I sat next to Tomáš for all four years of high school. After graduation, our paths naturally diverged—I went to work in a technical field, he went off to university, and over time we lost touch. Occasionally, we exchanged likes on social media, but we hadn’t seen each other in person for more than ten years. So when, out of the blue last week, I got a message from Tomáš asking how I was and whether we could grab coffee in the city to reminisce about old times, I was genuinely happy. I thought it would be great to catch up on life, families, and recall some school stories.
On Friday afternoon, I arrived at the café right on time. Tomáš was already sitting at a corner table. He wore a pressed suit, shiny dress shoes, and had an expensive tablet and a leather notebook on the table. We greeted each other with a firm handshake and ordered espressos. The first ten minutes went by in a completely normal, friendly atmosphere. He asked about my wife, my job, and how we were managing the mortgage on our apartment. I answered openly and without suspicion, thinking it was just a friendly catch-up after a long time.
But as soon as the waiter cleared our empty cups, Tomáš’s face grew serious, and in a split second, the friendly guy from school turned into a cold salesman. He opened his leather folder, turned the tablet toward me, and adopted a rehearsed, salesy tone: “Do you know why I really invited you today? I see you working hard, but your money isn’t working for you. If something happened to you tomorrow, your family would be left with nothing. I work for a premium financial company now, and I’ve prepared a comprehensive audit of your life.”
I just stared at him in disbelief. He pulled laminated compound interest charts out of his pocket and started bombarding me nonstop with numbers about investment funds, expensive life insurance, and retirement savings. All the information about my family and mortgage he’d just drawn out of me, he immediately used as ammunition. He began pressuring me, saying I was an irresponsible father if I didn’t sign a new life insurance contract for three thousand a month right then, and slid a power of attorney for managing my contracts across the table for me to sign.
When I stopped him and said I didn’t want any insurance or investments and thought we were just meeting for a normal friendly coffee, Tomáš didn’t slow down at all. He put on a condescending, manipulative expression and started mocking me, saying I had a poverty mindset, didn’t understand modern finance, and was letting banks rob me. He tried to play on my emotions, telling me he’d made an exception in his busy schedule just for me as an old friend.
At that moment, I was overwhelmed by anger and disappointment. I realized that for him, ten years of friendship meant nothing—I was just another name on his contact list he needed to squeeze a commission out of to pay for his company car. I put money down for my coffee, stood up, and looked him straight in the eye: “Tomáš, I feel sorry for you. Using old friendship just to get money out of me is pathetic. Don’t ever call me again.”
I turned and left. Tomáš stayed sitting there with his folder open and an offended look on his face. It was a bitter lesson in how the desire for commissions can destroy basic human decency and turn old friends into ruthless salesmen of empty promises.
