Chapter 1: The First Day of the Rest of Your Life

June 1, 1981, Chicago, Illinois

“Ready to go, Jonathan?”

“Let me just finish my coffee, please, Uncle Alec,” I said, quickly downing the remnants of my cup of coffee. “Thanks for breakfast, Aunt Wendy.”

“Thanks for breakfast, Aunt Wendy,” my twelve-year-old cousin Lisa, mocked, sotto voce.

“Lisa, that’s enough!” Aunt Wendy said firmly.

I got up from the kitchen table, made sure I had my wallet and house keys, picked up the brown paper bag with my lunch which my aunt had prepared, grabbed my Cincinnati Reds cap and a pair of sunglasses, and followed my uncle out to his Mercedes. I got into the passenger seat and buckled my seat belt. My uncle got in the driver’s seat, started the car, and backed out of the parking spot.

“It’ll take about fifteen minutes to get to North Michigan Avenue. I’ll drop you on Lower Michigan at Hubbard. All you need to do is go up the stairs and 444 North Michigan will be ahead of you on your left. Spurgeon Capital is on the 34th and 35th floors. Just take the elevator up to 34.”

“I really appreciate you getting me this job.”

“Noel Spurgeon is a friend, but that won’t matter one bit if you don’t work hard and do your job. Nothing in this city is easy; nothing. Pay attention to everything. Learn. That’s how you get ahead.

“I will.”

I had one tiny bit of luck in my life, and that was that my mom’s sister, Wendy, had married Alec Glass, who had made some money in real estate, but more importantly, had made lots of contacts. One of those, Noel Spurgeon, of Spurgeon Capital, had allowed me the chance to escape a bleak life in rural southern Ohio.

I’d never known my dad, and my mom had raised me on her own. We’d had very little, and I’d had to start working at fifteen to help make ends meet. I’d done all sorts of odd jobs, mostly manual labor, and work had made school a secondary priority, which had led to mediocre grades. And THAT had led to not being able to go to college because we couldn’t afford it and I couldn’t get any scholarships.

Mom had talked to her younger sister, Wendy, and Wendy had asked her husband if he could find me a job that only required hard work and common sense, and which might help me find a way out. That had led to the job I was starting today — in the mailroom of Spurgeon Capital, which was some kind of investment firm. According to my uncle, if I did a good job, I could move up to ‘runner’, working on the trading floor of an exchange, and if I learned and paid attention, I could advance upwards from there.

I’d jumped at the chance, and the day after I’d graduated, I packed my few belongings in a duffel bag and boarded a Greyhound bus for Chicago with my meager savings in my pocket. I’d arrived just two days before and had moved into a small bedroom in my uncle’s townhouse, right next door to my cousin Lisa, who I’d only met once before, when I was nine.

I had a plan — work hard, learn everything I could, make as many contacts as I could, get my own place, even if it was a simple studio apartment, find a girlfriend, and make a life for myself. And that plan was going to be put into motion today.

“Here we are,” Alec said, stopping at a dimly-lit corner underneath Michigan Avenue. “Just go up the steps and the building is in front of you on the left.”

“Got it,” I said. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Be right here at 5:30pm, and I’ll take you home. If for some reason we miss each other, you can walk west on Grand, which is the street just north of the building, and get on the Milwaukee L. Take it north to Logan Square. I showed you how to get home from there. Have a good day!”

“Thanks,” I replied, unbuckling my seat belt.

“I probably should apologize for Lisa’s behavior. She’s a bit spoiled and we give her fairly free rein.”

“It’s not a problem, really. I sort of invaded her space, I guess.”

“I’ll have a word with her in any event.”

“Thanks. See you later.”

“See you later.”

I climbed out of the Mercedes, then headed up the stairs from Lower Michigan Avenue to Upper Michigan Avenue, walked about half-a-block north, and entered the tall building. I walked across the lobby, past a bored security guard, and turned left to take an elevator to the 34th floor. I joined seven other people in an elevator, and about a minute later I stepped out into the lobby of Spurgeon Capital.

“May I help you?” a very pretty girl who looked to be about my age, or no more than a few years older, asked.

“Jonathan Kane,” I replied. “I begin work today.”

“I have you on my list!” she said brightly. “Go through this door behind me, and into the conference room on your left. Our Director of Personnel will take it from there.”

“Thank you.”

I moved towards the door and heard a buzz as she pressed a button to release the electronic lock. I pushed the door open, walked about ten feet down the hall and entered a conference room where I saw three other people sitting, and a woman who looked to be about thirty-five standing by the head of the table.

“You are?”

“Jonathan Kane,” I replied.

“Welcome, Jonathan. I’m Mandy Peterson, Director of Personnel. Please, take a seat. We’re waiting on two others, but they have another ten minutes to arrive. There is coffee or water on the table in the back of the room.”

