As the labor market languishes, and landing a job remains an illusory pursuit, I have decided to share my experience with any and all. My first bit of advice would be, “Under no circumstances take any advice from me!”…

1957: How did I get to this point in my life? Public school, prep school and college, the NROTC, then sea duty on the U.S.S. Abbot (DD-629). So far my maturing process had been full and routine, BUT, I had not yet pushed the Get Serious Button.

My failed attempt at becoming the next Jean-Claude Killy, the fabled French Olympic skier, had left me with an atrophied right leg, a monell pin in my right ankle, a broken fibula, a pair of aluminum arm crutches and way too much time on my hands.

One ill-advised run from the top of the Parsonz Mountain did it.

I met my college roommate by chance. His ship was also in port. The decision to go skiing was made at the El Sombrero bar 2AM, one of Naples finest watering holes. The encounter irrevocably changed my life. I had never skied before. My roommate was a Texan with limited experience on the slopes. We decided to forgo lessons, after all we only had a few days leave and a limited amount of money that could better be spent on more primal pursuits. Vino and vedeleing don’t mix. I proved that. On the funicular lift to the top we picked up two British chicks and shared several rounds of Beck’s beer with them prior to my one and only descent.

Had it not been for my self-imposed hiatus, I might well have made the Navy my career. I had taken to my duties enthusiastically. I was a fast learner and loved the new challenges. The Captain took particular interest in me and spent extra time teaching me the intricacies of navigation and ship handling, allowing me to practice while learning. The Captain wrote a letter of recommendation for me when I first started looking for a job that I cherish to this day.

Fast-forward five months. I was now at home recuperating at the family beach cottage in Lonelyville, Fire Island. God, it was good to be home! Mom was the chief “cook and bottle washer.” The three of us – Mom, our faithful Lab Sam, and I – spent the first few weeks sunning, eating and catching up. Dad, Gramp and his wife Ruth joined us every weekend.

I loved every minute of my Navy service and spent a great deal of my time kicking myself for being so stupid. I really missed the ship and my shipmates and my brother Ken who was still aboard.

On my second bi-monthly checkup at St. Albans Naval Hospital, the short leg cast was removed. The sight of my skinny, hairy appendage made me even madder at myself. I pursued my rehab with a vengeance, doing prescribed exercises, swimming and walking — tentatively at first. My rediscovered mobility and nighttime forays convinced me to start giving swimming lessons. After all, I was meeting a lot of mothers and mothers’ helpers on the beach and in the bars that I could now walk or limp to.
I still had eight more weeks to go before the scheduled removal of the pin in my ankle.

My swim “school” began to catch on. I was now able to finance my night-life out of the profits.

One of the mothers, a divorced French Countess, caught my eye and soon became more than a passing fancy. Charleen was five years my senior, with a six-year old son in tow. She was sharing a rental house with a best friend who was also divorced.

Charleen was constant company. The three kids in their house took lessons. The original spark between us ignited. We were steps short of an item.

Time to meet Mom, late afternoon cocktails on our deck. To say that I was a little nervous would be an understatement. Mom made deviled clams. There was Vodka for Charleen. Everything was set. I had not thoroughly briefed Mother. Some details had been left out.

Charleen arrived at the stroke of five. Alas, I had neglected to tell Mom about Jason, the six-year old trailing along behind her. I had also left out the fact that she was divorced and several years my senior. The conversation was awkward, but cordial. After one drink Charleen and Jason departed. I would join them later, but not before a thorough grilling by an inquisitive and under-informed, concerned Mother. The questions were asked in such a way that answering them made me focus on more than Charleen’s striking beauty, her come-hither curves and her endless appetites.

“George, what a nice girl! You never mentioned anything about her son. Where do they live in the winter? Jason will probably be going to school soon. How old did you say she was?”

The questions came in rapid succession. The answers did not. It was obvious. Mother was sure that I was getting in over my head. I sidestepped the barrage, making repeated trips to the kitchen to clear the glasses and plates from the deck. I thanked Mom and excused myself, mumbling that I was late for picking up the baby sitter. Charleen and I had plans for dinner.

My relationship with the French Countess gradually became a fizzled fling. The intensity remained. The prospects of a future together did not.

Charleen traveled in high circles and offered to make introductions for me to some of her successful business friends, if I ever decided to look for a job. Somewhere on the periphery of my radarscope a faint blip had disturbingly just appeared. The world of shoes and suits, many empty, was rapidly approaching.

