PAPRBOY
Sample Chapter
This PAPRBOY chapter traces a sharp emotional swing. It opens with a hopeful visit to Stanley’s headquarters in New Britain and then collapses into an unexpected professional blow that leaves me depressed, stalled, and questioning everything. What follows isn’t a solution so much as an intervention—friends stepping in, pulling me out of my head, and reminding me why I moved to Deerfield in the first place: not just for work, but for the people who made even the worst moments survivable.
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CHAPTER 56
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NEW BRITAIN VISIT
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The following Wednesday, Doug from Snelling called—not to ask about my meeting with Drew Mercer, but to deliver exciting news: Stanley wanted to fly me to New Britain, Connecticut, to meet their executive team and tour the manufacturing facilities. They’d handle all travel arrangements and overnight the airline tickets directly to my home.
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Two days later, I flew into Bradley International Airport, where Don Brooks met me at the gate with a warm smile and a firm handshake. It was a 40-minute, 25-mile drive to Stanley’s campus in New Britain. We passed rows of weathered brick buildings, surrounded by the lingering bustle of a hardworking community. The town’s identity as the “Hardware City” was unmistakable—its legacy intertwined with Stanley’s own.
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At Stanley headquarters, I met with President and CEO Donald Davis and Executive VP Richard Ayers. Davis laid out a clear, ambitious vision for the company’s future, while Ayers emphasized their commitment to innovation and long-term growth. It wasn’t just about filling a role—they were looking for someone to help shape what came next.
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I toured the factory where Stanley’s popular claw hammers were made, the sound of metal echoing throughout the building. The speed, efficiency, and craftsmanship on display made it clear why Stanley was an industry leader. Over lunch with Brooks and Ayers, the conversation shifted to leadership, strategy, and the future of the business.
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Afterward, Don took me to see their new world headquarters, still under construction. Scheduled to open in August 1984, the $8-million facility symbolized Stanley’s plans to modernize—without leaving New Britain behind.
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On the drive back to the airport, Brooks hinted that my visit had gone well and I could expect to hear from them soon. As the plane lifted off, I felt cautiously optimistic. This could be more than a job. It might be a fresh chapter.
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OUT OF NOWHERE
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As of Tuesday, December 20, I still hadn’t heard from Stanley or Doug at Snelling & Snelling. My confidence wavered, but I remained hopeful. I had mailed thank-you letters to the executives the day after returning from New Britain—surely, they had them by now. Still, the silence gnawed at me. I was anxious to know if I’d gotten the job but hesitated to make the call.
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Should I reach out to Don Brooks directly or go through Doug? Deep down, I knew the real reason I was stalling: I was afraid of bad news. But my visit to Stanley had gone as well as I could’ve hoped. What could’ve gone wrong?
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On Wednesday morning, I bit the bullet and called Doug. The moment he answered, I sensed something was off. His usual upbeat tone was gone, replaced with something slow and measured.
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“I heard back from Stanley,” he said.
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My heart pounded. “And?”
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He hesitated. “Before you gave your references, did you speak with them first?”
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I frowned. “I did not, but I’m sure they’d vouch for me.”
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There was another pause. Then, with a tone that sent a chill through me, he asked, “How well do you know Jim Hopkins?”
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I felt a flicker of unease. “He was my regional manager at Brunswick. The last year I worked for him, I was one of the top sales reps in the company.”
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“Well,” Doug said, “according to Stanley’s HR, Hopkins gave a highly critical review. He said you struggled with collaboration, disrupted operations, and behaved unprofessionally.” And then came something truly outlandish. “He claimed you were a womanizer with a pattern of inappropriate behavior toward colleagues.”
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The words hit me like a punch to the gut. My ears rang. I gripped the phone, struggling to process what I had just heard.
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“That—” I stammered. “That’s not true.”
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Doug didn’t argue. “Stanley doesn’t want to move forward,” he said flatly. “And given the situation, I’ll have to drop you as a Snelling client. My advice? Vet your references before applying anywhere else.”
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Then he hung up. I sat there in stunned silence.
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For a long moment, I couldn’t move. Then disbelief turned to anger. How could Hopkins do this? What was his motive? The attack felt personal, like a sucker punch I never saw coming.
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As the weight of it all settled in, so did the grim reality. I had stopped applying to classified ads. Turned down interviews through Sales Recruiters. I was all in on Stanley—and now, I had nothing. No job. No prospects. And worse, no references I could trust.
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I wasn’t just disappointed. I was devastated. And it had come out of nowhere.
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TIMBER!
