Otto would come home at night and talk excitedly about the boiler room. Since it was open seven days a week, I decided to drop by to see if I could earn some extra money on Sundays. Otto arranged for me to have a tryout, and the following Sunday I went to work with him. When I arrived, I stood there, in the dreary room, listening to the sales pitches.
“. . . Mr. Collins, it’s a lucky thing for you that I was able to reach you. My name is Jason Richards and I have some great news for you. You and your family have just won a free VIP trip to Bermuda. All you have to do is send me a check for . . .”
“. . . Mr. Adams, I have some wonderful news for you. My name is Brown, Jim Brown. I know that you invest in stocks, and there’s a new issue coming out that’s going to have a hundred percent rise in the next six weeks. Not many people know about it, but if you want to make some real money . . .”
“. . . Mrs. Doyle, this is Charlie Chase. Congratulations. You and your husband and little Amanda and Peter have been selected for a free trip to . . .”
And so it went.
It amazed me how many people actually bought the pie-in-the-sky offered by the salesmen. For some reason, doctors seemed to be the most gullible. They would buy almost anything. Most of the products that were sold were either defective, overpriced, inferior, or nonexistent.
I had my fill of the boiler room that Sunday and never returned.
My job at Mandel Brothers was boring and easy, but I was not looking for easy. I wanted a challenge, something that would give me a chance to grow. I knew that if I did well there, I would have a chance of moving up. One day I might be made head of the department. Mandel Brothers had a chain of stores around the country, so in time I could become a regional manager and even work my way up to president.
On a Monday morning, my boss, Mr. Young, came over to me. “I have some bad news for you, Schechtel.”
I was staring at him. “What?”
“I’m going to have to let you go.”
I tried to sound calm. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No. All the departments have orders to cut overhead. You were the last one hired, so you’re going to have to be the first to go.”
I felt as though someone had taken my heart and squeezed it. I needed this job desperately. He had no idea that he was not only firing a clerk in the haberdashery department, but that he was firing the future president of the company.
I knew I had to find another job as quickly as possible. Debts were piling up. We owed grocery bills, the landlord was getting nasty, and our utilities, which had already been shut off several times, were about to be shut off again.
I thought of someone who might be able to help.
Charley Fine, a longtime friend of my father, was an executive at a large manufacturing company. I asked Otto whether he thought it would be all right if I talked to Charley about getting a job.
Otto thought about it for a moment, looked at me and said, “I’ll talk to him for you.”
The following morning, I was walking through the huge gates of the Stewart Warner factory, the world’s largest manufacturer of automobile gears. The factory was housed in a five-story building that took up an entire block on Diversey Street. A guard escorted me through the factory floor, crowded with huge, arcane machines that looked like prehistoric monsters. The noise from the machines was incredible.
Otto Karp, a short, heavyset man with a thick German accent, was waiting for me.
“So, you’re going to work here,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
He looked disappointed. “Follow me.”
We started walking across the huge factory floor. All the machines were running at full speed.
As we approached one of the machines, Karp said, “This makes drive and driven gears for speedometers. They turn the flexible shaft that drives the speedometer. Understand?”