The roaring '20's brought Wall Street to the attention of the common man in America. And this spawned dreams of wealth to everyone. This is such a story.

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Excitement filled the air. America was on the move. Jobs were plentiful, Detroit had just reported record sales of cars, and money was flowing freely under the watchful eye of our quiet President. In the investment world, whispers of sure things were on the lips of the well-heeled on tony Country Club greens and social darlings at hush-hush speak-easies. And any common man who could scrounge up ten dollars could strut into the ring of investment risks and play. A new world of financial opportunities had opened across our land of plenty.

And at this moment, I, Ian McCabe, found myself in the midst of this spirited activity awaiting a trove of successes to march into my life and make me rich. I’d recently become a customer’s man in the investment game sweeping the country. A wealthy uncle who traded grains in the pits of the commodity exchange nearby had vaulted me into a position with the firm of Quattlebalm, Quattlebalm & Snyder, just the crème de la crème of investment houses in our fair city of Chicago. And by instinct, each of us young money hawks knew the sky no longer held limits to our success.

In the office of Q.Q.&S, where I was slated to make my fortune while creating wealth for others, there were two parallel rows of desks manned by eager customer’s men who faced a chalkboard wall where comely young ladies in modest attire added updated quotes to the favored industrial stocks we were there to convince the wise and the hopeful to buy through our firm.

Each of us was dressed in the Wall Street image of conservatism: a dark suit, a starched white shirt, and a muted tie.

Behind us on a raised dais, Billy Gretz perused tape rolling out of an Edison ticker, scribbled down prices of recent transactions, and tore off notes for young runners in sweaters and knickerbocker pants who raced down front with the latest quotes for the chalkers to update the board. Billy was the sergeant major of the firm. And his location behind us was not the result of random chance. One of Billy’s duties was to watch us and assure the powers of the firm that we were on the phones amassing orders of five, ten, fifteen, and in some cases, as if decreed by the gods of Mount Olympus, maybe twenty-five or more shares for the accounts of tomorrow’s affluent citizens of our great city. Yet for all his glib quips and cockiness, Billy Gretz was not the final word in our firm. That power belonged to Mr. Preston C. Snyder, who sat behind closed doors of what I’d been told was the finest designed private office in the prestigious tower where Q.Q.&S. transacted business.

Twice a day we were blessed briefly with the presence by Mr. Snyder, one of the founders and now the managing principal of the firm. Once in the morning and once in the afternoon he’d make an appearance. At precisely 9:05 A. M. Central Time, he’d emerge from his office of executive authority and walk up one aisle and down the other. For his first stroll of the day, he’d grace us in a formal morning suit with black tails, offsetting trousers with sharp creases, a black waistcoat adorned with a solid gold watch fob, and black bluchers so shiny one broker had sworn he’d seen the reflection of dollar signs on them.

Preston C. Snyder walked in a casual stride with one hand folded across his back and the other carrying a silver-tipped cane. His facial presentation included looks of stern authority and lips permanently pursed. Mr. Snyder rarely paused to speak to anyone. And if he looked at you, heaven help you if a telephone receiver was not in your ear and you were not madly scribbling down an order or focused on a new quote on the chalkboard down front.

What happened the day Mr. Snyder stopped at my desk one morning deserves a small explanation of what initiated his interest in me and what would ultimately determine my future at this investment house. My uncle who traded grains at the commodity exchange had never married and considered me to be the prized son he’d never had. His sister, my mom, and he conspired to send me back east for a fine education and later to gather written recommendations from his wealthy colleagues for my application of employment at Quattlebalm, Quattlebalm, and Snyder. Although Billy Gretz handled all of the employment interviews for positions in the firm, the letters of recommendation addressed to Mr. Snyder determined who would be hired and who would not.

Further, my surname, McCabe, bears some importance to the incident in question. Although my parent’s finances would have been considered modest at best, a great deal of pride was exhibited at home toward our Scottish heritage. And on the day of the notable event, I was wearing a new vest displaying the McCabe Clan Plaid, a recent Christmas gift from my parents.

Preston C. Snyder, resting one hand on his cane, came to a halt in front of my desk and looked down at me.

“McCabe,” he said.

In an instant my heart flooded with joy. Since the man had never spoken to me, I was stunned to discover he actually knew my name.

“Good morning, sir,” I said and beamed.

“McCabe.”

“Sir?”

“Do you know anyone in Peoria?”

People have told me that when one faces imminent death, all that has ever transpired in their lives may pass before their eyes in a flash. I felt that might soon be the case with me. Rumors had been flying that Q.Q.&S. would soon be expanding operations as a result of the booming stock market. In my mind’s eye I could see a newspaper photo of the mayor of Peoria and yours truly, the new resident principal of Q.Q.&S., cutting a ceremonial ribbon in front of the firm’s new office.

“Why, yes, sir, I do,” I lied.

Preston C. Snyder gazed at me for a moment and pointed a finger toward my middle. “Send him that vest,” he said and resumed his stroll down the aisle.

For years, I’d find myself staring into public mirrors at elevator banks and trying to imagine how my face must have looked at that seminal moment. Was there a life’s lesson to be learned from that encounter? I wondered.

By Fred Miller

From: United States

Website: https://pookah1943.wordpress.com