The Girl with the Scarab Necklace

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In the year 1903 I was honorably discharged from the army, and Uncle Sam sent me back home to rub shoulders with all the other out-of-work boys roaming the streets. I got lucky: a buddy of mine got me a job at the port. Night shifts. Mine was a sad lot: night after night of back-breaking work, only to give half of my $1.50 a week pay for a room uglier than the rats I’d shared it with. The rest of the money I’d wisely spent on whiskey.

One particularly cold November morning I was keeping myself warm with a glass of Jack Daniels when I’d decided my job could burn in hell. I put the glass down and reached out across the self-made table for yesterday’s copy of the Chicago Daily News. It made sense to start with the job ads section. The first ad to catch my eye was printed in the corner of the page. It read,

That last bit was a bit weird, but I’ve had worse reasons for concern in my twenty years of age. My spirits lifted, I celebrated with another swing from the glass. Today was a Wednesday; I wound up my alarm clock to wake me at noon, slid down from the chair, and passed out on the mattress.

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