America's Town-Second Update

[Stuart Nachbar]

This the first chapter of my novel, America's Town.  If you have read the Beartown trilogy by Frederick Backman or seen Hoosiers, think of an unknown girl's high school basketball team becoming the pride of Gettysburg, the most famous small town in America, led by an unlikely, and reluctant coach. In real life, Gettysburg, aka "America's Town" has never claimed a state title in any sport. This first chapter introduces my protagonist, Jay Siler, two basketball players who are secondary characters, Bonita Blount and Stefani Baker as well as Alben Baker, borough administrator and Stefani's father, who has his own "power struggles" in Gettysburg. The narrative introduces the setting and aspects of local politics in America's Town. * Note this is my second update as I have learned so much from the pre-event readings and assignments.

1

Back in the Fall of ’07, just before the Great Recession, when credit still flowed like rolling water, Jay Siler was a banker. But not a banker who lent you money. 

He built open and airy money stores designed to ease tensions between bankers—the ones who lent you money—and the nervous borrowers not quite prepared to sign on the dotted line. Branches were the First Colonial Bancorp brand. Jay Nathan Siler, so savvy at marketing and real estate, was brand manager extraordinaire.  First Colonial prospered because branches were the business. They sold user-friendliness and convenience on weekdays and Saturdays, Sunday hours too, converting pennies to dollars for the kids, handing out more khazeray, useless plastic giveaways, than any other bank. This strategy worked better than paying an extra point of interest on checking or shaving a point on a mortgage loan. It made First Colonial profitable for over two decades. 

Only five-seven, physically fit and healthy though unintimidating, with thick curly black hair, Jay had grown up to be the “nice Jewish boy next door.” Had he grown payes, the long sideburns that marked Orthodox beliefs, pinned a yarmulka on his curly head paired with white shirts and black slacks, he could have easily been mistaken for a seriously studious yeshiva student from Pikesville, Maryland, his hometown, where he still lived, a now ideal homebase for his job. Working online with considerable freedom from his basement office and traveling in the field, Jay did the research, found the spaces, negotiated the leases, bought the land, oversaw construction, and handled community relations until each new branch was up and running. Jay had a small team to help, and would have ordinarily delegated Gettysburg downward, but executive orders required executive action. Ten years out of Wharton undergrad, Jay often asked himself why he soldiered on for a bank. He dreamed about working alongside Donald Trump while he was in school. But The Donald was not hiring inexperienced apprentices, and probably not seeking them outside of his gene pool, before Jay’s graduation day. However, as he outpaced others on the fast track, Jay caught the attention of another flamboyant CEO.

Rolland Johnson, First Colonial’s chief executive extraordinaire, Gettysburg College Class of ’69, cared greatly about the symbolism of First Colonial, aka “America’s Bank,” doing business in Gettysburg, aka “America’s Town.” Collector of all things Abraham Lincoln, wealthy beyond most anyone’s imagination, at the end of the prime of his business career, Rolland wanted to plant the bank’s flag not far from the site of the 16th President’s famous address. Rolland Johnson had one number in mind: two and a half million, the number of tourists who annually visited America’s Town. Why, he often asked direct reports, shouldn’t America’s Bank, a familiar friendly face, be in America’s Town to help them buy the last authentic Civil War collectable or satiate the ice cream screams of children too young to know why their parents brought them along?  True, as a CEO, Rolland wanted to extend First Colonial’s brand. But he also wanted to give back to a community that had meant so much to him.        

Downtown Gettysburg is a historic district, partly a ward of the National Park Service. Historic districts are a pain to retail chains, especially commercial banks. Rules demand one-off signage that cannot be seen by passing cars and no drive-up teller windows. Brand identity lost to the cause of history.  Arterial streets run from the Gettysburg battlegrounds into the downtown, lined with schlock shops selling pseudo–Civil War memorabilia, tchatzkah shops that sell the real stuff and keep it under lock and key, tour operators, and discount hotels, too congested to accommodate a new branch. Local entrepreneurs have prospered handsomely from the cause of history. 

The proposed branch for America’s Bank for downtown America’s Town landed directly into Jay’s lap, and never left. But he had been given a chance to get to yes in Gettysburg. A Seventies-style convenience store at the corner of Chambersburg and Washington Streets, the edge of the historic district, not far from where Confederate forces fired their first shots in the great battle, became vacant.  The site offered plenty of space for off-street parking and drive-up teller windows. The zoning had changed. No other convenience store could go there, not that the borough mothers and fathers wanted another one. The now-abandoned store was a reminder to past mistakes. But there had been opposition to new banks in downtown America’s Town.  Bank customers didn’t drop food wrappers and half empty-half full drink cups, but ATM patrons got robbed late at night. Banks meant more work for the local cops. They needed more protection than the tchatzkah shops.

As the frustrations from his latest meeting with the local bureaucrats clouded his concentration, Jay walked through the town hall parking lot to his car. Briefcase in hand, he opened the trunk to his glossy black BMW. 

Then, as he dropped his work in the car, he heard a female voice from behind. “Yo! Look out!”  

Before he could discover a reason for the shouting, something smacked hard against his butt, soiling his charcoal grey suit.

“Look, under your ride,” the voice called out.  

Jay bent to one knee and peered beneath his car. A basketball was lodged underneath the rear bumper. He picked it up and admired it—as if he recognized an old friend. 

“Please, it’s ours.” A teenage girl came closer. Black, six-four, her shiny black hair pulled back into a simple braid. Her red practice sweatshirt spelled GETTYSBURG in gold letters across her chest.  

“Where are you playing?” Jay twirled the ball with his fingers then dribbled it against the pavement.

