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 3 of a SIX-PART STORY

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

I was totally stunned. I had just handed Ron Schaeffer my report on gold, a document he’d requested, and he had no idea who I was. 

Now, as I sat across from him feeling as if I’d just stepped through a door to another, perplexing world, he told me that he suffered from a neurological condition that affected his memory. From moment to moment he would forget plans and activities that had been very solid in his brain half an hour before. He put his face in his hands as he said this, the picture of embarrassed humility. I didn’t know what to say, so I sat there in stiff silence. “Very few people know about my problem,” he continued, “and I’d like it to remain that way.” 

“Of course,” I whispered.

Then he said, “I’ll read the report, and if I like what you’ve written I’ll get back to you.”

I guess his memory function worked well enough for him to remember to read the goddamn thing because the next day he called and offered me a job: one newsletter a month plus occasional reports on gold, silver, copper, sugar, etc. for a salary too generous to refuse. Okay. I was down for that although I was in the dark as to what any of it meant. I didn’t know a single thing about commodities or futures, but I figured I hadn’t known anything about the prison system either when I’d started working there a few years back, so I’d be able to manage this, too.

I liked it that I had to dress up in a suit and drive to an office in downtown Boston everyday. That made me feel important, less like an erstwhile student and struggling writer. I had my own personal office and a “secretary” who’d bring me coffee and type up my reports if needed. Once Ron discovered I had a genuine capacity to write about finances, he began piling it on.

From one newsletter a month, we went to one every week. And I had to be ready to do instant updates on any given commodity. I’d think I was done for the day and my immediate boss, a guy named Hank with a grey crew cut and humorless face, would stick his head in my door and say, “We need a quick update on Sugar. And make it look good.”

Make it look good. That meant, in reality, sugar was performing badly but I had to write some bullshit about how well it was doing on the market to get the firm’s customers to spend a few more of their hard-earned dollars on a crappy commodity. Hmmm. I started wondering what was really going on here.

Cover Image: Muillu

Next: Read Adventures in the Real World Part 4 >>