God, I Wish George Bailey Hadn’t Told Everyone I Couldn’t Make My House Payments

My name is Ed. I live in Bedford Falls, in a nice ranch-style bungalow in Bailey Park. I’ve got $300 in the Bailey Bros. Building and Loan. It’s not much, but I’ve worked hard for it, so maybe George Bailey should have thought about that before he told everyone I couldn’t make my payments last year. C’mon, man.

There I was, just another face in the crowd, trying to salvage my savings during a bank run like everyone else, when Randall came in and said Potter would pay fifty cents on the dollar for any Bailey Bros. shares. I was on my way out the door when suddenly George vaults over the counter, barricades the exit, and starts running his big mouth about my financial troubles:

“Here, Ed. You remember last year when things weren't going so well, and you couldn't make your payments? You didn't lose your house, did you? Do you think Potter would have let you keep it?”

Jesus, George, keep it down! Mind your own damn business! Isn’t that what your little speech was supposed to be about in the first place? Your business, not mine?

I don’t know what I did to deserve this humiliation. I know my $300 is nothing compared to the Kennedy House, but we can’t all be living on a union lamplighter’s wage. Yeah, things weren’t going so well for me last year, but it wasn’t my fault the old tool and machinery works closed down. And now that I’ve got a stable job in buggy-whip sales, I’ve been making my payments for a while, haven’t I, George? Really buried the lede there, big guy.

Try this: “Here, Ed. You remember last year when things weren’t going so well, but you bounced back and are making your payments more on time than ever?” You couldn’t have said that in front of half of Bedford Falls? In front of Mrs. Macklin, the biggest gossip in town?

With my luck, this’ll be on page six of the Sentinel by next week. One big headline, “Report: Ed Couldn’t Make Payments,” right next to the latest rumors about Violet Bick.

Did I miss a parade or something? Who made George Bailey town crier all of a sudden? The guy can barely hear a whisper in his left ear, but he’s got no problem shouting all the way to Mount Bedford about Ed and his (brief) stint with near-delinquency.

You know, Old Man Potter might be a little rude, but he’s never singled anyone out like this. I’ve heard Potter call us all yokels and rabble and a lot of garlic-eaters, but I’ve never heard him say, “Hey, everyone, remember when Ed was in arrears? What an idiot!”

Frankly, Potter could teach George Bailey a thing or two about empathy. Ever heard the phrase “Don’t dish the dirt”? I don’t see anyone airing Joe’s dirty laundry, and he used to live in a broken-down shack. The things I could tell you about what went on in there. But I won’t. Certainly not in front of the Kennedys.

After my initial shock, I just stood there dumbfounded, then Mrs. Loudmouth pulled out a fat stack of cash and said, “How much do you need?” Tom took his $242 and got the heck out of there. I can’t say I blame him. Who would trust their money to a guy you can’t even trust to keep your private matters between him and Cousin Eustace?

I only took out $20—I don’t want to owe this man any favors. Twenty dollars might tide me over till next week, but my life is over. George Bailey and his folksy, stammering, gossip-mongering drawl made sure of that.

Dear Father in Heaven, I’m not a praying man, but if you’re up there and you can hear me, please make something awful happen to George Bailey. Have him deal with his own troubles for a change.

No man is a failure who has friends. Yet here the man I thought was my friend is now my enemy. I’ll make him wish he’d never been born. Then maybe he’ll think twice about disclosing a client’s personal information without their consent.