Ten
Same Old Faces
MANSFIELD, OHIO, 1997–2007
An agitated Jared Davis paced the top floor of the prosperous looking offices he and his brother built for themselves a few years back on a glitzy edge of Cincinnati. The 1,300 or so Check ’n Go payday loan stores they operated then, at the end of 2008, may share strip mall space with low-rent cousins such as Rent-A-Center and Jackson Hewitt but the bosses work down the street from a Nordstrom, a Restoration Hardware, and other establishments that suggest that the poverty industry is far away. With slate floors and the sleek modern furniture in the conference room where we met, the Davis brothers seemed to have spared little expense in the building of what rival Allan Jones described as a “fancy monument.”
Jared Davis is a large man standing around six feet, five inches tall with a pear-shaped body and a big lump of flesh under his chin. The day I visited he was wearing a salmon-colored dress shirt open at least one button beyond modesty. His hair was unkempt and his face was covered with stubble. A “big old goofy-looking dude who always needs a shave” is the way Allan Jones described him. Jones then blinked one of his eyes rapidly as if sending a Morse code message. By that time I had met Davis and knew Jones was doing a crass imitation of his competitor. During our time together Davis was a bundle of movement. He pulled on the leaves of a nearby plant; he kept jumping out of his seat as if the point he was making got him so worked up that he physically needed to move. But mainly what one couldn’t help notice was the uncontrollable tic that caused one of his eyes to blink spastically. Davis later referred to it as his Tourette’s. The more voluble he grew, the more vigorously he blinked.
I was in Cincinnati primarily to talk about the early days of payday lending and a specific store that Check ’n Go has operated in Mansfield, Ohio, since 1997. Davis, however, was spoiling for an argument with all those who question the way he and his brother make their money. In the old days, Davis said, the town druggist or Walt over at the general store would let you run a tab when money was tight. “What used to happen, if you needed eggs or milk, the basics, the local grocers let you buy it on credit,” Davis said, pacing back and forth. Try that today at your local Kroger, he said, throwing his hands into the air, “and they’ll throw you out of the store.” That’s where the payday lenders come in. But try explaining this to a media hopelessly biased against you and with frauds like Martin Eakes donning a cape as if Supermen. “Anyone with half a brain,” he said, “can see that the reason Self-Help and Eakes are against us is because they’re our direct competitor.”
Eventually Davis began talking about the early days of payday when the country seemed one giant opportunity to explore and conquer. He lost his share of races, like the time he thought he had found a choice storefront in the center of one modest-sized town in Kentucky and then learned from the real estate agent on the property that Check Into Cash had gotten there a few hours before him. But he lucked out in Mans field, a small city of fifty thousand in an otherwise rural stretch of Ohio that had no doubt been a happier place before its largest employer, Westinghouse, shut its plant, as did Tappan and a depressingly long list of other manufacturers.
“You wanted to be the first or second chain to discover some new town because once those two or three good spaces were taken, the game was over,” Davis told me. Billy Webster had beaten them to Mansfield but the Davis brothers were second and they leased the perfect spot, a storefront just off the main highway into town. There, next to a Mr. Hero sandwich shop, they installed a woman named Chris Browning to open and manage their fifth store in Ohio and around the seventieth overall. Browning, who had spent the previous fourteen years working collections for various car dealers around town, was a minor payday miracle. The turnover rate among store managers at the big chains exceeds 50 percent a year yet Browning lasted for more than ten years before being fired in the middle of 2007.
Chris Browning knows she can be difficult. But what are you going to do when you’re surrounded by idiots and fools? “To me what’s right is right, what’s wrong is wrong, and why mince words?” she told me in a voice just a little too loud. “I’m pretty straightforward, bold, and vocal. I tell it like it is.”
Inside Check ’n Go, Browning’s direct supervisors didn’t always appreciate her brassy demeanor. “Chris has a management style that is extremely hard to supervise,” the regional manager assigned her area wrote of her early in her tenure. “She constantly berates her direct superiors and shows little confidence in corporate personnel. Chris has a tendency to feel everyone is against her.” But there was no denying she was very good at what she did. A well-run store in a choice location back then might bring in $150,000 or $170,000 in fees each year; a strong store maybe $200,000. Browning, managing a store in a remote outpost two hours from the nearest big city, generated $247,000 in fees her first full year on the job and $251,000 in her second. “I wish I had eight of Chris,” the same manager wrote, running the eight stores under his control.
