The Fall of 1988 was a troubling, uncertain time for me. Sure, I resented Dad’s fantastic and intriguing family business not being my safe haven. For reasons that well transcended any sense of fairness, I was now nevertheless physically apart from it. It was a brutally hard decision. And now, after the herculean effort of getting an MBA, the stock market crashed on me and the recruitment season at Columbia was a bust. The demand for Wall Street jobs among my classmates and me well outstripped the supply. I was on the wrong side. End of story.
However, my relationship with my Dad was much improved since I had left the company on that infamous “DATE OF RECORD” of August 18th, 1986. My Dad was just one of those people who needed to tie people up to a whipping post so he could lash the poor slobs constantly. It’s kinda like our President; he is almost lost if he doesn’t have Hillary as a constant target. (Incidentally, I am struck by how she has disappeared from public view. Maybe former President Obama can pitch in?) Over the years, I have known a few people like this. Do they realize what they do? I am not sure. In my case, leaving Olcott International effectively removed me from the line of fire. That sure worked for me as I had long come to tire of spitting out lead.
So this is the tale of my descent into the retail wilderness. I became a “Polocaust” survivor. Let me explain.