Dwain Northey (Gen X)

George Bailey never wanted to work for Bailey Global Financial Holdings, LLC. He wanted to travel, to build things, to leave his small town and see a world that hadn’t yet been securitized, leveraged, and wrapped in a cheerful app interface. But life, as always, had other plans—mostly delivered via email with the subject line “URGENT: Q4 Liquidity Event.”

Bailey Global wasn’t a humble savings and loan anymore. It was a “too-big-to-fail, too-big-to-understand” institution with a glass headquarters, a slogan about community, and a CEO who spoke exclusively in shareholder value metaphors. The town of Bedford Falls still existed, technically, but most of it was owned by subsidiaries, shell corporations, or “strategic partners” headquartered three time zones away.

George was a middle manager now—Vice President of Regional Synergies—which meant he was important enough to be blamed but not important enough to decide anything.

On Christmas Eve, the algorithm noticed a problem.

A few billion dollars—real money only in theory—had vanished during a routine overnight transfer. Not stolen, exactly. Misplaced. The system calmly flagged it, auto-generated a risk memo, and forwarded it to George, because the algorithm had determined he possessed the optimal blend of accountability and disposability.

By 6 p.m., compliance, legal, and HR were all on the call. They spoke gently, sympathetically, the way people do when they are about to destroy your life with perfect professionalism.

“George,” they said, “this isn’t personal. But regulators need a name.”

By 8 p.m., George stood on the edge of a bridge—not because he was broke, but because he was irrelevant. His entire existence had been reduced to a footnote in a quarterly report titled Losses Absorbed.

That’s when Clarence appeared.

Clarence wasn’t an angel with wings. He was a burned-out contractor from a consulting firm that had once tried to fix the bank’s risk models and failed. His badge still worked, which in this world counted as a miracle.

“I’m here to show you what the world would be like if you’d never been born,” Clarence said, pulling out a tablet.

With a swipe, Bedford Falls transformed.

Without George, the bank still existed—bigger, sleeker, more profitable. The same houses lined the streets, only now they were rentals owned by an investment fund based offshore. The old family businesses were gone, replaced by identical storefronts selling the same five products at “dynamic prices.”

George’s brother was still a hero—but his medical debt had bankrupted him after the parade.

Mary still lived in town, working three jobs, all classified as “independent contractor opportunities,” none offering health insurance.

And the bank? The bank had paid record bonuses the year George was never born. The missing billions had been written off, the stock rebounded, and the CEO had testified before Congress with a concerned expression and no consequences.

“See?” Clarence said. “The system doesn’t collapse without you. It just gets colder.”

George noticed something else: in this world, no one even remembered the loss. No panic, no community rally, no neighbors showing up with envelopes of cash. Because there were no neighbors anymore—only customers, users, and risk profiles.

“But I helped people,” George said. “I kept homes affordable. I made sure people mattered.”

Clarence nodded. “You slowed the machine. That’s the sin it never forgives.”

Back on the bridge, George wished—desperately—not for money or success, but to matter again.

When he returned home, nothing miraculous happened.

No townspeople flooded in. No pile of cash saved him. The bank still fired him. The regulators still fined the company a fraction of what it lost. The CEO still got a bonus.

But something had changed.

George woke up the next morning and told his story. Not to the bank, but to the town. To journalists. To anyone who would listen. He named the machine. He explained how it worked. He reminded people that finance was supposed to serve life—not consume it.

The bank called him “disgruntled.” The stock dipped for a day.

But the story spread.

And somewhere—quietly, inconveniently—people began asking dangerous questions again.

Clarence watched from a distance, checking his tablet.

“Every time a person refuses to believe this is just how things are,” he said, “an angel gets their wings.”

And somewhere in the distance, a bell rang—muted, algorithmically filtered, but still ringing.