MY FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH THE LYONS DEN CAME in late summer 2003. I had just turned 24 and, as a recent graduate of the University of Iowa, was looking for a job in Chicago. But with a communications degree and no real employable skills or life experience to speak of, the only offers I received were from a suburban Chevy dealership managed by my friend’s dad and a shady pyramid scheme masquerading as an advertising company. I went with the “advertising company” since I didn’t know anything about cars. Or pyramid schemes.
After my interview, where the only question I was asked was whether I considered myself a leader or a follower (I said a leader, thank you very much), I rushed down the Kennedy Expressway to the Irving Park exit, glancing frantically at the directions I’d written on a napkin, because I was already late to
