How I Became a Computer Programmer

and began a long career as a Quantitative Analyst

It was a long hard road, but I persevered.

… those city lights ain't all that bright
Compared to what it's like
To see lightning bugs go dancing in the rain

I hated to leave Stockbridge, the place where I grew up, for the bright lights of the city, but I had no choice.

As you may have read on these pages, at age 17 I became a convicted felon, and I was told by my mother that I had to make a new life for myself somewhere else. I could see that it pained her to tell me this, and I knew it was not her idea. My parents were at a loss to know what to make of my behavior. The posse giving advice to them (made up of minister, lawyer, guidance counselor, Scoutmaster, and probably others) had decided that my problems stemmed from my family situation, and my best hope for future success was to escape those surroundings.

I did not (and I still do not) believe that their diagnosis was correct. I never resented my mother for being the bearer of bad news. I simply resigned myself to my banishment, and set out to make the best of a bad situation.

In those pre-internet days (the Autumn of 1963), my best source of information was the Library. I pored over newspapers from Albany and Springfield, looking for job opportunities and rooms to let.

One acquisition from my crime spree turned out to be a boon in my efforts to relocate. It was a used gray Vespa scooter. I had not stolen it directly, but had purchased it with funds from a forged check.

One complication was that I no longer had a driver’s license. As a hardened criminal, my right to drive had been suspended by the Registry. I guess I never mentioned their letter to my parents (or anyone else), since no one ever said anything to me about my continued use of the scooter.

Albany is a little closer than Springfield to Stockbridge, so I scooted over there to check out the city, where I had never been. Construction had not yet started on the Empire State Plaza, and the tiny downtown was peppered with empty storefronts, sex shops, and pornographic movie theaters. Not exactly a step up from Norman Rockwell’s town.

Judging from the papers, job opportunities were greater in Springfield. In those pre-mall days, the downtown was vibrant — two department stores, several banks, and a variety of shops.

I secured a job at Johnson’s Bookstore on Main Street, in the record department. It was a seasonal job. I started in early November and that is where I heard the news, on the 22nd, of JFK’s assassination. They liked my work, and kept me on longer than they had originally promised, but let me go in mid-February.

I tried to find another job, but with my limited experience and education, it just wasn’t possible to find employment at that time of year. I had been visiting my parents on some weekends, when the weather was fair, riding my Vespa up and back on route 20 (it was not allowed on the Mass Pike). They agreed to let me move back into my room until I could find something else.

It took me only a little time to find another job in Stockbridge, and in the Spring of 1964 I went to work at the Berkshire Garden Center. I loved the job. I guess it was in my genes. My Grandfather Forbes had been a caretaker, and won awards for his dahlia creations. As the summer wore down, it was time to think about my future.

During that summer, I had begun to blossom. My fond memories of being in jail helped to open up the world for me. I traveled, often by hitchhiking (my Vespa had died), as far south as Washington DC and as far east as Cape Ann, where I stayed with a family I had befriended. I made many new friends in Stockbridge, and even had some romances.

Becoming a College Student

As Autumn approached, I began to give serious consideration to continuing my education. Hearing of my interest, my minister’s wife told me she would be traveling three days a week to Springfield to attend classes at American International College (AIC), and I was welcome to ride with her if I could enroll in classes that were held at the same time as hers. So I did. My friend Nick Hubby, a patient at Austen Riggs Center, told me he was driving to Williamstown on the other two days if I wanted to go with him. My very first college class was at Williams College, after I had persuaded the professor that I could handle the material of an advanced course in psychology. I was doing very well until my friend Nick had to leave town for a period to attend to some family affairs, and I was unable to get to Williamstown on my own.

As you can tell, any of the paragraphs above could be turned into a longer story, so stay tuned and I will circle back. For now, I must skip ahead to the headline story.

After successfully completing my Fall courses at AIC, I enrolled as a full-time student (with financial assistance from the Massachusetts Rehabilitation Commission and some Stockbridge friends) for the Winter 1965 semester. That was the only semester for which I attempted campus life, which did not mesh well with my autism. I dropped out and began to work full time, going to classes at night — a pattern I was to continue for the next 10 years until I finally earned my MA at Trinity College in Hartford.

I had a variety of employments during the next couple of years. I worked as a dishwasher at the Woolworth’s lunch counter. I did odd jobs as assigned by Manpower. I filled orders for school supplies at a Milton Bradley warehouse in Springfield. I was a bill collector for a shady operation. None of these in any way suggested a path to a career. So I kept scouring the help-wanted pages of the Springfield papers.

One day, I saw “Become a Computer Programmer” in boldface type at the top of an advertisement. Wow! I could do that, I thought. Most people at that time would not have been able to tell you what a computer was, but I had been an avid science fiction reader during my teenage years, and I knew exactly what one was.