“As long as she continues to put up the numbers,” he added, “I will continue to work towards a better understanding between us.”
Browning is a short, stout woman who lives in a small ranch house surrounded by soybean and wheat fields. She and her husband chose a home in so remote a location thirty miles from Mansfield, she said in a scratchy smoker’s voice, because they wanted to insulate the kids from “a town gone to hell in a hand basket.” She was a few months shy of her sixty-second birthday when we met in the fall of 2008. She greeted me at the door wearing a red Ohio State Buckeyes sweatshirt and jeans. She wore her hair in a short gray bob and when she smiled I noticed she was missing a front tooth. Within minutes of my entering her home, she was practically yelling. It was more than a year since she had been pushed out but she was still smarting from the way she had been treated.
“They fired me because eventually their policy became, if a body walks in the door, you loan ’em money, and I wouldn’t do that,” Browning said. That’s no doubt too facile an explanation, but sitting behind her counter every day, staring out a plate-glass window onto a street populated by the Big Lots, Subways, and Wendy’s that litter the edges of any city, Browning had a perfect perch for watching the rapid rise of a new industry and its impact on the people of the community. Increasingly she found she didn’t like what she was seeing. And as her attitude toward payday soured and the competition grew more heated, Check ’n Go decided it had little use for a store manager with the fighting spirit of a longshoreman posting only average numbers.
The Ohio legislature said no the first time they were asked to legalize payday lending within the state’s borders. But then the Ohio House of Representatives switched from Democratic to Republican control in 1994 and the enabling legislation, championed by the state’s check cashers’ association, passed at the end of 1995, without anyone really noticing. “It really flew below the radar,” said Bob Lambert, who was a lobbyist for the state’s pawnbrokers, a group already in the small-denomination loan business. As Lambert remembered it, he was the only person to testify against the measure.
Around one year later Chris Browning spotted the classified ad Check ’n Go ran in the local paper for a branch manager of the new store they would be opening in town. Branch manager: She liked the sound of that title. The starting salary was lousy, only $21,000 a year, and the benefits mediocre (three vacation days that first year), but they also told her she could earn as much as $6,000 more a year in bonuses. She didn’t know what a payday loan might be when she first saw the ad but once it was explained to her it made immediate sense. Her husband had worked as a welder who more than once had been laid off. In time, Browning confessed, they would use a payday loan to help make ends meet.
“There was a need for something like this for working people around here,” Browning said. “The credit unions weren’t licensed to make small, short-term loans. The smaller finance companies were closing up and getting out of Dodge.”
Browning straightened her back proudly and peacocked a bit while talking about her early days with Check ’n Go, when she was something of a star inside the company. A typical store could take six or more months to break even but hers was profitable after just two. She told me about the calls from David Davis to tell her what a good job she was doing and to ask her for ideas. She helped develop some of the early training materials the company used and they were always imposing on her to help them train a new manager for some other store. She kept her bad debt low and her numbers continued to grow; her employee reviews show that her hard work was paying off in a robust bonus every quarter.
She was the dutiful employee in those first years she worked for Check ’n Go. She left flyers for the store at all the local Laundromats and car repair shops and though she hated doing it, she also tried dropping them off at medical offices around town as well. “Doctors were real touchy about brochures,” she said, but at least a few succumbed. “You’d get a new kid on the block,” Browning said. “His receivables are up; he wants his money for treating John Doe’s son”—and soon that doctor’s office starts sending patients and their families to her store. “If somebody couldn’t pay the deductible or the co-pay or whatever, the clerk says, ‘Here’s a brochure, these people might be willing to help you out.’”