“Thanks.”

I went to the table and poured myself a glass of ice water, then took a seat next to a wiry blonde guy about my age.

“Paul Dierks,” he said, extending his hand.

“Jonathan Kane,” I replied. “Mailroom.”

“Same here. I guess we’ll be working together. You from Chicago?”

I shook my head, “No. From southern Ohio; a small town called Goshen, which is east of Cincinnati. You?”

“Chicago my entire life. Oak Park. It’s just a bit west of downtown on the L. Where are you living?”

“With my Aunt and Uncle in Logan Square for now. I hope to get my own place eventually.”

“Not on our salaries you won’t!”

“One step at a time,” I said. “First step is the job! You living with your parents?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Just then two young women walked in and Mrs. Peterson got our attention.

“Welcome to Spurgeon Capital. This morning we’ll do your orientation, have you fill out tax forms and emergency contact forms, get you signed up for our benefits plan, and then get you to your supervisors so you can get to work.

“In front of you is our employee handbook, which you’re expected to read and understand. Inside the front cover, you’ll find a page to sign acknowledging receipt of the manual. Please sign that before you leave this room today. In the back of the manual is another signature page which confirms that you’ve read and understood the manual. Please return it by Friday, noon, or your employment could be terminated. If there is anything which is unclear, please speak to your supervisor or someone from my office. You can reach us by dialing 8875 from any internal phone. That number, along with the outside number is on the first bound page in the handbook.

“All of you are hourly employees, so you will need to clock in each morning, and clock out each afternoon, as well as when you take your lunch. Your supervisors will explain how the time clocks work, as well as the rules for tardiness. If you forget to clock in, or as with today when you’ll clock in late, your supervisor can adjust your time card.”

All of what she was saying was familiar, as I’d had to clock in for every job I’d held — the feed store, the lumber yard, and the landscaping company. Two of my supervisors had been relatively cool, but the one at the feed store had been a consummate prick, who always looked for ways to dock pay, find fault, and otherwise harass employees who were doing back-breaking work.

I listened as Mrs. Peterson went over important points from the employee handbook, and then we filled out tax forms, which I had done before, and a form for something called ‘Blue Cross’, which would cover medical expenses. I’d had my regular checkups, but other than that, I’d never seen a doctor or been in the hospital. I’d hadn’t even been sick since I turned twelve, and hadn’t missed a day of work, ever.

There were a few other forms to sign, including life insurance, which almost made me laugh, but I wrote in my mom’s name under ‘beneficiary’ wondering what she’d do with what I considered a princely sum of $25,000, in the unlikely event something should happen to me. The final form was for an investment account to which I could have a percentage of my pay directed before it even got into my hands.

My knowledge of ‘finance’ was limited to filling out my 1040-EZ form and the 5.25% interest I earned on my meager savings. Mom had insisted I put $5 from every weekly paycheck into my bank account, and that’s what had allowed me, after buying some clothes for work and a bus ticket, to bring just over $900 with me to Chicago. I’d need to open a bank account, which I planned to do on my lunch break, if I had enough time.

Because of that lack of knowledge, I’d spoken to Uncle Alec about what to do, and dutifully filled out the form directing 10% of my pay into something called a mutual fund, which he’d explained was money pooled together to invest in stocks, and which was managed by someone at Spurgeon Capital. It was a tough trade-off in my mind — every dollar that went into that account was one dollar less I had to use to get my own place and build the life I wanted.

Uncle Alec had patiently explained just how quickly even small investments could grow, and how if I started now, I could easily have over a hundred thousand dollars when I eventually retired, even if I never had a high-paying job. That was an unfathomable amount to someone who was making $5.75 an hour, which was $1.50 more per hour than I’d ever made in the past. In the end, my rough calculation was I’d need to live with my Aunt and Uncle for about five months, if I invested, before I’d have enough saved for a security deposit on a small apartment without depleting my savings.

“Now that you’ve completed your paperwork, we’ll get you to your supervisors,” Mrs. Peterson announced. “Just wait one moment and I’ll have someone take you two young men to the mailroom. The rest of you, please come with me.”

Paul and I waited as the others filed out, and a minute later, a very pretty brunette, likely about our age, came into the room.

“Jonathan? Paul? Would you follow me, please.”

We got up and followed the shapely brunette down the hallway, watching her butt sway side-to-side. Paul and I exchanged a look, and grinned, focusing on her rear end. We went through two sets of doors, and suddenly the decor changed from opulent to purely functional. She stopped at a doorway with no actual door.

“Mr. Nelson? I have Jonathan Kane and Paul Dierks for you.”

“Thank you, Misty!” a gregarious, cigar-chomping, balding man replied. “Come in, you two!”

