Sufficient pressure was applied to the skinny pedal, and the Duster ran at full song. Chicago radio stations heralded my return, getting louder as the miles fell away. At this pace, I'd hear the Boogie Check on WLS without static for the first time in years. Ooh! Aah!

Taking the Winchell’s Donut House on the corner as a good omen, my roommate Tim and I checked into The Tuscany Hotel on Dearborn, just off Division. Jay, who ran the hair salon in the lobby, hooked me up with a second-shift gig as a doorman on the Gold Coast of Chicago. Paid union scale, the gig came with benefits to boot. 

The Otis Traction Elevator required the operator to keep a keen eye on the floors whizzing by and a deft touch on the deadman switch. Chicago's Elites lived a much different life than my own. Sadly, most of them perpetuated the stereotype of being detached, aloof, and quick to remind you of your place. Ironically, this included the president of DeVry University while I was paying his salary. 

All groups have a fringe element. One here was a publisher who delighted in closing my open textbooks, usually marking the page with a twenty. His wife and daughters would bake a bushel basket of Christmas cookies for the building staff every year. And then there was the Montana rancher who transformed the gleaming brass-and-mahogany Otis elevator into a Motivator by generously sharing his experience with me. 

Howard, who looked like a weathered Cary Grant, was a no-nonsense type who never smiled. At our first meeting, he made it clear that a complaint about me from his wife would be trouble. Saying he valued service, he peeled off a fifty and handed it to me. There was iron in his words. 

Exiting his 1976 Eldorado Biarritz one day, his briefcase got stuck on the center armrest, hanging him up momentarily in the open door with that damn buzzer going off.

Buzzer a problem, sir? I asked.

He confirmed with a nod, and just as quickly, the buzzing stopped. 

What did you do?

Reached up, found the buzzer by braille, and unplugged it. Want it?

Keep it. Will the damn thing start now?

Five hundred cubic inches of Cadillac barked yes at the twist of the key.

Damn.

Specialized knowledge here earned me a C-note and a measure of the man’s respect. Riding up to his floor, he asked if I was a student. I told him I was going to DeVry.

Christ! Donald can’t teach you anything! he bellowed, referring to his neighbor who ran the school. What other kinds of work have you done? 

Sales, mostly.

Howard looked me dead in the eye, put his hand on my shoulder, and said

Roger, stick with that! 

As I closed the gate and throttled the Elevator, it became the Motivator as Howard began sharing his story.

After learning the ropes on the family ranch, he owned several, then bought transportation companies to get all the cattle to the market. He’d paid his dues early, worked hard, and mastered his industry, one bite at a time. Then one day, he showed me his smile. More of a smirk, really, but quite noticeable on his no-nonsense face.

Good day, today, sir? I asked, not expecting his answer. 

The best! 

He'd won the bankruptcy auction for the entire A & P Fleet with a letter of credit, then turned around and sold close to 300 semi-tractors and trailers on the same day. The debrief in the Motivator included lots of background, like the fact that most of the inventory was pre-sold to his pals with their own transportation businesses before the auction. He provided thoughtful answers to each of my 1,778 questions, beginning with "What's a letter of credit?"

Wait! What? Howard never put up any cash! He made all that loot without any risk. Never learned how much he made on the deal, but did learn that he had a million-dollar smile.

Somewhere West of Laramie, ground zero for American advertising

Sharing his experience was the next best thing to being there. His shenanigan had so many moving parts that variations of Howard's Theme have appeared in most of my own shenanigans. My doorman shift ended at 11, and education continued but with a varied curriculum.

Hitting The Second City Comedy Club for a beer and a sandwich after work most nights, I'd catch the tail end of the current show. The cast would take a short break, then return for an hour or two of improv. Each session began similarly, with no two shows ever the same. Studying improv for hundreds of hours by osmosis revealed the parallels between comedy and sales. 

The more I learned about how life works, I could see that my classes at DeVry would not help me become Sales Manager at Sony, despite the recruiter’s promise. Why had he chosen to lie? The bitter taste of that experience reminds me to always treat customers as I want to be treated. 

Integrity is a prerequisite for effective parley. Trust is expected and assured when your word is your bond. There is honor among thieves, and when found in abundance, a Noble Thief, like Robin Hood, may emerge. 

My fancy book-learning ended shortly after the Illinois Bell Punchcard Kerfuffle at DeVry. Shortly before this, my main cutty cutty bam bam for Chi-town shenanigans, Dave, suggested that I become a Crafty Beaver. Dave and I co-wrote a song, made creative appropriations together, and got into Flow when we instantly yet independently created the same joke.

The tale of our epic road trip to the Indy 500 in '79, where we snuck into the race, remains to be told.

Helping Uncle Larry build the house in Ironwood taught me the basics of building materials. Bob taught me to drive the forklift, and I was promoted to Receiving Clerk. We often spoke about joining the Army of Rhodesia. Be a man among men!

Most days at The Beaver were a breeze. Yard Manager Jon ran a tight ship but kept things light, so work was always fun. On his days off, we got the aptly named Store Manager, Dick. One rainy night in October, with no calls to the counter, we were chewing the fat as we went about the required housekeeping of a lumber yard - straightening out the stacks and rows and sweeping up.

Dick came back to the yard and ordered all of the 2x12x16’ pressure-treated lumber pulled out of the bin and stacked onto a cart. For an hour plus, the four of us heaved and hoed on the heaviest planks in the house. The salt from our sweat ringed the dark green uniform shirts as they dried. 

When asked what to do with the cart full of lumber, Dick could have said, “Put it back.” He didn’t. “You were not hired to stand around. You’re expected to work when you’re on the clock, or I’ll replace you. Guys like you are a dime a dozen.” The four of us were speechless as Dick went back to the store, but on his watch from that point forward:

#1 made sure we sounded busy by turning fresh lumber into sawdust with the radial-arm saw. Zing! Zing! Zing!

#2 created a nest of Zonolite insulation bags in the loft and took napping to the next level. Shhhhhhh!

#C had a contractor pal who paid for standard items but left with premium goods in the smoothest switcheroo ever, like Ocean's Two.

Snitches get stitches, so no word got back to Dick about any of this from me. Besides, somebody had to pick up the slack, so I made more sales. That one comment cost the company thousands every week.

The promise of a raise got me to lead the reset of a new store. Despite meeting the grand opening deadlines, the Store Manager, Marc, didn't approve my raise, citing my use of a forklift in the rain. Never mind that I kept their truckload of drywall from becoming soup, so as we spoke, I slid the forklift key from my ring and palmed it.

Standing up, I shook his hand and said, Fuck you very much as the key hit his desk. He looked up at me pitifully, saying You can’t quit. You’re the only forklift driver we have. Really?

Officially not my problem. It was time to leave The Crafty Beaver, having learned how to drive a forklift, retail logistics & operations, and the cost of bad leadership. The bottom line - don’t be a Dick. 

Meanwhile, a new lumber yard back in the godforsaken hinterlands was searching for someone with my particular set of skills.