More payday outlets opened up in Mansfield. Where there had been five stores in town in 1999, there would be twelve by 2001. The battle was no longer a race to see who could secure a prime location but a war of dueling rewards programs and rival marketing campaigns. By 2000, she was no longer clearing $250,000 in fees per year, but revenue was in the $210,000 to $220,000 range through 2003, and it edged back up to $235,000 in 2004, by which time there were twenty payday loan stores in town. Maybe that was the truly shocking thing about payday and also the tragedy: Rivals could keep opening new stores but revenues at the existing establishments would remain fairly steady.
Ultimately, this modest-sized working class enclave would become home to twenty-seven shops offering payday advances. It fell on people like Browning to keep people coming in the door. And as the pressures increased to collect more revenues from loyal clients and as corporate hounded her and the other managers to find new customers to replace the old ones whom they would invariably lose, so did Browning’s cynicism about the service she was supposedly offering. It didn’t help that whereas once hers had been the only store in her stretch of Mansfield, by 2006 three competitors had opened outlets only steps from her own.
There was something claustrophobic about those hours I spent in a home overstuffed with Beanie Babies and other collectables. There were so many lighthouses scattered about Browning’s home—lighthouses of wood, lighthouses carved out of stone, lighthouse clocks, lighthouse paintings, a lighthouse thermometer—that I couldn’t imagine a safer place to navigate a ship at night. The breakfast nook where we sat was piled high with bills, magazines, and other daily detritus; a shelf stuffed with assorted dolls loomed. But the good news was that this same tendency to save spilled over to her job. She had detailed records showing how her store performed month by month for her entire tenure at Check ’n Go, including a running tally of the proportion of her loans falling into default each month and the number of customers she was serving. She kept copies of her employee reviews and copies of emails and other missives from corporate. I might have suspected hyperbole if she didn’t have a copy of the actual Check ’n Go directive informing store managers that they were to loan “to anyone getting social security who had at least one dime to their name.”
Check ’n Go printed cards offering regulars a $20 discount for every new customer they brought in. The other big chains did the same. “Now, remember,” Browning said in a deep voice, in imitation of one of her manager’s, “give two referral cards every time you make a loan.” She reverted to her own voice: “The idea was that we could get you to convince your mother, your cousin, your next-door neighbor, your best friend to come to our place.” To extend their reach, the home office instructed that they leave brochures in factory break rooms and in the mailrooms of apartment complexes around town. The company had brochures printed in Spanish. “Grow your fan base by using the Hispanic marketing materials,” read one missive from corporate. Another encouraged store managers to treat even phone calls from people asking for an address or the store’s hours as an opportunity to sell. “Don’t simply answer these questions,” a memo advised. “Find a way to make them your customer!”
But of course new customers wouldn’t do the company much good unless they were converted into semi-regulars. So Check ’n Go programmed its computers to spit out lists of customers who had gone sixty days without taking out a new loan. “We got one of those reports every single morning,” Browning said. “We were supposed to call every person on that list and then also send them a letter. And that person kept showing up on your reports until they came back in.” Management taught her little tricks. “You were supposed to say, ‘I notice you haven’t been here in two months; why don’t you stop by later, we’ll update your information. I’m sure you can use some extra money right now.’” And to keep Browning and her cohorts motivated, corporate offered both a carrot and a stick. Store managers would receive an extra bonus if enough of their sixty-day borrowers returned each quarter—or would get grief if their “customer reactivation rate” was too low. Mainly Browning got grief.
“As far as I was personally concerned, we were being told to harass these people until they walked back in the door,” she said.
Another order that she found even more noxious was the practice of up-selling a loan. Check ’n Go, like most payday lenders, allows people to borrow up to one week’s salary. Up-selling was aimed at a customer who earned enough to borrow $500 at a time but borrowed less than that. “I was to repeat, no less than three times, ‘Now, are you sure you don’t want to borrow $500 before I print this contract?’” Browning said. While she was printing the contract, she might say, “You know I can void this out; are you sure you don’t want that extra money?” Reviewing the contract offered one more opportunity to make her pitch. On the final page of the agreement it laid it out in black and white: We have offered you $500 but you are taking a lesser amount. And Browning would say, “Now you see, you qualify for $500; are you sure this $200 is going to be enough money?”