Gritting her teeth on every bounce, she pointed to a basketball court by the parking lot where another girl, tall White and blonde, dressed in similar ensemble, stood impatiently, hands on hips, possibly with a score to settle. 

Jay saw no detectable expression on the other girl’s face-she stood too far away-but she was probably no more patient than her friend.  He gripped the ball by the seams, eyed the net and fired. He almost never made a half-court shot on a bet in a pick-up game, but these girls didn’t know. It was all in the attitude, just like in business.  So, what if he missed, they’d get a laugh at his expense. They’d have their ball back, too. No harm, no foul. But Jay’s shot hit the sweet square on the backboard and swished through without touching the rim. 

The Black girl's brown eyes popped wide. “Whoa! Nice!!!Are you some ex-college star? My dad played in college and the NBA.”

 “I’m Jay.” No reason to say more. He did not expect to see these girls again.

“Nice shot, Doctor Jay, gimme five.” She raised her palm, expecting him to slap it- a rule that required equal response in any basketball challenge- and he did. 

“Doctor Jay?” Jay asked. “Do you know who the ‘Doctor’ was?” Julius Erving, the pro star who earned the title, had stopped playing basketball before these girls were born. 

“Oh yeah, Julius Erving. My dad talks about him all the time. I’m Bonita, she’s Stefani. You know H-O-R-S-E? I shoot, you match. Stefani matches, too. You miss, you get an ‘h,’ an ‘o,’ until you’re the horse’s ass.”

Jay rolled his eyes in mock surprise and smiled. “I get it. You ready?” Determined not to be first to ‘e,’ Jay picked easy spots to warm up for the more difficult challenges ahead. He quickly hit two high-percentage shots.

“C’mon, Doctor Jay. A little kid can hit that. Try a real shot. Like this.” Bonita dribbled to the top of the key, the circle around the foul line. She set her feet and jumped. The ball left her right hand and dropped through the net as smoothly as it would have fallen from the heavens.

First to fold, Jay could not match Bonita’s feathery touch after six difficult shots. 

“Oooooh, Doc, looks like you're the horse’s ass.” The words rolled cheerfully off Bonita’s tongue. “C’mon Stef,” she said, “Show me what you got. I’ll whip you like I whipped him. Or is your daddy coming to the rescue?”

Stefani checked her watch. "Ten to five. Plenty of time to beat you. Again.”

“You wish.” She looked at Jay as she pointed a long finger at Stefani. “She’s beaten me twice in her life. So, she thinks she’s the superstar.”

Jay straightened up, folding his arms, saying nothing as he watched Stefani pop a jumper from 15 feet. 

“That’s all you got, girl?  I can make that on one leg.”  Bonita bent her left leg back just enough to stay balanced. She fired the ball from between half-court and the free-throw line, too far to try for three in a game, except a “Hail Mary” at the buzzer. The ball swished through the net.

Stefani stepped to the imaginary line and matched Bonita’s shot, also on one leg. Jay’s jaw dropped as the ball sailed through the rim. He played high school ball, moved on to competitive intramurals and summer leagues in college. But he had rarely seen a shooting exhibition like this.

Almost as soon as the ball hit pavement after Stefani’s shot, a man, probably five-ten, a little taller than Jay, sandy hair groomed in a military buzz cut shaved on the sides, flat on top walked over from town hall. Dressed in blue blazer, khakis and a blue and gold striped tie, he wore the uniform that Jay had associated with the typical government worker.  They didn’t wear expensive banker’s suits in the small towns where First Colonial opened many branches.

“Hi, Stef, I’ve got a little work to wrap up," the Government Man said. "I’ll be back in ten or fifteen minutes.” 

“Okay, Dad,” the blonde answered as she dribbled towards a new spot for a new shot.

“Hey, Mister B, I’m showin’ Stef a few tricks.” Bonita spoke too teen casual for Jay’s taste. But Stefani’s father didn’t seem to mind.  

Concerned that Mr. B, the Government Man, might be a mad dad, Jay did not introduce himself. 

The Government Man offered no greeting, but asked: “What’s he doing here?”

“Oh, we took him for ten bucks,” Bonita said, and winked. “He strutted on over and bet he could out-shoot us.” Bonita winked at Jay and smiled a devious smile.

Unaware of the private joke, the Government Man stared down Jay. “Make sure you pay up, okay?” he said. 

While the Government Man walked back to town hall, Jay took two tens from his wallet, one for Bonita, one for Stefani, and dropped them on the court. 

Bonita snatched the bills and put them into her sweats pocket.

 “Hey, one’s for her. Both of you beat me fair and square,” Jay said.

“Just holdin’ on to my money.” Bonita laughed, waved her arms in Stefani’s face, positioning herself between Stefani and the basket. 

Stefani bounced the ball between Bonita’s legs. Catching her own pass, she raced to the basket and scored.

“You’re gettin’ between my legs, girl! You’re so bad!” Stefani and Bonita slapped palms. But they did not include Jay in the celebration. 

Ten minutes later, on-schedule, Stefani’s father returned. 

“See you around, Doctor Jay,” said Bonita. “Next time it’ll be two outta three. But I’ll need only two to make you the horse’s ass.” 

“Did you pay up?” The Government Man asked Jay.

“He did, Mister B. His money’s good,” Bonita said. 

Stefani blushed an angry crimson. Bonita still had her ten dollars.

Bonita headed to her car, a faded white Chevy with bright white spots that marked where decals and wide tape stripes had once been.  Stefani and her father got into a green-grey Ford Crown Victoria, the only Crown Vic in the town hall parking lot that was not black and white and red on top. Jay knew that the top dogs in the town halls drove those plain wrapper cars all the time.