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I was hungover and depressed, the sting of Stanley’s rejection still fresh. The weight of it pressed down on me, making it hard to get out of bed. I had no appetite, no motivation, and no desire to talk to anyone or go anywhere. Instead, I used pot to numb myself and escape. My thoughts spiraled from anger to self-pity to outright hopelessness. Christmas was days away, yet I felt no holiday spirit. Hell, we hadn’t even bothered to get a tree.
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Early Thursday evening, Trip stormed into my room like a man on a mission. Without hesitation, he launched into his own version of Bluto’s rallying cry from Animal House—the one where he tries to snap his Delta House brothers out of their funk after they’ve been expelled. He wanted me to stop wallowing in self-pity and fight back.
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“Meat, what’s this lying around shit? You think it’s over? Over? Nothing is over until we decide it is! Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell no!” He paced the room, his voice rising with mock indignation. “What happened to the Johnny ‘The Meat’ Whalen I used to know? Where’s the spirit? Where’s the guts, huh? I can’t get a job! Wah! No one will hire me! Boo-hoo! This could be the greatest night of our lives, but you're gonna let it be the worst? Now get up and let’s go!”
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I wanted to be annoyed, but I couldn’t help but crack a smile. That was Trip—always able to cut through the bullshit. His own life wasn’t going smoothly. He’d left his job at the bank to juggle multiple construction projects, which was grueling work, especially with his bad back.
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Just two weeks earlier, someone had stolen the glass T-tops off his Camaro, leaving two gaping holes in the roof where the panels used to be. He couldn’t afford the $400 to replace them, so he made do with a heavy-gauge vinyl tarp secured with duct tape to keep out the rain and snow. And yet, despite all that, he never complained.
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Trip didn’t dwell on setbacks. He always pushed forward, always found a reason to enjoy life. Watching him now, I realized how deep I had let myself sink. Stanley had knocked me down, but I didn’t have to stay there. Trip was right. It was time to get up.
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Bennigan’s, a lively Irish-American-themed restaurant at 445 Skokie Blvd. in Northbrook, was the perfect escape from my blues. Part of a popular national chain, it featured dark wood furnishings, green accents, and vintage-style décor. It was also a hotspot for young people looking to drink, mingle, and blow off steam.
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The place was packed, and Trip had made sure we had a solid crew to lift my spirits. Along with his girlfriend Janice, Lenny, Kathleen, Maggie, Joel, Debbie, and a few others joined us, filling our corner of the bar with laughter and energy. I stuck to Long Island Iced Teas, the disappointment of Stanley’s rejection fading with each round. We joked, told stories, and I was reminded why I had moved to Deerfield in the first place—not just for a job, but for nights like this.
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The streets were strangely quiet as we spilled out of Bennigan’s at closing time. The cold night air was sobering, but it didn’t dampen our spirits. The evening had been exactly what I needed: good friends, plenty of drinks, and a chance to forget my troubles. Earlier that night, we had joked about how the house still didn’t have a Christmas tree. And now, across the street, the corporate office park seemed to offer a solution. Rows of perfectly arranged pine trees stood on the manicured grounds, practically inviting us to take one home.
After the others left, Trip, Lenny, and I hopped into the Camaro and headed across the street.
Pulling into the lot, we grabbed a bow saw and set off to find the perfect tree. The one we picked was massive—far bigger than we realized at first. I tried sawing through the thick trunk but struggled against the stubborn wood. Then suddenly, the sharp sputter of a chainsaw shattered the silence.
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Lenny and I jerked back as Trip fired up his chain saw with a confident grin. The mechanical growl filled the air, the chain biting into the bark with a high-pitched whine. The tree creaked before giving way, crashing to the ground in a triumphant thud.
Grabbing the trunk, Lenny and I dragged the tree toward the Camaro. I dove headfirst into the open trunk, lying flat on the lowered back seats as they shoved the oversized pine in behind me, its branches sticking wildly out the back. Trip floored it, speeding away with half the tree hanging out of the car.
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As we barreled down Lake Cook Road, Lenny suddenly shouted, “Cop!” My heart pounded. From where I sat, I couldn’t see a thing—I just felt the car accelerate. A minute later, we made a sharp turn onto what I guessed was Central Avenue. Seconds passed before we pulled into the side parking lot of the senior home across the street from our house. Trip killed the lights, and we held our breath. Then we burst out laughing, congratulating ourselves on our ridiculous but successful caper.
We wrestled the tree into the backyard and realized just how enormous it was. The next morning, we cleared space in the living room near the window. Trip built a sturdy wooden stand and secured the trunk with shims and screws. After trimming a few feet off the top, the tree nearly spanned the entire width of the room.
We stepped back to admire our work. Now it was time to decorate—and scrounge up a few gifts to place beneath it.
It wasn’t just a tree. It was proof that even at my lowest, I could still laugh, still rally, and still raise a little hell—with the right friends.
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