Collections was its own torture. “If a customer was late paying us back, we were to contact that customer a minimum of three times a day,” Browning said. People give three references when taking out a loan and she was instructed to phone them as well. If they were still late in paying off the loan, she was to phone their place of work. “It was no holds barred,” she said. “You were supposed to do whatever you need to do to get the company’s money back.”
At least the home office didn’t force her to make what some of her rivals referred to as “field calls”—visiting people at home. “If they weren’t there,” Browning said, “they’d have to put on a door hanger that says, ‘You owe us $575, you need to contact our office immediately,’ or whatever, and then it’s there for everybody who comes to the door to see. I had customers tell me they even had people knock on their next-door neighbor’s door to ask what time they’d be home. The idea was to embarrass them into paying any way they could.”
Through her large plate-glass window, Browning could see the Advance America outpost that had opened directly across the street in 2006. Cashland had leased a storefront a few doors down from her own in 2003 and a fourth store called Quik Cash opened in 2005. And so Browning would amuse herself during idle moments watching people play a kind of human pinball between shops.
Her store could boast the biggest parking lot so generally people made her shop their first stop. “They’d borrow money from me and walk straight from my door across the street to the Advance America,” she said. “I don’t know what they did in there, whether they were paying back or borrowing more, but then I’d watch them walk to the next store and then finish up by walking across the street to Cashland. Then they’d walk back up to my place to get their car.” The whole sequence usually played itself out in forty-five minutes or less.
Browning would see the occasional new face inside her store, but she spent most of each day loaning money to the same core of customers. Browning is a talker and inevitably many of these people became friends. They would bring her leftover slices of birthday cake; they would surprise her with cupcakes they had baked. One couple popped in one day for no other reason than to drop off a few apples from the bushel they had bought at a roadside stand out on the highway. Is it any wonder, Browning asked, that with time she saw her job as less about earning quarterly bonuses and more about getting a good night’s sleep so she could survive another day?
“The whole thing came to be about money and greed,” she said.
Maybe a bartender has the same feeling when the glum-faced man who every once in a while used to sneak in for a mid-afternoon snort starts showing up at 11 A.M. for his first nip and eventually is stopping by every day before work. After a time Browning took to applying a kind of shock therapy to her regulars. She would lecture them about the high cost of a payday loan. Stop buying that six-pack of beer, she would order them. Stop going out to eat. And then to punctuate her point she would swivel her computer monitor around. On the screen there was a tally of all the fees they had paid the company over the years.
Browning tried the gambit on a woman named Susan and it worked exactly as she had hoped it would. Susan, an administrator at the local hospital, had been borrowing the same $500 every two or three weeks for almost two years. That $500 was costing around $1,500 a year in fees. “I thought I was going to have to pick her up off the floor,” Browning said. Worse, the woman was borrowing money from other stores. At Browning’s suggestion she borrowed $450 instead of the usual $500, and tried to borrow $50 less each successive time. The last time Browning ever saw her was when she came in to pay back the $150 she owed plus the $22.50 fee.
But far more common were customers like David, a GM pensioner who was as reliable as the morning mail. Each month began the same way, Browning said, with David standing outside her door, two cups of coffee in hand. “If it was the first of the month,” Browning said, “I knew I could count on a McDonald’s coffee.” David, she said, received a monthly pension of around $2,600 plus another $1,800 or so from Social Security—more than $50,000 a year. His house was paid for. But he was an inveterate gambler and always broke. Every month he would borrow the $500 maximum—and then $800 starting in 2005, after the legislature increased the ceiling on a payday loan. It had been costing him $900 a year in fees to borrow $500 a month and then $1,400 a year once he was able to borrow $800.
Browning would plead with him to borrow less. “We really need to get you out of this,” she would tell him. It was too late, though. He owed money to stores all around town. When Browning ran into him at the local Walmart in the fall of 2007, a few months after she was fired, he confessed to her that he was juggling loans at seven stores. She figured that in the ten years and three months she served as a manager with Check ’n Go, David had paid $9,150 in fees on 115 loans. That, of course, didn’t count the tens of thousands of dollars he was paying to other stores. And he was hardly alone. Browning said she did the math. In the final two years she ran her store, six in every ten people she would see in a given week were customers she saw at least once a month.
