“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes. Sit down, Johnson.”

“Okay.”

“Johnson, I’ve been looking over your performance record, and I must say, I’m quite concerned.”

“Sir?”

“It’s all right here in this report. Leaving early to see Velvet Revolver, coming in late on mornings after seeing Built To Spill and Alicia Keys. Sounds as if someone has a responsibility problem. How old are you, Johnson? 30? Isn’t time you grew up?”

“But, sir…”

“Don’t ‘but, sir’ me, Johnson. I know trouble when I see it. How many shows are you seeing per week? Four? Five? Six? You’re up all night at those after-show parties for Moby or John Tesh and you come strolling into this bank acting like there’s nothing wrong. Now, I ask you, Johnson. Is that any way for a 30-year-old to act?”

“But, sir…”

“I was your age once, Johnson. I know how tough it is. All these shows coming to town, like Paul Westerberg and The Robert Cray Band, but you’ve got to face facts. This is your job. You have responsibilities. You’re a banker. You have mortgages to foreclose on, homes to repo. You can’t blow off a promising career just so you can see every band and artist on the planet. After all, you’re 30. Show some maturity.”

“But, sir…”

“Don’t get me wrong, Johnson. I love a good show as well as the next man. Plus, I’m not so old that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be 30. But listen to me good, Johnson. I never, ever let seeing a concert, like Garbage or George Benson, interfere with my work. I always foreclosed on time. I always issued the eviction orders on time. I always did my job. Understand?”

“But, sir…”

“Heck, I remember my 30th birthday. I had tickets for Cream. Man, oh, man, was I excited. But just as I was about to leave for the concert, I got a rush order to go down to the orphanage and foreclose on their mortgage. Sure, I didn’t want to do it. Sure, it was my 30th birthday. But I did the job. I did what was expected of me. I did the right thing. That’s called ‘maturity,’ Johnson.”

“But, sir…”

“Now, I don’t want to hear any more stories about how you’re late on foreclosing the mortgage on the half-way house because you were out seeing The Allman Brothers Band, or that you didn’t finish the paperwork on rescinding the loan from the soup kitchen because you were out at the Brian Wilson show. You’re a 30-year-old banker and it’s time you act like one. It’s grow-up time, young man.”

“But, sir…”

“It’s time to show some maturity.”

“But, sir…”

“It’s time you showed some respect for the job.”

“But, sir…”

“It’s time to act your age. Blast it, Johnson, you’re not some kid right out of college. You can’t stay out all night seeing Bob Dylan or Deep Purple, and then come in and foreclose on a children’s hospital or the free clinic like you did when you were younger. You’re 30 for heaven’s sake. Act like it.”

“But, sir…”

“What? What is it, Johnson?”

“But, sir. I’m only 29. I won’t turn 30 until next week.”

“Uh? Only 29? Oh… Well… That’s different. Never mind.”