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 2 of a SIX-PART STORY

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

In 1978, one hundred dollars was worth quite a bit of money and I was willing to work hard on my report for Mr. Schaeffer to earn it. To this day, reading anything financial is like attempting to tease out words in Greek or Chinese, neither of which I understand. I simply had no idea what I was doing, and so, as I usually did in extremis, I picked up the phone and called my dad, a businessman who could’ve written a report on gold in his sleep.

I think I secretly hoped he would write the report for me, but instead he gave me a bunch of ideas, most of which I didn’t understand very well, and helped me concoct the opening paragraph. I also had help from the man I was currently seeing, a Carl Mendel whom I’d met in group therapy. Our involvement was, of course, a no no, and so we kept it secret, but the strange thing was we were both active alcoholics and no one in the group, including the leader, had figured that out. (I knew because Carl had shown up drunk one time, slurring his words and talking much more than usual.) Carl was a mathematician whose father had won a Nobel Prize in the same field, and so I was confident he could help me write the damn report if necessary. But as it turned out, after a few glasses of scotch to warm up my brain, the words started rolling out of me and I produced what may have been a killer document. 

A week later I brought the document to Ron Schaeffer at his commodities firm, as instructed. I was wearing what I hoped would pass for a business suit, a skirt and some sort of jacket plus low-heeled shoes and a strand of pearls. My hair was short at the time, cut in wiry black waves that fluffed up around my ears and went in all directions -- not a great look for me. I was ushered into Ron’s office, clutching the report in its folder. Even though he wasn’t a particularly formidable sort of person, I was extremely nervous as I sat down across the desk from him. My mouth had become very dry and I wished I could light a cigarette.

Ron looked up and studied me with a totally blank expression. He smiled a tentative smile. “What’s this?” he said as I placed the report on the desk. He seemed honestly not to know. 

“It’s the report on gold that you asked me to write,” I said.

Ron’s face expressed nothing but confusion. “I’m sorry to tell you this,” he said, “but I have no idea who you are, and I don’t remember ever asking you to write a report on gold or anything else.”

Dee dee da da dee dee dee … this was a true twilight moment and now it was my turn for utter confusion.

Cover Image: Pexels-Cottonbro

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