She fantasized about quitting. The job was affecting her sleep and making her irritable. “No one in my family was happy with me,” Browning said. “I was tense. I was upset. I was depressed. I had fifty thousand different kinds of emotions I did not like.” It seemed so tempting when the managers at rival stores were always quitting. “I know of a few who just got up and walked out the door,” she said. “They’d wait for their supervisor to make a visit and then literally say, ‘That’s it, I’m done.’”
But Browning was pushing sixty and by that time was earning a base salary of around $30,000 a year. Neither she nor her husband had saved enough for either of them to stop working, and no one was dangling jobs that would pay her that much money. The plan was to put in a few more years and retire.
Still, she was hardly acting like an employee eager to stick around. When a manager from the next region over, a guy named Maurice, began a conversation by saying, “Here’s what I need you to do for me, Chris,” she couldn’t help herself. “I said—and this is word for word—‘What I need you to do, Maurice,’ I says, ‘I need you to go downtown in front of the courthouse. I’ll meet you there so I can shove my foot up your ass.’” When I asked her why she would have spoken to a boss like that, she looked at me incredulously. The words practically exploded out of her mouth: “Because he was an idiot!” Only later did she explain to me her real reason for getting angry. Maurice, she said, was phoning to tell her she needed to do a better job recruiting back old customers. “Every morning I’d get a printout listing out all the people who hadn’t been in the store in at least twenty-four months,” she said. “These are ones who managed to get out of the cycle. And I’m supposed to sit there late every night on the phone, bothering them at home? They know where to find me if they need me.”
One day, she spotted three young black men lurking outside her store (roughly 20 percent of Mansfield’s population is African-American). Fearing she was about to be robbed, she hid a couple of thousand dollars in cash in a filing cabinet. It turned out to be a false alarm, but, unfortunately, her immediate supervisor chose that hour or two when she was feeling paranoid to make a surprise visit. Finding that she had socked away around $2,000 in a filing cabinet, she was fired. She is now suing Check ’n Go for wrongful termination.
Jared Davis went off when I mentioned Browning’s name. How good a manager could she really have been if she was lending out money to people owing money to all these other stores? That made a person a greater credit risk—and you weren’t doing that person any favors in the long run. “If we abuse a customer, is that customer coming back?” he asked in a pleading tone. “Come on.” He shook his head as if to ask how anyone could believe such nonsense as Browning put forward.
Davis denied that it was Check ’n Go policy to up-sell customers (“If you’re asking me did it ever happen—I’m not saying there’s not some employees out there who’ve never done something wrong”) but he readily admitted to its practice of contacting those who have not visited one of their stores in sixty days. “Payday lending isn’t like it used to be where you just open a store and make money,” he said. “You have to keep your brand out there in front of people.” With increased competition, he said, “we all do what we can to find an edge.”
The company’s public relations director, Jeff Kursman, sat in our meeting and he piped up. “We work very hard here at being a good corporate citizen,” Kursman said. He pointed his chin at the shiny green press packet in front of me. Inside were a series of slick brochures offering parents advice on protecting their kids (“Halloween Safety Checks for Children,” “Summer Safety Checks for Children”) that Check ’n Go, working in partnership with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, distributes at all its stores. The packet also included a copy of CheckPoints, a short pamphlet Check ’n Go put together with tips for its customers on saving money. The “$10 tip” is to return DVDs on time; the “$40 tip” is to pay your credit card bills before the due date.
“I think we’re doing right by people,” Davis said. But people like Browning gave the industry a bad name. “It’s irresponsible the way she was acting,” he said. “The part she never learned is that we’re in this for the long haul. If we’re abusing people, do you think they’re coming back?”
Perhaps—but perhaps people just don’t feel like they have any other choice. A few days after my visit, Browning responded to a follow-up email I had sent to her suggesting that I might phone her daughter. “She can speak with you,” Browning wrote, “from a former customer perspective about how they kept chiding her to borrow more money.” In the end, even after Browning’s warnings, her own daughter succumbed. She had fallen so deep into debt, Browning said, that she and her husband needed to bail her out.