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 soon hear WLS without static for the first time in years. Boogie Check! Boogie Check! 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. 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. Beyond getting union scale and free dry cleaning, the gig came with benefits to boot.

Chicago's Elites lived a much different life than my own. Sadly, most 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.

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

Howard (picture a weathered Cary Grant) was a no-nonsense type who seldom 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 morphed into the Motivator as Howard began sharing his story.

After learning the ropes on the family ranch, he bought several. Then he bought transportation companies to get all his cattle to the market. He’d paid his dues early, worked hard, and mastered his industry. He traded futures on the Chicago Board of Trade.

One day, Howard had a hint of a smile. More of a smirk, really, but quite noticeable on his no-nonsense face.

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

"The BEST!"

Turns out he'd won the bankruptcy auction for the entire A & P Fleet, secured with a letter of credit, then turned around and sold close to 300 semi-tractors and trailers on the same day. Most of the inventory was pre-sold to small transportation businesses before he even went to the auction. He provided thoughtful answers to each of my 1,776 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, truly a pirate move! This shenanigan had so many moving parts that variations of Howard's Theme have appeared in most of my own shenanigans. Then, when my doorman shift ended at 11, education continued.

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 revue. After a short break, the cast would return for an hour or two of improv. Each session began similarly, with no two shows ever the same. Studying hundreds of hours of improv by osmosis revealed parallels between comedy and sales.

The more I learned about how life works, the more I saw that DeVry would not help me become a sales manager, despite the recruiter’s promise. Why had he chosen to lie? 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 at DeVry ended shortly after the Illinois Bell Punchcard Kerfuffle. Illinois Bell elected to send you a bill printed on the actual punch card they used for data entry. Someone smarter than me discovered that punching a zero in any column replaced any amount that column may have held, allowing you to "pay in full" while remitting a much smaller amount. Thankfully, they told two friends, who told two friends, until the day months later, we found ourselves locked out of the computer lab.

The next day, we heard that when the Spam hit the fan, Illinois Bell threatened to sue DeVry, who gobsmackingly welcomed the suit. As it turns out, claiming to teach kids fresh out of high school how to beat corporations out of thousands of dollars was good marketing copy for DeVry. By agreeing to check our bags at the door, we all dodged a federal mail fraud felony and were permitted to enter the lab. 

Shortly before this, my main cutty cutty bam bam for Chi-town shenanigans, Dave, suggested that I apply for work at the local lumberyard, so I could 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, embarrassing his roommate as he shopped at Victoria's Secret. The tale of our epic road trip to the Indy 500 in '79, where we snuck into the race, remains to be told.

I learned about building materials and construction by helping Uncle Larry build the house in Ironwood. Bob at the Crafty Beaver taught me to drive the forklift, and I was promoted to Receiving Clerk. We often spoke about responding to ads in Soldier of Fortune Magazine to join the Rhodesian Army.

Most days at The Beaver were a breeze. Yard Manager Jon ran a tight ship but kept things light, so work was always fun. However, on his days off, we answered to the aptly named Store Manager, Dick.

One rainy night in October, with no customers or 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 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 over an hour, the four of us heaved and hoed on the heaviest planks in the house. The salt from our sweat ringed our dark green uniform shirts as they dried.

When asked what to do with the cart full of lumber, just saying “Now, put it back” would have made Dick a dick. He didn’t stop there.

“You guys were not hired to stand around. You’re expected to work when you’re on the clock, and if you don't like it, you’re out. Guys like you are a dime a dozen.”

The four of us were speechless as Dick went back to the store. And what followed was a life lesson in doing things The Chicago Way. On Dick's watch from that point forward: 

#1 made sure we sounded busy by turning fresh lumber into sawdust with the radial-arm saw, going 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. Think Ocean's Two. 

#4 Snitches get stitches, so no word got back to Dick about any of this from me. Besides, with everyone else fucking off, somebody had to pick up the slack, so I was busy making sales. Dick’s 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 new 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. As we spoke, I discreetly slid the forklift key from my key ring and palmed it. 

Standing up, I shook his hand, and as the key hit his desk, I said: "Fuck you very much." He looked up at me pitifully and said, "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 to drive a forklift, logistics & operations, and the true 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 a particular set of skills, so I rented a U-Haul, bought beer and pizza, and most of the cool kids from the Crafty Beaver showed up for the lease-breaker. Surprisingly so did the landlord, no doubt tipped off by the trollop up on the third floor.

Finding me in the living room, he started reading me the riot act with murder in his eyes. Suddenly, his gaze shifted above and beyond me, and his tone immediately changed.

"What you did?"

The full wall of cabinets and bookcases behind me had been covered with paint through the years. Bored, curious, and blessed with an employee discount at the Crafty Beaver, I had refinished it. Underneath the muddy, brown enamel, I found beautiful mahogany, which I gave a semi-gloss topcoat.

Not busted for breaking the lease, the landlord returned my security deposit and offered me a job, should I choose to stay.