan officer returned to her desk. She was dark skinned, African American, and a little overweight, middle aged, medium height; she wore black framed glasses, which made her look more like a college professor than a banker. She sat down at her desk and told my mother and me she had some good news.

Your loan has been approved!

Big smiles came over our faces, but the smile disappeared on my mother’s face when we heard the loan officer say, But, they only approved it for fifty thousand.

I could see my mother’s smile transform into a frown. She was obviously upset with the amount approved. I didn’t know what to think. Fifty thousand dollars sounded like a lot of money to me, but the look on my mother’s face said, fifty thousand wasn’t enough.

My application was for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. How in the hell can you come and sit down here and say you have good news? my mother replied.

Ms. Jackson, I know you are a little disappointed with the amount, but we can build on it.

Build on it? You’ve been singing that song for over three years, and I’m down right tired of that song and dance. At this time my mother let her frustration be known. I’ve been banking with this bank since I opened my business, and each time I applied for a loan, this bank has always approved me for less than I requested. Now, your approval committee sends you out as usual to break the news, and your mantra is, as it has always been, 'we can build on it', and each time I accepted it, but no longer will I go along with this farce. My company is growing. I need that money to support its growth. Moving my office from my home into a commercial space, adding some administrative and sales personnel will go a long way in increasing my client base, to say nothing about giving my company a more professional image. My company needs a face lift to go after more lucrative accounts. So, what I need you to do is to go back in there and get me approval for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

My mother stared at the loan officer and didn’t blink. The loan officer stared back at my mother with a look of discomfort and dismay on her face.

I can’t do that, Ms. Jackson, the loan officer said hesitantly.

Why not? my mother responded in a stern voice.

The final decision has been made, and they have approved fifty thousand. It’s out of my hands. There’s nothing more I can do, but like I said before, let’s build from here.

Are you telling me you will not even go back to your manager and argue on my behalf to approve the two hundred and fifty?

No, I’m trying to tell you, it’s final, and there’s nothing anyone can do.

My mother leaned back in her chair and just looked at the loan officer in silence. Then her facial expression changed, as if a revelation had come over her. She sat up, moved her seat closer to the desk, and leaned across the desk until she was face to face with the loan officer. I moved my seat closer and leaned in just a little to hear what my mother was saying in a clear low voice.

For over five years I’ve been banking here with you, and I just now realized that I’m talking to the wrong person.

What do you mean you’ve been talking to the wrong person? the loan officer replied.

You know what I mean. The white man ain’t doing nothing but frontin' your black ass off, she said in a slow, intense voice.

I’m offended by that statement coming from another African American woman.

You should be offended because that’s how I intended it to affect you, so you can wake up and see that you are just a pawn in this game and not a real player.

I am a player. I’m VP of Small Business Loans.

That’s just a title to appease you and to help you ignore, the fact, you don’t sit at the table where decisions are made.

The loan officer told my mother she would forget about the statements she made because they were made out of anger. She added; she knew my mother really didn’t mean what she'd said. But my mother confirmed to the loan officer that she meant every word she had uttered.

Furthermore, my mother informed the banker she intended to sever all ties with the bank today. The loan officer looked surprised.

Let’s not make a hasty decision out of anger that we will regret later, the loan officer exclaimed.

My mother fell back in her seat at the statement made by the loan officer, and calmly replied, This is not a ‘we’ decision. It’s my decision, and the quicker you carry out my wishes the sooner my son and I can get out of here.

The loan officer got up from the desk and walked to the back of the bank, while my mother and I, again, waited quietly and patiently. The loan officer re-emerged from the back accompanied by a Caucasian man in a navy blue suit with a red tie. He was very well groomed, slightly overweight, with graying hair. They approached the desk and his 6’5" frame towered over the three of us as he extended his hand to introduce himself.

Hello, Ms. Jackson. I’m the President of the bank, Mr. McFadden.

My mother extended her hand to shake his but never got up from her seat, making him bend down to grasp her hand. Nice to meet you, Mr. McFadden, and this is my son Shane. She then gestured toward me. Mr. McFadden walked around my mother, and I stood up, shook his hand and exchanged greetings. He walked back to stand in front of my mother.

It has come to my attention that you are disappointed with the amount approved for your small business loan, and would like to cut all ties with this bank. I thought it prudent to have a conversation before we took those steps.

My mother sat up straighter in her seat. Her body and hand movements became more animated while talking to Mr. McFadden. What is all this ‘we’ stuff? It’s not ‘we’ it’s ‘me’. And, I would like you to carry out my wishes immediately.

The bank president turned to the loan officer and nodded in the affirmative. The loan officer walked toward the back of the bank once again. Mr. McFadden walked behind her desk and took her seat.

