The Other Side of Me
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.
FIVE
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…’
‘…Mr. Adams, I have some wonderful news for you. My name is Brown, Jim Brown. I know that you invest in stocks, and there’s a new issue coming out that’s going to have a hundred percent rise in the next six weeks. Not many people know about it, but if you want to make some real money…’
‘…Mrs. Doyle, this is Charlie Chase. Congratulations. You and your husband and little Amanda and Peter have been selected for a free trip to…’
And so it went.
It amazed me how many people actually bought the pie in the sky offered by the salesmen. For some reason, doctors seemed to be the most gullible. They would buy almost anything. Most of the products that were sold were either defective, overpriced, inferior, or non-existent.
I had my fill of the boiler room that Sunday and never returned.
My job at Mandel Brothers was boring and easy, but I was not looking for easy. I wanted a challenge, something that would give me a chance to grow. I knew that if I did well here, I would have a chance of moving up. One day I might be made head of the department. Mandel Brothers had a chain of stores around the country, so in time I could become a regional manager and even work my way up to president.
On a Monday morning, my boss, Mr. Young, came over to me. ‘I have some bad news for you, Schechtel.’
I was staring at him. ‘What?’
‘I’m going to have to let you go.’
I tried to sound calm. ‘Did I do something wrong?’
‘No. All the departments have orders to cut overheads. You were the last one hired, so you’re going to have to be the first to go.’
I felt as though someone had taken my heart and squeezed it. I needed this job desperately. He had no idea that he was not only firing a clerk in the haberdashery department, but that he was firing the future president of the company.
I knew I had to find another job as quickly as possible. Debts were piling up. We owed grocery bills, the landlord was getting nasty, and our utilities, which had already been shut off several times, were about to be shut off again.
I thought of someone who might be able to help.
Charley Fine, a long-time friend of my father, was an executive at a large manufacturing company. I asked Otto whether he thought it would be all right if I talked to Charley about getting a job.
Otto thought about it for a moment, looked at me and said, ‘I’ll talk to him for you.’
The following morning I was walking through the huge gates of the Stewart Warner factory, the world’s largest manufacturer of automobile gears. The factory was housed in a five-story building that took up an entire block on Diversey Street. A guard escorted me through the factory floor, crowded with huge, arcane machines that looked like prehistoric monsters. The noise from the machines was incredible.
Otto Karp, a short, heavy-set man with a thick German accent, was waiting for me.
‘So, you’re going to work here,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir.’
He looked disappointed. ‘Follow me.’
We started walking across the huge factory floor. All the machines were running at full speed.
As we approached one of the machines, Karp said, ‘This makes drive and driven gears for speedometers. They turn the flexible shaft that drives the speedometer. Understand?’
I had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Right.’
He led me over to the machine next to it. ‘What you see coming out here are round drive gears that are pressed into the output shaft of the transmission. The long one is the driven gear that’s inserted at a right angle to mesh with the drive gear.’
I looked at him and wondered. Chinese? Swahili?
We went to the next machine. ‘Here they’re making drive gears that press onto the front wheel hub. The driven gear is fixed to the brake backing plate to mesh with the drive gear. See?’
I nodded.
He walked me over to another machine. ‘This machine replaces worn gears. The transmission gearing has been standard for a long time. The advantage of the front-wheel systems is that axle ratios can be changed, or multiple-ratio rear axles can be used without affecting the speedometer accuracy. See?’
Swahili, I decided. ‘Of course.’
‘Now I’ll show you your department.’
He took me over to the short order department, where I was to take charge. The machines I had been introduced to were mammoth and were built to turn out huge orders for automobile manufacturers, half a million gears or more at a time. The short order department consisted of three much smaller machines.
Otto Karp explained, ‘If someone orders five or ten gears, we can’t afford to start up the big machines for that small an order. But these machines here are equipped to turn out as few as one or two gears. When a short order comes in, you will handle it and it can be filled right away.’
‘How do I do that?’
‘First, you will be handed a purchase order. The order can be for anywhere from one to a dozen drive or driven gears. Next, you give the order to the machinist. When the gears are ready, you’ll take them to the annealing department, where they’ll be hardened. Your next stop is inspection and finally the wrapping department.’
It sounded simple enough.
I learned that my predecessor had given the men who worked in the short order department no more than six orders a day. The rest he held back, and the men sat around half the day, doing nothing. I thought it was a waste. Within a month I had increased the output by fifty percent. At Christmastime I got my reward. Otto Karp handed me a check for fourteen dollars and said, ‘Here. You deserve it. You have a dollar raise.’’
