Dealer in broken dreams

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This was published 13 years ago

Dealer in broken dreams

Arthur Rule is a receiver. When businesses go broke, he's the one who turns up at the door and takes it all away.

By Anson Cameron

MEN can no longer dream of new lands opening up and their own place at the head of the rush. They can no longer dream of a crusade against a vile and wrong enemy, or of a war to make them rich, or of a quiet life serving God, or of their own unpolluted river filled with trout. Those are dreams of the past and they don't play out in our new millennium.

The only dream now that isn't foolish and wrong is to build a business. A venture where you call the shots and prove your worth on a daily basis. A living, humming piece of industry. It goes like this: you will take your big idea to a bank and raise capital, and with your intelligence and your capacity to work hard and never give in you will build a commercial enterprise of your own that will set you free.

It isn't a dream about splendour. Forget the yachts and Maseratis. It's a dream about security and dignity. And beneath the surface of the dream, strengthening it and giving it life, is the fear you might fail, you might be trampled on by the countless dreams of others all scrambling to get to the feast. The dream is made strong by equal parts hope and fear, so it's not entirely comforting. But it's the only dream left, for men.

And now, staring into the eyes of Arthur Rule*, you know the dream is dead. This big dream you worked so hard on through the day and went to bed with every night is dead and you are in the hands of the hard bastards who deal in dead dreams. You've let your family down and the yellow brick road to the future is torn up and ploughed under and you are to be driven across the land with baying mobs at your back.

Arthur Rule is a receiver, appointed by a bank to oversee the recovery and division of your assets when your business goes bust. Like a cop turning up to a road accident, he straps on the blank face and sets his mind for the gore. He knows there will be gore.

''It's daunting to turn up and confront a guy when his world's just fallen apart,'' Rule tells me. ''He doesn't know I'm coming. First thing he knows is I arrive and tell him I'm acting on behalf of so-and-so bank and I'm now in control of his business … you know, the thing he's breathed, slept and eaten for the past decade. I'm taking over.''

Rule throws up his hands. ''That's about when the shit hits the fan, usually. I ask them to co-operate with me. Some say yes. Some say no. The ones that say no I ask to leave. But, naturally, they don't.'' Rule's voice is loud, a drill sergeant's bark, used to refute the emotion inherent in his work.

But by the time he is called in, a bank has already pronounced your dream dead. You have failed and the bank is going to get back whatever it can from you and in its wake will come a host of panicky creditors.

Rule has to sort this out. Search for assets and distribute them. There is never enough to go around and when a creditor is told he's only going to get 12¢ in the dollar, the temptation to loot and pillage is strong. ''Creditors' meetings are shitfights,'' Rule says. ''They tend to blame the liquidator, rather than the perpetrator.'' No wonder Rule's face is loose and grey and his eyes bloodshot and slung with dark rings.

''It's easy dealing with the big boys who run a listed business. They're sophisticated, they know when the jig's up, when to fold. And they know if they're unco-operative the gloves come off. They usually have private assets, anyway. So it isn't tragic. They haven't got skin in the game.''

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''Of course, some are out-and-out crooks and you can't feel sorry for them. There was this recent case … The guy was robbing Peter to pay Paul. Sucking in new, unsophisticated investors and using their capital to pay dividends to his old investors. Same as Bernie Madoff. He kept up this facade for years; had all the toys. Leased a Rolls-Royce and a yacht.

''There are two warning signs you can tell crooks by: they have racing photos on their walls, and they have a young wife. This guy had both. She left him when we got the horses.

''Believe me, nothing's beneath the dignity of a guy like that. When I told him to hand over the keys to the Roller he swooned like some sheila in a Bronte novel.'' Rule laughs at this. ''Gasping for breath and wanting me to pity him, you know, loosen his tie like he's got some bona fide health issues instead of just being a crook. I didn't loosen his tie. I was thinking about the mums and dads who were going to lose their houses.

''There was another guy went belly-up. An earth-moving contractor. I had to serve documents on him. He got a bulldozer and dug a great big hole and buried all his equipment, millions of dollars worth, rollers and graders and trucks. 'If you guys are so good at recovering assets, you find it,' he said to me. So now I'm Lasseter looking for a lost reef of Caterpillars and Komatsus.'' Rule laughs. ''I found them out the back of the Mallee.

