Sidney Sheldon - The Other Side of Me

A student at the door said, ‘Aren’t you a freshman?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Didn’t anyone tell you?’

‘Tell me what?’

‘Freshmen aren’t allowed on the debating team. You have to be an upperclassman.’

Oh, good , I thought. Now I have an excuse for my failure .

The following morning the names of the winners were posted on the bulletin board. Out of curiosity, I took a look at it. One of the names was ‘Shekter.’ Someone with a name similar to mine had been chosen. At the bottom of the board was a notice that those who had been selected should report at three-thirty in the afternoon to the debate coach.

At four o’clock I received a telephone call. ‘Shekter, what happened to you?’

I had no idea what he was talking about. ‘What? Nothing.’

‘Didn’t you see the notice to report to the debate coach?’

Shekter . They had gotten my name wrong. ‘Yes, but I thought—I’m a freshman.’

‘I know. We’ve decided to make an exception in your case. We’re changing the rules.’

So I became the first freshman ever to be accepted on the Northwestern Varsity Debating Team.

Another page had turned.

As busy as I forced myself to be, something was still missing. I had no idea what it was. Somehow I felt unfulfilled. I had a deep sense of anomie, a feeling of anxiety and isolation. On the campus, watching the hordes of students hurrying to and from their classes, I thought, They’re all anonymous. When they die, no one will ever know that they lived on this earth . A wave of depression swept over me. I want people to know I’ve been here, I thought. I want to make a difference .

The next day my depression was worse. I felt that I was being smothered by heavy black clouds. Finally, in desperation, I made an appointment to see the college psychologist, to find out what was wrong with me.

On the way to see him, for no reason I started to feel so cheerful that I began to sing aloud. When I reached the entrance of the building where the psychologist was located, I stopped.

I don’t need to see him , I thought. I’m happy. He’ll think I’m crazy .

It was a bad decision. If I had gone to see him, I would have learned that day what I did not find out until many years later.

My depression returned and showed no signs of abating.

Money was getting tighter. Otto was having difficulty getting a job and Natalie was clerking in a department store six days a week. I worked every night in the checkroom and at Afremow’s on Saturday afternoons, but even with what Otto and Natalie earned it was not enough. By February of 1935 we were far behind on the rent.

One night I heard Otto and Natalie talking. Natalie said, ‘I don’t know what we’re going to do. Everybody is beginning to press us. Maybe I can get a night job.’

No , I thought. My mother was already working at a full-time job and came home and made dinner for us, and cleaned the apartment. I could not let her do more.

The next morning I quit Northwestern.

When I told Natalie what I had done, she was horrified. ‘You can’t quit college, Sidney.’ Her eyes were filled with tears. ‘We’re going to be all right.’

But I knew we were not going to be all right. I started looking for another job, but 1935 was the height of the Depression and there weren’t any to be found. I tried advertising agencies, newspapers, and radio stations, but no one was hiring.

On my way to another interview at a radio station, I passed a large department store called Mandel Brothers. Inside, it looked busy. Half a dozen salesmen were serving customers. I decided I had nothing to lose, and I walked in and looked around. I started walking through the store. It was enormous. I passed the ladies’ shoe department and stopped. This would be an easy job .

A man came up to me. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I’d like to see the manager.’

‘I’m Mr. Young, the manager. What can I do for you?’

‘I’m looking for a job. Do you have any openings?’

He studied me a moment. ‘As a matter of fact, I do. Have you had experience selling ladies’ shoes?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I assured him.

‘Where did you work before?’

I recalled a store where I had bought shoes. ‘Thom McCann, in Denver.’

‘Good. Come into the office.’ He handed me a form. ‘Fill this out.’

When I had finished, he picked it up and looked at it. Then he looked at me.

‘First of all, Mr. Schechtel, ‘‘McCann’’ is not spelled ‘‘M-I-C-K-A-N.’’ And secondly, it’s not located at this address.’

I needed this job desperately. ‘They must have moved,’ I said quickly, ‘and I’m a terrible speller. You see—’

‘I hope you’re a better salesman than you are a liar.’

I nodded, depressed, and turned to leave. ‘Thanks, anyway.’

‘Wait a minute. I’m hiring you.’

I looked at him, surprised. ‘You are? Why?’

‘My boss thinks that only people with experience can sell ladies’ shoes. I think anyone can learn to do it quickly. You’re going to be an experiment.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, gratefully. ‘I won’t let you down.’

I went to work, filled with optimism.

Fifteen minutes later, I was fired.

What happened was that I had committed an unforgivable sin.

My first customer was a well-dressed lady who approached me in the shoe department.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I want a pair of black pumps, size 7B.’

I gave her my best salesman smile. ‘No problem.’

I went into the back room where shoes were stored on large racks. There were hundreds of boxes, all labeled on the outside—5B…6W…6B…7A…8N…8…9B…9N. No 7B. I was getting desperate. There was an 8 Narrow. She’ll never know the difference , I decided. I took the shoes out of the box and brought them to her.

‘Here we are,’ I said.

I put them on her feet. She looked at them a moment.

‘Is this a 7B?’

‘Oh, yes, ma’am.’

She studied me a moment. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘You’re sure this is a 7B?’

‘Positive.’

‘I want to see the manager.’

That was the end of my career in the ladies’ shoe department.

That afternoon I was transferred to Haberdashery.

Even though I was working six days a week in Haberdashery at Mandel Brothers, seven nights a week at downtown hotel checkrooms, and Saturdays at Afremow’s drugstore as well, the money was still short. Otto got a part-time job working in a ‘boiler room’ on the south side, an operation that would now be called telemarketing, the object being to sell products to strangers over the telephone.

This particular operation was in a large bare room, with a dozen men, each with a telephone, talking simultaneously to prospects, trying to sell them oil wells, hot stocks, or anything else that would sound like an inviting investment. It was a high-pressure operation. The names and phone numbers of potential customers were obtained from master lists sold to whomever was running boiler rooms. The salesmen got a commission on sales they made.

Otto would come home at night and talk excitedly about the boiler room. Since it was open seven days a week, I decided to drop by to see if I could earn some extra money on Sundays. Otto arranged for me to have a tryout, and the following Sunday I went to work with him. When I arrived, I stood there, in the dreary room, listening to the sales pitches.

‘…Mr. Collins, it’s a lucky thing for you that I was able to reach you. My name is Jason Richards and I have some great news for you. You and your family have just won a free VIP trip to Bermuda. All you have to do is send me a check for…’