Whenever I used to say to anyone “I have a money man,” it made me feel powerful. Or: “It’s time I paid my money man a visit.” I admit that part of why I liked saying it was that I hoped the listener might think, “Wow. He has a money man.”
I hoped they would think I had money.
In reality, anybody back then could have a money man. I don’t know for certain that money men were obliged to take on people of small portfolio, but I never heard of anyone being turned down.
So, at the time I’m going to tell you about, I’d had the same money man for decades. It went back to when I first had enough money to be concerned about taxes. The federal government was advertising that you could save on income tax by contributing to a retirement savings plan. I’m a cautious fellow, and the idea of building up a fund of money to help me in my old age appealed.
Did I know anything about investing at that time? Doodly. I clearly needed help. I called my tax accountant, a friend of the family, and he listed off some companies that did this sort of work. One of them had an agent near my home, and so I dropped in to his office. I told him what I was after. He cheerfully welcomed my business. As simple as that.
We scheduled a meeting to which I was to bring my bank statements and so on. On that day, he gave me a lengthy quiz about my financial goals, short- and long-term. Another test measured my “risk tolerance.” It became obvious that my risk tolerance was very low. The idea that my portfolio might shrink gave me the frights. Slow growth as safe as possible was the investment path for me.
Our relationship proceeded. In each meeting over the years—until recently—my money man never once failed to say, “This is your money, Mr. Stenson. Not mine.” Another refrain: “I give you alternatives and advice. The choice is always yours.”
This lasted ever so long—decades—until, about a month ago, I got a call from his secretary. The money man wanted a meeting, and it was more like an order than a request.
In his office, the change in him was obvious. He looked me boldly in the eye and said:
“I now belong to an organization called TBC. This stands for Take Back Control. As a group, we’ve agreed on a new approach with clients. No more kid gloves. No namby-pamby. From now on, we’re not going to ask you what you want done with your money; we’re going to tell you. As for pretending to care about your risk-aversion, there will be no more of that. We’ll be using our time to talk to giants of industry.”
“We’ll invest in big industries. Right here in our backyard. We’ll have inside dope. Be bullish. Johnny-on-the-spot.”
I was floored. I managed to fumble out, “But what about it being my money?”
He fixed me with a terrible look. “Did you ever think how much money I could have made you, and me, if I’d ignored your wimpy risk tolerance? All the crafty tricks I could have employed to keep money out of the hands of the rapacious feds? But, no, all you ever wanted was to play it safe.”
“I still want to play it safe.”
“That’s not how it’s going to work from now on.”
“Uh… how will it work?”
“Under TBC, we’ll be treating your money as if it were ours. We AIM to make it big. We’re not monkeys, and we’re tired of peanuts.”
“What will you invest in?”
“We’ll team up with big companies. Big industries. Right here in our backyard. That way, we’ll have inside dope. We’ll invest accordingly, and we won’t be shy. Bullish. Johnny-on-the-spot.”
“But won’t big companies just tell you to invest in them?”
“I suppose you think that’s astute. Who do you think would know better what a company’s growth potential is than that company? What could be more secure than investing in the projects of the biggest industries in the province?”
“But which companies? Which projects?”
“That’s inside info, buster. But since you’re such an ignorant muffin, I’ll give you a hint. Think pipelines. Think nukes.”
“Wasn’t there something awhile back about a pipeline that didn’t go anywhere? A billion dollars lost…?”
“That kind of talk is why we won’t be listening to you.”
Once out of his office, I was shaking. I started chanting the old mantra. “It’s my money. It’s my money.” That calmed me down. I won’t bore you with the details, but help was enlisted. In a couple of days my relationship with my money man was over. I was out of the hands of the TBC.
In time, I came to think of how lucky I was that it was just my money man. What if it had been my government…? Too scary a thought altogether.
Fred Stenson’s novels include Who By Fire, The Trade, Lightning and The Great Karoo.
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