Time magazine said this about Linus: “His resolute attitude, giving peril the back of his hand, is what separates Linus from all the other Majors.” Finally Linus was bathed in recognition from an independent source that wasn’t bragging about another member of his family.

How gratifying.

But not for long.

Unfortunately, shortly after that interview was recorded but before the magazine went to press, Linus’s father was arrested for embezzling the sizable sum of nine hundred and ninety million dollars from several of the family’s companies. When the news of Linus Major Jr.’s crime hit the newsstands, all hell broke loose. The Major family was ridiculed by the president of the United States, taken to task by both houses of Congress, and crucified by the press.

The New York Post’s front page screamed:

MAJOR GREEDOLA!!

Linus Major Jr.’s defense? A pathetic statement issued from corporate headquarters, to wit: “I don’t crunch the numbers. Someone else does that.”

Time magazine decided to dump Linus’s interview. Instead they ran a cover story on his father’s fall from grace. Once again our Linus was nudged out of the national spotlight by a member of his once distinguished family.

During the ensuing years, members of the Major family fell into heavy debt and major disrepute. Linus Major Jr. was sent to Lompoc, a gentlemen’s jail, for seven months and owed the government (and stockholders) barrels of money. His wife, Lucy Major, checked into the Betty Ford Center for addiction to prescription drugs. She was at Betty Ford longer than her husband was in prison. Daughter Sally checked into Betty Ford on general principles. Older son Trey Major checked out of the United States for parts unknown, leaving a trail of warrants and bad debts. Our man, Linus Major IV, checked into Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles for injuries suffered from a daredevil bet. He was attempting to drive his Yamaha 500cc motorcycle over three parked yellow cabs, and failed.

The Major family was in tatters—mentally, physically, and financially.

When Linus was twenty-eight, he was released from Cedars-Sinai. He had recovered from his injuries but was left with neither a functional family nor a lucrative trust fund. Using the last of his financial resources, ten thousand dollars in cash strapped in a money belt around his waist, Linus hitchhiked to New York to find employment.

His résumé wasn’t impressive. What few openings there were didn’t seem to require someone specializing in hot dog consumption, or jumping into gorges from some forgettable Colorado bridge with a rope tied around his legs, or trying to hurdle three taxicabs on a motorcycle and getting only halfway across.

As the weeks rolled by, young Linus found himself running out of cash and spirit. He didn’t have any friends in Manhattan. Or in the entire state of New York, for that matter. And he was tired of staying in a flophouse in the East Village. Linus was just about busted. And then, just when our man was battling the onset of what might have become a catastrophic depression, he answered a Help Wanted ad for a position at the Museum of Natural History on Central Park West.