Perfect! I thought, and called the number in the ad. “Before we can talk to you about possible openings, we have to give you an aptitude test,” I was told. “Can you come to our office on Saturday? It takes about 3 hours.”

When I arrived at their office, I was one of about two dozen eager job seekers. There was a large room where the test was administered, with rows of small tables and chairs. The room had large windows on three sides — one wall letting in the daylight, and the other two facing the lobby and the offices. I found a seat in the middle of the room, and felt quite comfortable as I filled in the circles for the multiple-choice questions, having been through the same drill with the SATs.

As people finished, they got up and left the room. I went out and handed in my booklet. “We will call you in a few days with the results,” the recruiter said, “we have to mail them to Worcester in order to be scanned.”

Sure enough, on Wednesday evening I received a call. But it was not what I expected. “I’m very sorry,” said the voice on the phone, “but somehow we messed up. All the other test results came back, but yours was not among them. Your booklet got lost somewhere along the way. I hate to do this to you, but can you come back on Saturday and take it over again?” Yes, I said, I can do that.

When I arrived at the office this time, most of the tables and chairs were stacked along the windowless wall of the large room. I could see that they had left one setup in the middle of the room for me, with a booklet and a couple of #2 pencils for filling in the circles. After apologizing profusely for their error, the recruiter pointed to the door and told me I could start. “You know what to do,” he assured me.

Again, I received a call on the following Wednesday. This time, the scoring had been successful. “The results are good,” the recruiter told me, “can you come in to the office tomorrow so that we can discuss possible job options?” Yes, I told him, I could come in on my lunch hour.

When I arrived, the recruiter smiled a bit sheepishly. “I have a confession to make. We did not lose your first test. But we had never seen such a high score, and we suspected you might have been cheating. That’s why we asked you to come back in, so we could watch you. We could clearly see that you were not cheating, and the results were just as good the second time. Do you often do well in tests like this?” Yes, I told him. I usually scored in the 99th percentile on tests such as the National Merit, PSAT, and SAT.

“Well,” he said, “with scores like this, we can get you a job anywhere. Do you have someplace in mind?” I told him that MassMutual was right down the road from where I was living. He agreed that that would be a good place to work, but, he explained, he could probably get me a job with a higher salary and better benefits at Connecticut General.

No, I told him, I really don’t want to work in a hospital. He laughed. “It’s another insurance company,” he told me, “the full name is Connecticut General Life Insurance Company, and they are located in Bloomfield, just outside of Hartford. It’s about a 40-minute drive from here.”

Okay, I said, I’ll give it a try, but I don’t have a car so getting there will be a problem. He assured me I could get there by bus, and, with my okay, he set up an appointment for the next Monday. The bus trip took nearly two hours because I had to change in Hartford for a bus that would take me to the CG campus.

When I arrived at the Personnel Department, they handed me a sheaf of papers to fill out. After all the forms were completed, I met with Bill Richards. “This all looks good,” he said. “We should have no trouble finding you a place in the Data Processing Department. I’ve set up a series of short interviews with some people you will be working with, so they can get a sense of where you might best fit in.”

I was buoyed by the prospect of entering this exciting new world of computers. Bill told me he would call me very soon to arrange a starting date.

It was not to be. “Everyone loved you,” Bill said, “but the big boss vetoed your hire.” Why? I asked him. “Because of your jail record.” Oh, that.

Back to the grind. Doing a job I hated. But it paid the bills, and enabled me to attend night school.

A few months later, the original job recruiter called. “Things have changed since we last talked. I think I can get you a great position now.” I was skeptical, but I went in to his office to hear what he had in mind. “I am going to send you back to Connecticut General,” he told me. Over my objections, he said, “Trust me. The situation is different now. They are desperate. They will hire you.”

Okay, I said, I’ll give it another try. By this time I had access to a car. Still no license, but that didn’t stop me from driving. I drove down to Bloomfield, and, after providing a few updates to my paperwork, I was escorted into Bill Richards’ office, expecting a rerun of the series of interviews. After greeting me warmly, he got right to the point. “When can you start?” he asked.

I was a bit discombobulated. “What about my jail record?” I asked. “That hasn’t changed.”

“True,” ha admitted, “but you have continued your college education, and since you were here last, you have gotten married, and have stayed out of trouble. Besides… “ He turned the file folder in front of him so that I could see what he had written on my papers. It said, “If he comes back, hire him.”

So that was that. A few days later, after some more paperwork in Personnel, I was escorted into a classroom, where a course on COBOL was underway. They were in the second week of a 6-week course, and I had no idea what they were talking about. But I was now a programmer!

Within a few years, I would become an officer of the company. I eventually left for the greener pastures of Wall Street, where, a few years later, I became a Principal at Morgan Stanley. Telling the progression of my career will fill many more pages.