Ms. Jackson, although your company has reached profitability in the past couple of years, there are still questions about the company’s ability service long term debt beyond the fifty thousand dollar level. Your financial ratios indicate you have good working capital, but your asset base hasn’t increased significantly. The equity in your company remains stagnant. We developed a cash flow statement from your balance sheet and income statement and it revealed that you have had a negative cash flow in the second and third quarters in each year of operation.

I couldn’t make heads or tails of what this bank president was talking about. This discussion was completely over my head. I just knew we ate, paid a mortgage, lived better than some, and not as well as others. Given the look on my mother’s face, I wasn’t sure how much she understood either. My mother was completely silent. She just looked at the bank president and began to shake her head.

This is what you came out here to tell me? After five years of banking with this bank, one would think a relationship was being built. This conversation should have taken place a few years ago so we could have worked together to grow my business. But, since this conversation is a day late and a dollar short there’s no need to continue it.

As you wish, Ms. Jackson. Sorry I couldn’t have been more helpful. Mr. McFadden got up from the desk and walked to the back of the bank. My mother looked disappointed and defeated.

What was he talking about, Mom?

He was explaining why we didn’t get the loan amount requested, but the reasons are cloudy to me.

My mother and I waited there at the desk for another half hour before the loan officer came out. She handed my mother a check. The loan officer wished my mother the best with her business and apologized for not being able to do more. We all shook hands. My mother and I left the premises.

When we arrived home, my mother went straight to her room. I went in the den, loosened my tie, sat on the couch and turned on ESPN. About twenty minutes later my mother emerged from her bedroom wearing some warm-ups, and carrying some folders in hand. She told me to meet her in the kitchen a few minutes later. I walked into the kitchen, where she was busy making sandwiches. She told me to sit down because she wanted to talk to me.

Shane, I’m glad you were at the bank with me today to witness what took place. I’m not sorry for what I said to that sista, but I am sorry for the way I said it. I will send her a letter of apology because everyone should be treated with respect.

I’m sorry you didn’t get the money, I responded.

I didn’t get the loan because I don’t understand the game that’s being played.

What game is that, mom?

The finance game. My expertise is in interior design, and numbers have always been my enemy. That’s where you come in. You are good with numbers, but I’ve kept you on the sales side because you are a natural salesman. You could sell ice to an Eskimo.

We both smiled. She reached for the folders she had brought into the room and placed them on the kitchen table between us.

These are my tax returns and other financial information about my company. In about three months I want to go to another bank and submit an application for a small business loan for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars so I can move my company out of our home.

You can’t do that with fifty thousand dollars? Sounds like a lot of money to me.

It does sound like a lot of money, but in reality, for what I’m trying to accomplish it’s just a drop in the bucket. It will take at least two hundred and fifty thousand to secure rental space downtown, add sales and administrative staff, implement an advertising and marketing plan, and give my company enough cash reserve to sustain itself in the down months.

I just shook my head in agreement.

She continued. I want you to find out how to play this finance game. Talk to whomever you need to, go to the library and do research, utilize the web, and use whatever means necessary – and you know I mean legal. If I ever catch you doing anything…... Her tone changed to a stern one.

I interrupted her. "Come on, mom. When have I ever taken that route to accomplish anything?

Never. And I want to keep it that way. I just don’t want you to misconstrue my words or get the wrong idea. I want you to study up on financing a business. I really need your help.

I know what you mean, mom, I said with a smile. I can do it.

My mother smiled back at me, took her hand and stroked my face gently, then held my chin up and looked directly into my eyes.

You’re the best son a woman could ask for, I love you.

We finished our conversation over the sandwiches she'd made: Her specialty, pepper turkey stacked with tomato, lettuce, mayo, and jack cheese on wheat bread. I’ve loved that sandwich since I was a little boy. She knew the way to my heart was through my stomach.

So, I had my marching orders. In three months I needed to prepare a financial package representing my mom’s company that would be good enough for her to secure a two hundred and fifty thousand dollar loan. The first stop was the public library. The librarians helped me tremendously in finding the books, articles, and journals on business and finance, but some of the language I encountered was difficult to understand. Math was my favorite subject in school, but I was used to concepts such as factorials, geometric squares, and improper fractions, and knew nothing about assets, balance sheets, income statements, or cash flow statements. As I left the library, on my way back home, I ran into my friend, Johnny.

Hey, Johnny what’s up? What are you doing downtown?

I got a summer job at Silvio’s Shoes.

Man, I didn’t know you worked at Silvio’s.

Yea, my dad said he didn’t want me running the streets this summer, so he hooked me up with this summer gig. What about you? What are you doing down here?

I was at the library, trying to learn about banking and finance.

Why would you want to learn about that? Johnny gave me a puzzled look.

It’s a project I’m working on for my mother. She needs to get a loan from a bank for her business.

Your mother’s no joke. Come hell or high water she gonna be the next Madame CJ Walker.