We walked into a small office with a metal desk, three chairs, a filing cabinet, a few shelves, a coat rack, and a telephone.

“Sit!” Mr. Nelson said, pointing to the chairs.

We took our seats and waited. Mr. Nelson went over to a shelf and grabbed two clear plastic bags which contained some kind of garment.

“These are your jackets. You’re to put them on as soon as you arrive, along with the ID badge I’ll give you. The color, purple, with gold trim, is our firm’s color on the trading floors. These don’t have the trim, signifying you work in the office. As I’m sure you were told, proper dress is slacks, a button-down shirt, a conservative tie, and black or brown dress shoes. Loafers or wingtips are both OK.

“You two are here because we lost two people last month. Both of you are also here because someone said I had to hire you. That means you have to prove to me that you belong here. Do your job, follow the rules, and by God keep your mouths shut, and we’ll be fine. You DO NOT fraternize with anyone while you’re working. That means no flirting with secretaries and no schmoozing with the traders or fund managers. Speak ONLY if you are spoken to unless there is a VERY specific need for you to speak. Am I clear?”

None of my jobs had ever allowed ANY time for screwing around, or even much talking, so keeping my mouth shut wasn’t going to be difficult. Not flirting with secretaries WAS an issue, as I’d already seen several very cute ones. That said, Mr. Nelson had made the distinction of ‘while we were working’, which meant that during lunch, or on breaks, it would be OK.

“Yes, Sir!” I said firmly.

“Yes, Sir,” Paul said, less convincingly.

“Dierks, right?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t fuck with me on this or you’ll be out on your ass. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Sir!” he replied, though I could tell it was forced.

“Let me be clear; from the moment you punch in until you punch out, you’re working. I’m the boss. You do what I say when I say and how I say. No arguments. No discussions. Just ‘Yes, Boss!’ and do it. You take your breaks when I say and lunch when I say. Each of you will have one of the floors — Dierks, you have 34; Kane, you have 35. Your job is to make deliveries and pickups, doing your rounds once in the morning, and once in the afternoon, packages as they arrive, and handling anything that needs to move from one place to another and can be picked up. If it’s too heavy, you report back and we’ll get movers in to handle it.

“You’re also responsible for the supply closets on each floor. All supplies are in the room across the hall and are carefully inventoried. When you restock the supply closets on each floor, you note what you take and where you put it. I keep a close eye on that because shit has a way of walking out of this place. I swear, Bic must have a factory that does nothing but make pens for us. When things run low, you fill out the appropriate requisition form and give it to Nick in the mailroom.

“Nick is the guy who receives the mail from the post office and sorts it into your bins. You sort your bins in whatever order works for you, but make sure you’re efficient. We don’t have time to fuck around here. It’s been a bitch for Nick and me to cover for those two numb-nuts who quit last month. Nick will let you know when deliveries arrive — anything that comes by courier gets delivered immediately. That is, drop everything and deliver it. There are pagers in the mailroom for you to wear so Nick or I can find you. Any questions?”

“Yes, Sir,” I said. “Is there a floor plan or map I can use to familiarize myself with the floor and know how to sort the mail?”

“Well, shit, you might have a chance, Kane. They usually send me idiot children of executives, but you might have a brain in that head of yours. Yes. In the mailroom is a keyed map, along with a list of people who work on the floor. Personnel runs new lists every Friday and sends them to us. We make the changes on the floor plan, or create a new one if there are too many changes. Any other questions?”

“Just the location of the johns,” I grinned.

For the first time, Mr. Nelson smiled at me, “Another excellent question. Ours is next to the mailroom. Do NOT use the johns in the main offices. Period. Now, if that’s it, put on your jackets and ID badges, and we’ll go over to the mailroom where I’ll give you your pagers, keys, and floor plans. All of those things are to go into your carts at the end of the day.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Nelson,” I said respectfully, “but where is the time clock?”

“In the mailroom. You’ll get a fresh time card every Monday morning and you turn in your completed card from the previous week to me at the same time. You have to sign them, and forging ANY punches, or punching in for someone else, is a cause of immediate termination. If your card needs to be adjusted, come see me. I’ll sign the necessary adjustment for today when I show you how to use the machine. This is a religion, gentlemen. Fuck it up and you’re going to be in trouble.”

As tough as Mr. Nelson sounded, he wasn’t actually telling me anything I hadn’t expected to hear. I was used to following directions and simply doing as I was told — the feed store during the Winter, the landscaping company during the Summer, and the lumber yard year-round. The vibe I was getting from Paul was that he was already chafing from what Mr. Nelson was saying, and we hadn’t even started working.

“Follow me,” Mr. Nelson said, once we had our jackets on and our badges clipped to the pocket.