''The worst, though, is the little guy who's gone personally bankrupt. He's got skin in the game. You know … it's his life. That's damned hard.''

Rule rubs his jowls with his knuckles, contemplating this. ''It's usually pride,'' he says. ''Men usually get into trouble because of denial and male pride. They put their heads in the sand. They refuse to ask for help. You hear men don't go to doctors until it's too late … it's the same with business. They ride a sick venture too long; let it get sicker and sicker. Often they don't even tell their wife. Comes as a mighty shock to her.

''These are the sad ones. And rural stuff is the saddest of all. Someone who's been a dairy farmer all his life, the farm in their family for generations … Bang. All gone. The future and the past.

''I was taking possession of a chicken farm … not long ago, this Yugoslav guy named Drago whose grasp of neither English nor the law was good. He had a forward contract to sell his chickens at a certain price. Then, with the drought, grain prices went up and he became uncommercial. That simple. Locked himself into a sell-price and costs rose. Took a punt on Mother Nature and lost.

''So I drive out there in my old Holden.'' Most receivers have two cars, Rule tells me. A shiny European they drive every day and an old banger they drive into combat. ''You're dealing with workers, you know, and an old Holden shows you're a regular guy, a working bloke.'' As well, cars of receivers are often vandalised; the tyres slashed and the panels coined. ''I tell the guy I'm authorised by the bank to take possession. But I want us to work through this mess together and arrange the softest landing for everyone. Perhaps 'mess' wasn't diplomatic,'' Rule muses.

''Anyway, he starts yelling and swearing. There's a shotgun leaning in the corner and he goes over and picks it up. I'm not sure which one of us he's threatening to kill, and I don't hang round to find out. I served the documents the next day with a couple of cops. He hadn't killed himself, so I suppose it was me he was threatening with the gun.

''The funny thing is, after he accepted it was over, he was almost relieved. It often happens. I begin as a villain and within a couple of days I'm a friend. I mean, I don't want these people on their knees. I want the maximum amount of dignity possible for all concerned.

''They usually thank me in the end. You can end up becoming a counsellor; giving advice on their private lives as well as business matters.

''Anyway, after Drago is moved out I'm stuck with six sheds full of chickens to look after. It's the height of summer and these birds need to be pampered like Kylie Minogue. Bring me this. Bring me that. And I'm a bloody accountant. I don't do animal husbandry. Six sheds of squawking chickens … man, you might as well put me in charge of the reconstruction of Iraq. I don't understand their requirements.''

Rule raises his eyebrows. ''They're a more delicate thing than you'd think, a chicken. Let's just say, mortality rates trended upward. I didn't think much of Drago as a businessman, but I'm glad he wasn't there to pass judgment on me as a chicken farmer.

''These small guys, like Drago, I try to remind them they've still got family and friends and there's so much else to life. But business is how men are measured these days and none of that other stuff means much when the business goes belly-up. Men have got a lot of their personal dignity mixed up in being the breadwinner, the hunter, bringing home the game. Most of them have got no fallback role.''

It's true. Most people who own a business have worked for someone else. Have had to toe the line and bite their tongue, do whatever they're told. But at some stage they said ''enough'' and took the brave leap to start up by themselves. And it is a brave leap, too. Your house on the line, your dignity, perhaps your marriage.

This Drago is in his late 50s and he should be somewhere up the ladder; a respected man, at some leisure, drinking good wine and sleeping full nights. Instead, he'll be looking for a job. Which means he's going to have to kowtow to another boss. Men hate themselves when their business dies, Rule confirms. Women can often see it for what it is. Men can't.

''Drago's farm went under the hammer, and after the bank was paid the other creditors got nothing. Realising full value was difficult, given the state of the livestock,'' Rule says with a guilty grin.

He doesn't keep track of bankrupts, and has no idea how many men recover from the situation or succumb to it. He gets to see them at their lowest, hip-deep in the wreckage of their crashed dream. He sorts the wreckage for valuables while they watch, and he auctions them off. Whether they have a workable life after the crash, Rule doesn't know.

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But business and dreaming are risky pursuits. Most businesses fail, and most dreams don't come true. When they crash, you get to meet Arthur Rule. He is a receiver and his business is doing fine.

* All names have been changed.

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