I guess, I replied.

Well, if you are trying to learn about banking you need to talk to Mr. Roberts. He’s a banker.

Mr. Roberts? That cranky bourgeoisie, Uncle Tom, Step and Fetch It, too good to talk to anyone on the block, Negro?

Yea, the one and only.

How do you know he’s a banker?

Well, one day I was helping my mother take in the groceries from the car, and Mr. Roberts pulled up on the block in his new 500SL. I asked my mom where he worked to afford a nice whip like that. She told me he was a banker.

Well, he does have the biggest house on the block, and he’s always wearing monkey suits. I figured he was an engineer or something.

Yea, I thought he was a politician – you know how they steal.

Both of us started laughing at the thought of how crooked politicians were.

I’m headed home. You headed that way, Johnny?

No, I’m just on a break. I need to get back to Silvio’s.

Alright, I’ll check you later.

We gave each other dap (shook hands), and then headed in opposite directions. On my way home, while sitting on the bus, I began thinking of how I could approach Mr. Roberts. He wasn’t friendly, and he seemed to have a genuine disdain for young black men. Once, while playing a game of football on the block, Mr. Roberts got angry with us for playing in the middle of the street. And as he passed by in his car he shouted at us. You little niggas need to stay out the street. Then he sped off toward his house, nearly hitting a couple of us who were lingering in the end zone. The story of what happened circulated around the neighborhood and all the parents on the block got upset with Mr. Roberts. Some parents confronted him in front of his gate. From that day on, he had been almost like an outsider in the neighborhood. No one spoke or socialized with him, including my mother. Since Mr. Roberts was a banker, his ostracism was about to end. He could be a huge help in my project.

I pondered ways to approach him. First, the direct approach: I could tell him about my project and what I was trying to accomplish, but with his personality, he probably would said he didn’t give a shit and to get off his porch. Or, I could lie. Tell him I was a republican, and wanted all black people to pull themselves up by their bootstraps and get off their lazy asses, but he would see right through that lie. Then, I realized I didn't really know much about Mr. Roberts and in order to devise a successful plan, I needed to learn more about the man.

I approached some of the neighbors on the block to see if I could find out any information that would help me persuade Mr. Roberts to assist me in learning about banking and finance. Everyone had the same thing to say, including my mother, about Mr. Roberts; that he was definitely a banker, uptight, antisocial, with no wife or kids to share all that apparent success. I needed more personal information -- like what his hobbies were, if he had a favorite charity, if he was sentimental about anything, where he vacationed, or what he was passionate about. I was about to give up until Old Man Roc called my name one day while I was sitting on my front porch. Mr. Darden, or Old Man Roc as we called him, was the oldest person on the block. He had lived on the block the longest. He was a retired veteran who had pulled me to the side from time to time and given me words of encouragement. He was the block philosopher, sometimes talking in riddles, leaving me to think about the words he just shared with me, like – If you look for excellence in every aspect of a person’s life, you will surely be disappointed.

Hey, Shane, how’s it going?

Good. Mr. Darden.

Glad to hear you’re doing well. I hear you’ve been asking around about Mr. Roberts.

Yea, I was going to get around to asking you. I got you on my list.

Mind if I ask you why?

No, not at all. I stood up and offered him a seat next to me on the porch steps. We both sat down. I’m working on this project that involves banking and finance, and since he’s a banker I thought he could help me out. But, I don’t know how to approach him.

So, you are doing some reconnaissance work on Mr. Roberts – that’s very smart, Shane.

Thanks.

Well, Shane, I think you are in luck. I may be able to give you some insight about the man that others don’t know and don’t care to know. Old Man Roc shifted his sitting position on the steps to face me more directly. He patted me on my knee. Mr. Roberts, or Vince as I call him, is not as much of a puzzle as one might think. He’s seen a lot and been through a lot in his fifty years. He was a banker for about fifteen years, but before banking he was a janitor for about eight years. He was married and had a child by the time he was eighteen. He used to live in one of the worse parts of Los Angeles, where black on black crime was an everyday occurrence. Wanting to improve his family's situation, Vince went back to school when he was thirty and got his degree at night and still held down his job as a janitor.

He went back to get his undergrad degree? I asked

Yes, his undergrad, and all while his wife was pulling long hours as a caretaker. His son was around fourteen or fifteen at the time and with his mother and father rarely around because they were striving to make a better life for themselves, the son got caught up in some gang activity and was shot to death in front of a corner liquor store.

Really? I interjected.

The story goes he was a very smart kid, but he was getting jumped in school, and bullies would steal his money. Desperate to protect himself, he joined up with another gang inside the school. The word from one of his friends inside the gang was that he never fit in, Gangbanging wasn’t his thing. The rival gang had a new member and to prove himself, he had to shoot Vince’s son. When the police caught the shooter, he confessed that he never had any problem with Vince’s son and that he was just carrying out an order to join the gang because he needed the protection. Vince’s wife never recovered from her son’s death, and about five years later she and Mr. Roberts divorced.