I began to dread weekend dinners. Innocent questions asked in an offhand manner with an increasingly similar theme began to work on me.

“George – You have your choice – rare or medium on the steak. By the way, have you talked to John Phillips lately? How does he like First Boston?” Dad’s typical low-key approach.

Gramp would later chime in, “George, please pass the salt. You changed your mind on becoming a doctor. Have you given any thought to banking? Your Yale economics degree would come in handy.”

The drumbeat continued. The final straw that turned my thoughts occurred at swimming lessons one late August afternoon. Jason told me that he would be a first-grader in September. He then looked at me and asked, “ What are you going to do when you go home this fall?”

Charleen again offered to set up a meeting with one of her well-positioned friends. This time I paid attention. She arranged for me to meet Peter Grace for lunch at the City Midday Club. Peter was part of the Grace Steamship family, and also a top Wall Street financier and banker.

The only suit I owned was steaming around the Atlantic in my brother’s locker. I ad-libbed an outfit to wear to lunch. The only items I wore that day that were acceptable then in the hallowed caverns of Wall Street were my white shirt and a regimental tie borrowed from Dad. Complimenting the shirt and tie were a pair of worn chinos, a Navy blue blazer that had seen better days and a pair of old loafers, rounded at the heels, no socks.

Not only was I overmatched sartorially, everyone else in the club was dressed to the nines, but much of the Q and A at lunch went right over my head. I was ill at ease from the start. Peter was very nice. I knew when we shook hands and said goodbye that I had totally under-whelmed him. Thank the Lord and Charleen for that lunch. It was clear how much I had to learn about so many things. I wasn’t even a diamond in the rough.

I returned to the beach chastened and a bit downcast. Charleen and I enjoyed the last days of summer. No more swim lessons, and plenty of time for the ocean and dinners out or cooked in. She and Jason left on Labor Day. The others had left the week before.

The pin removal was scheduled for the first week in September at St. Albans. Charleen had a surprise for me, tickets for the semi-final U.S. Tennis Championship matches at Forrest Hills. We arranged to meet for brunch at a trendy little restaurant she had chosen.

Bloody Marys and Eggs Benedict. We walked to the Stadium after the brunch. On the way to her box we stopped and she introduced me to Pat and Dick Nixon. The weather was great, the tennis even better. We left at four o’clock. Her limousine driver knew all the short cuts to St. Albans. We arrived early for my check-up. After tests and prepping the operation was scheduled for two days later. Charleen walked me to the door of the hospital. We kissed.

“George! I don’t want to go back to the social scene… I don’t want to go back to Europe. I don’t want you ever to have to wear a suit. Why can’t we just go back to the beach and stay forever. You should be free to roam the dunes and beaches bare foot, instead you’ll get caught up in the rat race that is called living. Don’t ever give up your wanderlust and thirst for adventure. Always remember what we had, if it was only for three months.” She squeezed my hand and rushed back to the limo. I waved and called out. Something told me that I would never see her again.

The next day, more tests. I missed a call from Charleen. She left a message wishing me luck.

Mid-morning the following day the pin was removed without incident, well almost. I was administered a spinal. The pre-op meds had kicked in. I became chatty, directing my attention to the attractive, well-endowed O.R. nurse almost out of sight at the head of the table. I suddenly reached for her, ripping my extended right arm from the board it was secured to, I.V. still in place. The last words I remember — “That’s enough of that!” The pentothal began to flow. Lights out. The operation proceeded without my distractions.

Dad picked me up two days later. The surgeon had offered me a Medical Discharge. I had permanently lost 15 degrees of motion in my right ankle. He told me that I would suffer from arthritis that could be crippling as I aged. I refused the early discharge without hesitation. The injury was my fault. I requested return to active duty to finish my duty tour. I loved every minute of my service especially the time spent at sea.

I went back and then was discharge as originally planned in mid-December. I had augmented my wardrobe with two new suits, regular shoes, even socks and several snappy ties. One of my college buddies recommended a career planner. I was increasingly aware of the changes that were occurring.