Otto was traveling on the road and Natalie was working six days a week at a dress shop. Richard was going to school. My days at Stewart Warner, working in the drab surroundings of the factory, surrounded by surrealistic machinery, had become mind-numbing. My evenings were just as bad. I rode the El downtown to the Loop, walked into the hotel where I was working and spent the next few hours receiving and returning overcoats. My life had become an ugly gray rut again, and there was no way out.
Riding home on the El late one night, coming from work, an ad in the Chicago Tribune newspaper caught my eye:
Paul Ash is Sponsoring an Amateur Contest
Start your career in show business
Paul Ash, a nationally known band leader, was appearing at the Chicago Theatre. The ad was catnip to me. I had no idea what the amateur contest was about, but I knew I wanted to be in it.
On Saturday, before I went to work at the drugstore, I stopped at the Chicago Theatre and asked to see Paul Ash. His manager came out of an office. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’d like to enter the amateur contest,’ I said.
He consulted a paper. ‘We don’t have an announcer yet. Can you handle that?’
‘Oh. Yes, sir.’
‘Good. What’s your name?’
What was my name? Schechtel was not a show business name. People were always misspelling it and mispronouncing it. I needed a name they would remember. The possibilities raced through my mind. Gable, Cooper, Grant, Stewart, Powell…
The man was staring at me. ‘Don’t you know your name?’
‘Of course I do,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s Sidney Sh—Sheldon. Sidney Sheldon.’
He wrote it down. ‘All right. Be here next Saturday, Sheldon. Six o’clock. You’ll be broadcasting from the studio on a remote from WGN.’
Whatever that meant. ‘Right.’
I hurried home to break the news to my parents and my brother, Richard. They were excited. There was one more thing I had to tell them. ‘I’m using a different name.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, Schechtel is not a show business name. From now on, I’m Sidney Sheldon.’
They looked at one another and then shrugged. ‘Okay.’
I had difficulty sleeping for the next few nights. I knew that this finally was the beginning. I was going to win this contest. Paul Ash would give me a contract to travel around the country with him. Sidney Sheldon would travel around the country with him.
When Saturday reluctantly dragged its way onto the calendar, I returned to the Chicago Theatre and was ushered into a small broadcast studio with several other young contestants. There was a comedian, a singer, a female pianist, and an accordion player.
The director said to me, ‘Sheldon—’
I felt a little thrill. It was the first time anyone had spoken my new name. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘When I point to you, you’ll step up to the microphone and start the show. You’ll say, ‘‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Paul Ash Amateur Contest. This is your announcer, Sidney Sheldon. We’re going to give you an exciting show, so stay tuned!’’ Got that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Fifteen minutes later, the director looked up at the studio clock on the wall and raised his arm. ‘Quiet, everyone.’ He began counting. He pointed to me and I was ready for show business. I had never been calmer in my life because I knew that this was the beginning of a wonderful career. And I was going to start under my new show business name.
With great composure, I stepped up to the microphone, took a deep breath and said, in my best announcer’s voice, ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Paul Ash Amateur Contest. This is your announcer—Sidney Schechtel.’
SIX
I recovered enough to introduce the other contestants. The show went well. The accordion player executed a foot-stomping tune, followed by the comedian, who did his bit like a seasoned pro. The singer sang beautifully. Nothing went wrong until the last contestant, the female pianist, was introduced. As soon as I announced her, she panicked, started to cry, and hurriedly fled from the room, leaving us with three minutes of empty air. I knew I had to fill it. I was the announcer.
I stepped back up to the microphone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we all start out as amateurs in life, but as we go on we grow and become professionals.’ I got so caught up in my own words that I kept talking until finally the director signaled for me to shut up.
We went off the air. I knew that I had saved the show and they would be grateful for that. Perhaps they would offer me a job as—
The director came up to me. ‘What the hell’s the matter with you, whatever your name is?’ he yelled. ‘You went over by fifteen seconds.’
My radio career was ended.
Paul Ash did not invite me to travel around the country with him, but there was one interesting fallout from the Paul Ash Contest. Otto, Natalie, Richard, Seymour, Howard, Eddie, and Steve all changed their last names to ‘Sheldon.’ The only remaining ‘Schechtel’ was Uncle Harry.
Early in May, my cousin Seymour stunned us all by announcing that he was getting married.
Seymour was only nineteen, but it seemed to me that he had been an adult for most of his life.
I had met his bride-to-be, Sydney Singer, when I lived in Denver. Sydney was a young, attractive secretary who had worked in Harry’s brokerage office, where Seymour met her. I found her to be warm and intelligent, with a nice sense of humor.
The wedding was simple, with just the members of the family there. When the ceremony was over, I congratulated Seymour. ‘She’s a terrific girl,’ I told him. ‘Hang on to her.’
‘Don’t worry. I intend to.’
Six months later, they went through a bitter divorce.
