After life on Fayerweather Street, I got a job writing newsletters at a commodities firm in downtown Boston. I didn’t know a single thing about commodities or futures but quickly became an “expert” in the eyes of the shady salesmen. In truth, my ignorance in finance wasn’t the only thing I was hiding back then. There was also my growing addiction to alcohol and the forbidden love affair with a fellow group therapy patient.

THIS IS PART 1 of a SIX-PART STORY

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

I had graduated with an MFA in creative writing from Boston University, working with such greats as Stanley Elkin and Rosellen Brown. The big question was, what was I going to do now that I had my degree? I could teach as an adjunct, something I tried and was disillusioned with as it meant driving to a distant site, in this case Fitchburg, Massachusetts, for very little pay. What jobs were there for writers if one wasn’t a teacher, journalist, PR person, or researcher of some sort? I racked my brain. Hospitality was a possibility (not really, I just liked talking to people), but when I went around to different hotels with my flimsy resume there was no interest. I figured with my luck I’d end up selling lingerie at Filene’s. But then, out of the blue, someone told me about a commodities firm that was looking for a writer. I had no idea what that meant, but immediately called and made an appointment for an interview.

The person who interviewed me was a Mr. Ron Schaeffer, and I remember him clearly -- a middle-aged man with thinning brownish hair in a blue shirt and grey business suit that wasn’t nearly as crisp as it could have been. There was something about his face that was blurry, as if the bones beneath had begun to disintegrate. He looked at me out of kind blue eyes that had the same blurriness as his face, eyes that engaged but then seemed to turn inward as his attention drifted. This was the owner of the firm. 

We had a nice conversation that first day. I was tense as hell, but Mr. Schaeffer could have been talking to someone he’d just met at a cocktail party -- about the weather, some blah blah about Boston, the fact that he’d grown up in Connecticut just across from where I’d grown up on the Long Island Sound. I don’t think we discussed any of my particulars other than that I was a single mother. I don’t think we even discussed the particulars of the job. In the end Ron said, “Well, Nicole, you say you can write.”

“That’s right,” I said, vigorously nodding my head.

“Well then, what I’d like is for you to write a report on gold.”

Uh oh, I thought. What in the hell did I know about gold other than wearing jewelry? “Okay,” I said.

“I’ll pay you $100 for your effort. Please have the report here a week from today.”

“Of course,” I said, already panicking because while I sort of knew how to write short stories, I wouldn’t know what a business report looked like if it came up and bit me in the ass.

But I needed the money and was willing to try.

Cover Image: Jingming Pan

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