I saw him standing alone, intensely thumbing his Blackberry while simultaneously speaking to no one, as if he was hearing voices. Then I noticed the Bluetooth earpiece lodged in his right ear as he barked one-word commands loudly enough that eavesdropping was redundant.
I would have written him off as just another rude cell phoner when I caught notice of the name tag attached to the lapel of his dark suit jacket. It bore the NAFCU logo like everyone else's name tag, but below where there should have been a "Steve" or a "Chuck" or a "Phil" was no name at all. Instead, there was a bar code just like the one mass produced on the side of a can of corn at the grocery store, a series of vertical black lines of varying length and thickness against the plastic nametag's white background. I had to know more.
I waited for him to finish the call; then again, that's just the problem with these Bluetooth ear pieces. How do you know when someone is done having their conversation on the phone and now having a conversation with you? The one consistent rule seems to be that if you answer the Bluetoother they are not speaking to you; if you don't answer, they are speaking to you. "No," he said sharply. "No. No. Fire him. No." There was a pause as he went back to the Blackberry. I thought he was finished and stepped forward to introduce myself. "No," he snapped one more time. Was he speaking to me? Should I not even try to introduce myself? Then I heard him say, "Talk to you in precisely one hour."
Mr. Bar Code looked at me, unsmiling and serious. I took a chance, extended a hand and offered my name. His expression didn't change but he returned the handshake stiffly as he studied my name tag. I retrieved my hand and noticed one of my fingers was missing. He offered no name in response.
"You're a reporter?" he queried.
"I am," I answered. "Credit Union Journal."
"I told you no!" he barked again and I took little offense; this is a common response to reporters and is extended in much the same way "How have you been?" is used as a friendly greeting to other folks. I was about to turn and move on when he growled several more "No's" and I realized he was back on the phone. I paused for another moment and prepared to join the human tidal wave of credit unionists rushing to grab some of the desserts that had just been put out in the exhibit hall when I felt a touch on my shoulder; it was cold and sent a shiver through me, even though we were broiling in the glass foyer of the Honolulu Convention Center where NAFCU was holding its annual meeting. This shouldn't come as a surprise-the convention center is named in honor of King Kamayoudieofheata."
"I need you to do something for me," the Nametag told me-I think he was talking to me. But I pressed for some details first; who was he? Turns out he was a VP with First National Bank of Accumulation gathering business intelligence on the credit union competition. This was more than a bit ironic, since his trade association, the American Bankers Association, had recently announced a ban on credit unions attending its meetings. Rumor had it credit unions have been ruining the joyous camaraderie of ABA breakout sessions by raising their hands and repeatedly asking, "But why charge that much?"
"What can I do for you?" I answered, fully aware I was now never going to get a dessert.
He was holding the NAFCU agenda book. "It's about these sessions," he said pointing to the afternoon's programs. "In your opinion, which of these would be most profitable to attend?" I eased in next to him to look at the program; I felt chilly again.
I pointed to a best practices session. "Do you think there will be a focus on fee maximization?" he queried. "That's a strategic focus for delivering greater shareholder value in 07 and 08."
"I don't think so," I answered. "These are different kinds of shareholders and..."
"Yes, I know, A and B shares," he interrupted with a condescending tone. "What about this?" He was pointing to a session on "Building Relationships." "We have a saying about relationships at the bank," he said. "Love means never having to say you're sorry about that fee." I thought for a brief moment he was making a joke, but guys wearing three piece suits in a meeting full of khaki shorts and logo golf shirts don't make jokes.
He pointed to another session: "Serving the Underserved." "This holds promise," he said, retrieving a gold pen from an inside breast pocket and circling it on the agenda. "Incredibly, there is huge money to be made off people with no little to no money. We call it the Perpetual Profit Paradox. It's a volume market."
"That session is about helping low-income folks pull themselves up to the middle class," I explained. "This is about various programs that do good by..."
"How many different ways do I have to say 'No!'" he snarled again. I couldn't tell if he was back on the phone.
Frank J. Diekmann can be reached at fdiekmann