I made an appointment with the planner one late afternoon in early December. It cost me $100 dollars up front. That didn’t help my mental state. The world seemed to be closing in on me. The interview was formal and the questions seemed too intrusive. “Which do you like better, A or B. Where do you want to be when you’re 30, 40, then 50.” And then there was the aptitude test. The planner lost me half way through the verbal “choose A or B” questioning. Later in the week when I checked the results of the two-hour written exam, I was amused to hear that high on the list of suggested vocations was piano manufacturing. The test also established that I had pugilistic tendencies. The thought crossed my mind that the $100 could have bought a lot of beer and a couple of good steak dinners. A follow-up appointment was never booked.

Gramp called me one evening and suggested that I call Landon Thorne, his best friend to discuss my future. Mr. Thorne was legendary. During and after the Depression, his financial expertise helped salvage a number of major Eastern Utility companies. He also served on the boards of Chubb and Sons, Bankers Trust, Southern Pacific Rail Road and City Bank, among others.

I’ll never forget the meeting at his Wall Street office in the Bankers Trust Building. The suite was like a movie set, ship models and oil paintings of the sea and ships and sailing boats dotting the dark paneled walls, a dining room, kitchen and bar. If a movie had been cast, Mr. Thorne would have played himself, a tall handsome graying man in a dark blue pinstriped suit, an athletic build.

I sat across from him at his desk. We talked. He loved the beach and Gramp was a special friend. They were both avid bay-men. I first met Mr. Thorne when I was a young boy. This was different. Me in my new suit, tie and shoes. His long billed cap and open neck shirt now replaced by the perfectly fitting dark blue suit.

“George, tell me what you’d like to do.” This time I didn’t stammer, I had an answer.

“Banking interested me in college. My economics degree should come in handy.” He was also a Yale graduate. We talked for twenty minutes. He picked up the phone and called a friend, the chairman of City Bank. The arrangements were underway. We shook hands. I thanked him. The die was cast. As I exited, he said, “Say hello to your Grandfather and good luck.”

I was elated and immediately called my close friend and freshman football teammate, John Phillips. He served in Germany as an Artillery Officer, completed his military duty in July and was well along in the First Boston training program.

John picked The Hargus restaurant, just behind the New York Stock Exchange for lunch. I got there before him and chose a table. John arrived moments later. He also looked like he had just stepped out of central casting wearing a solid dark blue suit. He was carrying a brown leather brief case and wearing a brown fedora hat.

“John-O.”

We shook hands. John not only looked the part of a young Wall Street executive, he carried himself like one. We ordered the house special, hash with a poached egg on top. Fire Island 1955 was the last time we had been together. We had a lot of catching up to do. Talk turned to his training program, and the courses John was taking at N.Y.U. night school. I’d never even given that a thought. An hour went by in a blur. The lunch was fun, the conversation serious. John called for the check. Time to go, but not before I asked him what was in the brief case. He laughed, and sheepishly opened the case one latch at a time, shielding it so that I was the only one to see the contents. I looked as he opened it, and there inside was a softball glove, a copy of Sports Illustrated’s fall football review, and a bologna sandwich tightly wrapped. We both started to laugh. The contents didn’t matter. I bought one just like it the next day.

I can’t remember if written resumes were required in those days, but I do remember clearly my first encounter with the personnel department. I arrived at City Bank 15 minutes early, outfitted in a new dark blue suit, shiny black shoes, white button down shirt, regimental tie, socks and my equally new dark brown leather brief case. The assistant Personnel Director’s secretary handed me a stack of forms to fill out. Half way through the chore, she interrupted me:

“Mr. Rider, Mr. Richardson will see you now. You can leave your papers with me and finish them later.”

I had three interviews in close succession, each one covering different areas of the bank: Domestic Banking, International Banking, and The Trust Department, all three conducted by Senior VPs, all impressive, knowledgeable, and all genuinely interested in what I had to say.

Two young trainees were assigned to take me to lunch, one from Harvard, one from Princeton. They seemed bookish, and a bit snobby, but nice. I asked a lot of questions. The answers were short and polite. They had a long way to go to match the caliber of the three department heads I had met earlier.

By the end of the day, after lunch I had completed the paper work, I was leaning toward International Banking, maybe South America where I could use my four years of Spanish. Charleen had sailed for Paris, and her summer place in Ville France. New York had gotten to her. One last phone call became a memory.

