Chapter 3 - Frank’s Business Had Been Dying Long Before He Asked Me to Save It
Franklin Home Supply began as:
one warehouse,
one delivery truck,
three employees.
Frank built it from almost nothing.
For twenty-five years he sold:
doors,
trim,
cabinetry,
flooring,
hardware
to small builders across central Ohio.
When I was eighteen, he gave me a summer job entering purchase orders.
At twenty-two, I handled vendor reconciliations.
He paid fairly.
Never made me feel like:
charity case.
That history mattered.
Frank was not always:
the man in the basement.
At his best, he was funny.
Generous.
Obsessed with:
good steaks,
Ohio State football,
properly sharpened drill bits.
When my mother died, Frank was the one who told me:
“You can stay here as long as you need.”
And meant it.
The company peaked about six years before my pregnancy.
Revenue:
roughly $4.8 million.
Then several things changed.
Big-box suppliers became more competitive.
Two contractor clients failed.
Frank expanded into custom cabinetry at exactly the wrong time.
He financed:
new equipment,
warehouse renovation,
two vehicles.
Interest rates climbed.
Cash flow tightened.
Carol handled basic books but was not:
accountant.
Frank treated accounting like:
paperwork generated after business happened.
By the time I moved into their house, Franklin Home Supply owed:
about $260,000
on a bank line,
nearly $90,000
to vendors past due,
and an amount in payroll taxes Frank initially refused to disclose.
He had also personally guaranteed:
most of it.
If the company failed, their house could become:
vulnerable.
That was why they wanted:
$175,000.
Not to buy:
a boat,
luxury car,
vacation.
To fill holes.
That made the pressure more complicated.
Frank first asked over dinner.
“I need a bridge.”
“How much?”
“Hundred seventy-five.”
I almost laughed.
“You mean thousand?”
He stared.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“You didn’t even ask what for.”
“I know enough.”
Carol said:
“Could you at least listen?”
So I did.
Frank believed:
two large contractor receivables would pay within ninety days;
a commercial job starting in spring would stabilize revenue;
the bank would renew the line if current payables improved.
Possible.
Then I asked:
“Payroll taxes?”
Frank’s face changed.
“How much?”
“Handled.”
“How much?”
Carol looked at him.
Frank said:
“Forty.”
Forty thousand.
Later I learned:
closer to seventy-eight.
That was the moment I stopped viewing the request as:
family bridge.
This was:
distressed-business capital.
I told him:
“Let me have the financials reviewed.”
He was insulted.
“By who?”
“An accountant who works with distressed companies.”
“You think I’m distressed?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
May you like
That answer changed the atmosphere of the house.
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