“Precisely.”
“Okay, but so what? They hate each other. We already knew that!”
“Leaving aside other considerations, the Arabs are probably going to lose again, just like in every war they’ve had before. And, like in every other war, they will blame everybody but themselves — specifically the United States and Western Europe. The last time they had a war, they seized the Suez Canal, but now what can they do? What is the one thing that the Arabs have that everybody else wants and that they can take away from us?”
Suddenly a light went off in both Dad’s and Mr. Steiner’s heads! Almost as one, they both whispered, “Oil!”
“Precisely. What is going to happen the next time the Arabs get frisky and decide to take on Israel? We already know it is going to be sometime in the next five to ten years, and we already know the Israelis will clean their clocks. The one single thing the Arabs can do is shut the spigots off. The price of oil will go through the roof.”
“So, we’ll just pump more from here. There’s still plenty of oil in Texas and Oklahoma,” countered Steiner.
“It doesn’t work like that. Oil wells aren’t like faucets you can turn on and off. Dad, you’re an engineer, you know it’s not that simple.”
Dad looked at us thoughtfully and answered slowly. “Uh, this really isn’t my specialty, but he’s right. Besides, the reason we went to Arabia is because it’s cheaper than drilling here. If we start drilling here again, the price is going to rise anyway.”
“So, we stop burning oil in power plants and burn coal or something,” countered Steiner.
“You can’t burn coal in an oil fired power plant. You’d have to spend a fortune and six months just refitting them. That much I do know,” replied Dad.
“And you can’t burn coal in your car engine. What happens when gasoline that now costs 28¢ a gallon costs a buck or more?” I added.
“The government would never let that happen!”
“I don’t know,” commented Dad. “This actually makes a lot of sense, in a crazy sort of way.”
“All I’m saying is that if I put the money in the stock market rather than just a bank, I’ll have a way to do better than whatever they pay on a passbook account. There are any number of events that can happen, any one of which can affect prices on stocks or bonds or commodities, but you can’t do anything unless you are willing to play the game.”
Dad eyed me. “Is that what you want to do? Become a stockbroker?”
I just laughed at that. What an impossibly boring job!
Mom decided to put her foot down. “You aren’t actually going to allow this insane plan, are you? You want to gamble on wars and killing? Charlie, I absolutely forbid this!”
“Shirley, settle down.” Dad faced me. “All right, I can see the idea of investing in the market, but you’re only thirteen. You’re too young to do that.”
“So we put your name on the account. Not Mom’s, she’s obviously against the entire idea.” Mom started squawking again when I said that, causing the three of us to wince. “I’ll make the decisions. Is it my money or not?” Mom’s squawking got even louder.
“Shirley, for the love of God, shut up!” Dad rarely, if ever, yelled at Mom, and the sheer shock of it made her speechless. “He’s right. It’s his money. I’ll keep an eye on it.”
I stuck my hand out. “Deal.”
“Deal. But you better be right, or I’m going to have to bunk with you down at the poorhouse.”
Mr. Steiner laughed at that and took his leave. “You really are amazing, Carl. Don’t forget I want you in our Explorer Post next year.”
“Yes, sir, I remember,” I replied, grinning.
Christmas was on a Wednesday this year, as was New Year’s Day. School was shut down for a full two weeks, and I wondered about seeing a stockbroker during the off time, but Dad said no. It was the holiday season and a lot of people would be using up vacation days. Instead, the Monday I started back to school, he took off work early and picked me up after school. We drove directly over to his broker’s office in Towson.
“What’s your broker’s name?” I asked.
“Bill Hardesty, but you call him Mr. Hardesty,” he answered.
“I’m about to hand him a check for $15,000. Maybe he’ll let me call him Bill.”
Dad snorted and said, “Don’t push your luck.”
I had taken the check to the bank the day after I received it. I had had a passbook account since I was about eleven or so at Clifton Trust, a small community bank with a few branches. The closest was less than a mile away, and easy to get to on my bike. I had only a couple of hundred dollars squeezed out of allowances and money from mowing lawns. The deal I made with Dad was that I would keep five grand in the savings account, and the other fifteen would go to the brokerage. A few simple interest rate calculations showed him that by the time I got to college, I could make up that five grand easily.
In the lobby of the brokerage were pictures of all the brokers — white, middle-aged, graying temples, perfect smiles and perfect hair, looking like they all had just stepped out of a thirty-year-old-Scotch ad. All except one, a young girl, who looked barely in her twenties. It was the late Sixties, so I assumed she was the token woman, hired as much for her looks as any brains, and probably having to fight off a bunch of overaged Lotharios who should know better. Curious, I noted her name, and then glanced over at a Broker Of The Month plaque on the wall. Hardesty’s name seemed the most prominent, but Melissa Talmadge was listed more than her share of the time. Interesting.
The receptionist answered her phone and then set it down, Standing, she asked us to follow her and she led us down a hallway lined with offices. As we went down, I noticed Melissa Talmadge’s office a few feet beyond Hardesty’s.
I enjoyed following that receptionist. She was a good looking lady, and wore a short skirt and high heels. This was one of the finest aspects to reliving the Sixties. This was the period of time when they invented the miniskirt! Even further, in many situations, women were prohibited from wearing pants, as a violation of the dress code. Back on my first go-around, I remember when two ninth grade girls dared to come to school in blue jeans; they were stopped at the front door, marched to the principal’s office, and their parents were called to take them home. Meanwhile, skirts so short that a generation later would be considered suitable club attire were perfectly acceptable. It was a hell of a time to be young and male!
Hardesty rose when we got to his door. “Thanks, honey, I appreciate it,” he told the receptionist. Forty years later he’d have been slapped, but not then. He ushered us in, looking curiously at me. Dad was placed in an armchair next to his desk. I was put in a smaller chair at the back of the room. “It’s good to see you, Charlie. I got the message you were coming over, but not what it was about. How can I help you?”
“It’s about my son, actually. This is my oldest boy, Carling. He’d like to open an account.”
For the first time, Hardesty looked me over, deciding to stop ignoring me. He put a big smile on his face and reached over the desk, thrusting out his hand. “Well I think that’s tremendous, Carling! Give you a chance to see how business is done, hey?” He immediately turned back to my father and began talking to him again. “Are we figuring a weekly deposit, ten or twenty dollars? Or a small lump sum? We’ve got some great funds we can place you in?”
I cleared my throat, and Dad smiled and said, “Ask him. It’s his money.”
Hardesty looked over at me curiously. “Really? What did you have in mind, son?”
“How many shares of ITT common will $15,000 buy? I’m not looking for any odd block purchase fees, so some will end up in a money market account, preferably an equity growth account,” I replied.