‘What happened?’ I asked Seymour.
‘She found out I was having an affair.’
‘And she asked for a divorce?’
‘No. She forgave me.’
‘Then why—?’
‘She caught me with someone else. That’s when she divorced me.’
‘Do you ever see her?’
‘No, she hates my guts. She told me she never wants to see me again. She went to Hollywood. She has a brother out there. She got a job as a secretary at MGM for a woman director. Dorothy Arzner.’
My very brief foray into radio had given me a taste for it and I had become excited about its possibilities. Radio could well be the profession I was looking for. In every minute of my spare time, I haunted WBBM and other Chicago radio stations, looking for a job as an announcer. There were no jobs, period. I had to face the fact that I was back in the same deadly trap, with no prospects for the future.
One Sunday afternoon when everyone was out of the apartment, I sat down at our little spinet piano. I sat there, creating a melody. I decided it was not bad and I put lyrics to it. I called it ‘My Silent Self.’ I looked at it and thought, Now what? I could either let it sit inside the piano bench, or I could try to do something with it.
I decided to try to do something.
In that year, 1936, the major hotels in the country had orchestras in their ballrooms that broadcast coast to coast. At the Bismarck Hotel the orchestra leader was an amiable young musician named Phil Levant. I had never spoken to him, but from time to time, when he passed the checkroom on his way to the ballroom, we would nod at each other.
I resolved to show my song to him. As he passed the checkroom that evening, I said, ‘Excuse me, Mr. Levant. I’ve written a song and I wonder if you would mind taking a look at it.’
The expression on his face gave me an idea of how many times he had heard that request, but he was very gracious.
‘Glad to,’ he said.
I handed him a copy of the sheet music. He glanced at it and walked away. That’s the end of that, I thought.
An hour later, Phil Levant was back at the checkroom.
‘That song of yours…’ he said.
I was holding my breath. ‘Yes?’
‘I like it. It’s original. I think it could be a hit. Would you mind if I had an orchestration made, and we played it?’
Mind? ‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s—that’s wonderful.’
He liked my song.
The following evening, while I was hanging hats and coats, from around the corner in the huge ballroom I heard ‘My Silent Self’ being played. I was thrilled. Since the orchestra was broadcasting nationwide, people would be hearing my song all over the country. It was a heady feeling.
When I finished work late that night, I went home, exhausted, and got into a hot bath.
Just as I was relaxing, Otto hurried into the bathroom. ‘There’s a telephone call for you.’
At this hour? ‘Who is it?’
‘He says his name is Phil Levant.’
I leaped out of the tub, grabbed a towel and hurried to the telephone.
‘Mr. Levant?’
‘Sheldon, there’s a publisher here from Harms Music Company. They heard your song over the air, in New York. They want to publish it.’
I almost dropped the phone.
‘Can you come down here right away? He’s waiting for you.’
‘I’m on my way.’ I dried myself off and hurriedly got dressed again. I grabbed a copy of the sheet music.
‘What’s going on?’ Otto asked.
I explained it to him. ‘Can I borrow the car?’
‘Certainly.’ He handed me the keys. ‘Be careful.’
I hurried downstairs, got into the car and headed for the Outer Drive, on my way to the Bismarck Hotel. My mind was racing with the excitement of having my first song published, when I heard a siren behind me, and saw a flashing red light. As I pulled over to the side of the road, a policeman got off his motorcycle and came up to the car.
‘What’s your rush?’
‘I didn’t know I was speeding, Officer. I’m on my way to meet a music publisher at the Bismarck Hotel. I work there, in the checkroom. Someone wants to publish my song and I—’
‘Driver’s license?’
I showed him my license. He put it in his pocket. ‘Okay. Follow me.’
I was staring at him. ‘Follow you where? Just give me a ticket. I’m in a big—’
‘There’s a new procedure,’ he said. ‘We’re not giving out tickets anymore. We’re taking offenders right to the station.’
My heart sank. ‘Officer, I have to go to this meeting. If you could just give me a ticket, I’d be glad to—’
‘I said follow me.’
I had no choice.
He started up his motorcycle and took off ahead of me. I followed him. Instead of meeting my new publisher, I was on my way to a police station.
I reached the next corner just as the light changed from amber to red. He went through it. I stopped, waiting for it to turn green again. When I started to go, the motorcycle policeman was nowhere in sight. I went slowly to make sure that he didn’t think I was trying to lose him. The farther I got, the more optimistic I became. He was gone. He had forgotten about me. He was looking for someone else to send to jail. I began to speed up again and headed for the Bismarck.
I parked the car in the garage and hurried to the checkroom. I could not believe what I saw. The policeman was inside, waiting for me, and he was furious. ‘You thought you could get away from me, huh?’