I was asked to report back the next morning at 10 AM. I had an appointment with the head of the Personnel Department. Again I arrived early and eager. So far! So good! I was now cocky and sure of myself, not a good combination that early in the game. The same receptionist called my name. “Mr. Donnely will see you now.” Mr. Donnely rose from his desk, greeted me, and before we even sat down proceeded to tell me that he had heard great things about me from his boss Mr. Moore, Chairman of the Board. Mr. Donnely suffered from what my parents called Locust Valley lock-jaw, a form of malocclusion adopted by some for effect. He had obviously read my forms. Mr. Princeton talked at length about his hockey prowess. And kept calling me Buddy. At one point he leaned over close to me as though imparting a secret.

“George, You know that we here at City have become very democratic.” I listened intently, ”We actually hired a Rutgers graduate this year for the training program.” My reaction was wrong. I couldn’t believe that he was serious. I looked at him and started to laugh, as though I had just heard a joke. The look on his face said it all. I had made a mistake, a very bad mistake — Democracy?

There was a pause, an awkward silence. He looked down, avoiding eye contact. He began to shuffle papers on his desk. After what seemed like a lifetime, he thanked me for coming. As I got up to leave, the door opened and in strode Mr. Moore, the Chairman ready to greet the new trainee, recommended by his good friend Landon Thorne. We shook hands.

The prissy Princetonian was momentarily at a loss for words. He asked me to step outside. Minutes later they joined me. Mr. Donnely announced that I would be hearing from them in a few days. The interview was over. Three days later, while staying with my parents, a letter arrived for me announcing in cursory terms that:

“At this time we are sorry that we cannot offer you a position.”

How the hell was I going to tell Gramp and Mr. Thorne.

Gramp dropped by on the weekend. He already knew. He announced that Landon wanted to see me in his office bright and early Monday.

“Listen to what he has to say. You did fine up to a point.”

Monday morning, back to 14 Wall and Mr. Thorne’s office. This time I felt like I was sitting on a bag of live eels.

“George, don’t be too quick to answer questions.” He said, offering genuine support. “Think about what you’re going to say before you say it. Talk slowly. You will do well. By the way, on your way out stop at the 6th floor and ask the receptionist for Bill Snow. He’s head of personnel at Bankers Trust, he’s expecting you.” I thanked him and promised to do better this time.

My only thought on entering Mr. Snow’s office was, God, George, don’t screw up again. My head was spinning. We talked for twenty minutes, general conversation about the Navy, life in general, banking and related topics. He was very nice, in contrast to his ego- bloated counter-part at City Bank. My guard was still up.

“George, I’d like you to have a talk with Otis Brown,”

“Thank you Mr. Snow.” I was still walking on eggshells.

Mr. Brown was equally nice, but more reserved.

“Come in George, I’ve heard a lot about you.” (I bet he had.) We discussed my interests. He outlined the Training Program. We talked about the Navy and my athletic achievements. The time sped by. I had been there for about an hour, My guard was slipping, without we knowing it.

“George, I see you majored in Economics”

“Yes, Sir”

“What did you think of Econ 10?”

My guard was all the way down. I blurted out, “Econ 10 was the worst course I had ever taken; plodding, ponderous, and pointless. It was a complete waste of time.”
A smile spread on Mr. Brown’s face. He said, matter of factly, “George, before joining Bankers 10 years ago, I taught Economics at Yale, I wrote the syllabus for Econ 10.”

My heart sunk, my stomach was in a knot.

“Oh shit!” I muttered. “ I’ve done it again.”

“Calm down, George, you’re the first student or ex-student who has ever told me the truth. You’ll hear from us shortly.”

I left, thanking him, shoulders hunched, kicking myself. Again the wait. The letter finallu arrived. I opened it, hands shaking. Not only was I hired, they were going to pay me $95 a week. I found out later that only two of us were paid $95, the rest of the trainees were earning $85 or less.

My first day at work, there I was, wearing another new suit, carrying The Briefcase and even 5 minutes early. It was a beautiful fall day as I exited the IRT at Broadway by Trinity Church. The sun was bright, a stiff northwest breeze was blowing and the flags on the buildings were spanking and flapping from the flagpoles. A feeling of satisfaction washed over me.

I crossed Broadway on my way to 16 Wall, full of myself. I had done it. I was going to be a Banker.

Not so fast!

From behind, “George, where’s your hat?”

I snapped back, “Dad warned me that wearing a hat was a sure way to go bald.”

There striding up next to me was Mr. Snow, a dead ringer for Yul Brynner.

“George, you’re getting better, but you’re not quite there yet.”

George S.K. Rider