Hendricks's anger over wasting people extends beyond business to society. Any injustice to the common man rankles. At a rally for a county sheriff's candidate he lambastes (to loud applause) political forces impeding his plan to expand services at a halfway house that he created from a vacant nursing home. "Why wouldn't you give these people every chance to make it?" he argues in frustration. Back at ABC, he rises suddenly from his chair and urges me out into the hall to view a print titled "Last Stop Before Home." The drawing depicts a flag-draped coffin deserted on a bench at a train depot. Hendricks is a rock-ribbed Republican and supporter of the Iraq War; his cheeks mottle as he laments public ingratitude for the sacrifices of soldiers.
It's as though he worries money will tarnish his regular-joe creds. So he is humble but not modest. He boasts that he has two company jets and then boasts harder that he rarely uses them.
Hendricks gets emotional one other time in our two days of conversations. He is showing me around the Pits, his nickname for the game preserve on which he lives. Constructed on the site of the gravel pit that rebuilt Chicago after the Great Fire, the Pits comprises 200 acres of land and 100 acres of water enclosed by an eight-foot chain-link fence. Although the grounds are roomy enough to host large functions--every week the Hendrickses invite 150 employees or community members to enjoy a cookout, fishing, or winter sports--the house itself is modest.
A bronze statue of a Native American, originally on display at Gene Autry's ranch, stands at the bottom of the driveway; we are greeted at the door by two golden retrievers, Geronimo and Cochise. The interior, warm with gleaming cherry and buttery leather, is chock-a-block with Native American artifacts: pottery, rugs, and masks accrued during visits to tribes around the country. "I'm really into Indian culture because they got screwed," says Hendricks as we stand on the balcony overlooking a stretch of river. "We call them savages. You've seen Dances With Wolves, right? I've got it on tape. I renew that energy once every six months. It just pisses me off."
The publication of the Forbes list, not surprisingly, sets off another diatribe about the iniquities of the idle rich. Wearing his everyday uniform of jeans and ABC logoed shirt, Hendricks is holding forth on the corrupting power of easy wealth. "For a lot of guys it's found money," he says as he charges around the office trying to get Forbes to correct an erroneous figure on its website. "They have an invention and somebody hands them a check for $2 billion. So they go out and buy big houses and big boats. They spend their days out on the golf course. They can't spend it fast enough."
By contrast, Hendricks calls himself a "mature billionaire," meaning he built his fortune day by day, dollar by dollar. "It hasn't really affected my life," he says. "I don't even know I have it." Nevertheless, he seems sometimes to strain over his image. To put Ken Hendricks on the couch (a presumption he will hate), it's as though he worries money will tarnish his regular-joe creds. How can people not doubt that a guy this rich is still just a guy? Hendricks's response to those doubts is somewhat disorienting: He is humble but not modest. So he boasts that he has two company jets and then boasts harder that he rarely uses them. He points out the luxurious amenities of his grounds while emphasizing the demureness of his house. Twenty years ago, when ABC was hovering under $200 million in revenue, Hendricks tooled around town in a Mercedes 450SL. He still owns a Mercedes but scarcely ever drives it. His wife confides that when she suggested he use it to ferry me around because the Jeep was too messy, he refused on the grounds that it would convey a misleading impression.
The entrepreneur's aversion to playing among the rich and powerful is part of what keeps him in Beloit. That's not to say his focus is purely parochial. Hendricks owns companies all around the United States, as well as in Brazil, Canada, China, Germany, India, and Scotland. And his grand plans are grand indeed: He has a concrete strategy to improve the transportation infrastructure of the Midwest. Toward that end he has acquired a barge company on the Mississippi and is negotiating for three others. He is looking to buy a railroad.
But Hendricks has no yen to follow the likes of Bill Gates and George Soros onto the world stage. There is still plenty to do in Beloit. In addition to the Ironworks project, he is restocking other parts of town with businesses, including a recycler of wooden pallets he's started with his son Kevin and a company that packages beverages in bacteria-free containers. Between them, Ken and Diane Hendricks serve on 17 local boards, including the board for the Hendricks Foundation, which benefits the people of Rock County. The pair are also the major supporters of the Beloit International Film Festival, an unlikely sounding event that attracted 4,000 attendees in 2006, its first year.
"It's not that everything that needs to be done in this town falls in Ken's lap," says Ron Nief, director of public affairs at Beloit College. "But everyone knows what he has done here and here and here. And I think people do ask themselves, 'What would Ken do in this situation?"
It's not a hard question to answer. Buy it. Preserve it. Make it strong. If possible make it beautiful. Most important, use it to generate jobs so that every parking lot at every business is full and no one who wants to work can reasonably claim, "I never had the chance."
Also, don't take up golf. That game is for rich folks.