That’s sad he lost his family, I said to Roc.

Yes, and that’s why his demeanor can be harsh at times. When a man loses everything he holds dear to his heart, his heart hardens to protect itself.

I was stunned after Old Man Roc told me the story about Mr. Roberts and his family. Now, I could understand why my mother was so worried about me staying on the straight and narrow.

I hope that gives you a greater understanding of the man, Roc added. He’s not that bad a person, and if you need my help further, I would be willing to talk to him on your behalf. I can’t promise you he will help because even though I probably get along with him better than anyone on the block, we are not buddies.

Understood, and I appreciate you sharing what you know.

One other thing, Shane. When a man loses something close to his heart, it leaves a void and sometimes that man tries to fill that void through financial success, but to his dismay, the void remains. Fill the void and you’ll have no problem getting him to help you with banking and finance. You understand what I’m telling you?

I’m not sure.

Think about it. Old Man Roc stood up and patted me on the back. Well, I have to be moving on. Tell your mother I said hello.

I will.

Old Man Roc walked off, and left me to contemplate his last words. I thought about his words the rest of the day. Fill the void. What did he mean by that? My mother always taught me that the first rule of sales was getting to know your potential client, and catering to their needs. What did Mr. Roberts need? From my conversation with Old Man Rock, I gathered he needed a wife and a son, since he had lost both. But my mother couldn’t take the place of his wife, and I couldn’t replace his son. Or could I? My mind shifted into high speed, putting together a strategy. By day’s end the plan was in place.

My mother and I dressed casual during working hours, unless we were on a sales call. I hadn’t shared my plan to persuade Mr. Roberts to help me with the duties she'd delegated to me with my mother. So, this morning when she saw me with a monkey suit on, her curiosity got the best of her. I only had four words for her. Working on the project. Once I said that, she asked no more questions. I grabbed my little leather bag my mother got for me to use when we were on sales calls, threw it over my back and hit the door. I arrived at the Bank of America (BofA) building around 9:30 am. To my dismay, there was no sign of Mr. Roberts at the bank. I asked one of the loan officers if Mr. Roberts was off today. She said she had never heard of Mr. Roberts. I found that very peculiar because from all conversations with neighbors, everyone said he worked for Bank of America. The Bank of America building was a large high rise with a multitude of companies located inside its walls. So, I started to wonder if he work for BofA or if he just worked in the building. I headed for the front desk in the lobby of the building to see if I could locate Mr. Roberts that way. The building attendant looked up his name and told me he worked for Lewis, Wright, and Leland Inc. on the 51st floor. I asked what kind of company Lewis, Wright, and Leland was, and the attendant told me they were an Investment Advisor company.

I took the elevator up to the 51st floor and once I was standing in the elevator lobby, to my right I could see a receptionist. Above her head was a sign that read Lewis, Wright, and Leland, Inc. Investment Advisors in big gold letters. The reception area was really nice – plush carpet, leather chairs, nice artwork, fine wood area tables with financial magazines and newspapers lying organized on top of them. This reception area was much different than the bank my mother and I had been in earlier that week; it was smaller, but more intimate in its setting, no tellers, not a whole lot of people walking around; the space was closed, meaning there wasn’t much visibility beyond the receptionist wall. Mr. Roberts not working for BofA threw me a little, but I still thought my plan had a good chance of success. I would just need to talk my way through a few layers of resistance before I would land in front of the prize. I was dressed appropriately and that is half the battle in selling anything; image. With that in mind, I approached the receptionist. She was a white woman with graying blondish hair, very stylish, wearing a pink blouse and suit that brought out her skin tone and complimented her make up well.

Hello, I said with a smile.

Hello, how are you, young man?

I’m doing well this morning, Ma’am. How’s your morning going?

It’s been a good morning, so far. The muffins and coffee delivered this morning are fresh, and I haven’t had too many obnoxious clients call or come in this morning, so far, so good!

I could tell she was in a good mood, and might be of more help than I'd anticipated, and she was a bit of a chatterbox. A good morning is always the best start anyone could have to a day. At least that’s what my mother says.

Your mother is a smart woman. So, who are you here to see?

Well, I hoped you could help me with that. I go to Garfield High School and was told by my guidance counselor that there might be some opportunities for young men like myself to find a summer internship with your company. She didn’t give me anyone specific to talk to, but I came down here with the hope of talking to someone.

"I think I can give you a little help and point you to someone who would be willing to speak with you. Mr. Roberts would be your best bet. He’s an African-American gentleman and loves to see youths with vision and drive. I think he’s on the board for the Boys and Girls Club of L.A County. I will give him a call and see if he can accommodate you in his schedule this morning.