THE WHY OF HOW
by
Mark Willoughby
SMASHWORDS EDITION
PUBLISHED BY:
Mark Willoughby on Smashwords
The Why of How
Copyright © 2012 by Mark Willoughby
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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ISBN: 978-1-4661-6576-2
PUBLISHED BY MessagingGroup LLC
Not all corporations are insensitive, uncaring and dehumanizing, but many are. This book is dedicated to all those laboring anonymously in the bad ones, working diligently so their management can look good. It’s just a job.
Chapter One – Seductive Success
Having captured every eye in the crowded room Doris never fails to deliver. She knows how to make it look good. With the practiced ease of a natural, she leans forward and pushes her décolletage until it hovers in the candlelight over her untouched salad.
“What surprise, do tell,” she coos.
I returned her demur smile while checking the large dining room. The male halves of the elegant couples seated at linen-clad tables are furtively glancing our way. Studied indifference was served up by their female dining partners.
“Nothing too exciting, just the very small possibility of a nice mid-winter vacation in a tropical paradise,” I replied. “But let’s not jinx ourselves by talking about it.”
The jacketed waiter deftly removed Doris’ salad. She leaned back in her chair as he replaced it with lobster and pasta in a marinara sauce. She reached for her water glass as the waiter moved around to my side of the table. Candlelight cast a rosy glow on the taut white fabric of her dress.
“So nothing more about this nice winter surprise?” She says, taking up her dinner fork. “Just a tease? No further hints about this tropical paradise?”
“Not tonight, my darling. A little patience please, all can be told soon.”
Doris inserts her fork into the thick red sauce and wraps it around her pasta. A glistening, deep red morsel is lifted on the fork with a flourish, followed by a dramatic pause before her mouth. Slowly she parts her lips, allowing the sauce to form a large breakaway droplet which releases and falls onto the white fabric straining to contain her left breast.
“Oh my, my goodness,” she giggled, returning her fork to her plate and covering her mouth with the linen napkin. “I can’t believe I just did that.”
I swiveled in my chair and motioned for a waiter. “May we have a glass of club soda please?
“No bother,” Doris said as she dipped a corner of her napkin in her water glass. Cupping her breast with her left hand, she begins dabbing at the bright red spot. It stubbornly refused to diminish. She dabbed her napkin in water again and the dab became a swab with her left hand firmly thrusting her breast upward. The bright red slowly dissolved into pink as the water added a translucent sheen to the stretchy white fabric.
“There, how’s that look?” she asked, arching her back in a Hollywood starlet pose.
“It looks wonderful” I replied, surveying the dining room. Rita Hayworth would be envious. All activity had ceased, sound suspended in the air as all eyes were glued to the Doris show.
The waiter brought a stemmed glass of club soda on a silver tray and sat it on the table next to Doris. She smiled at him, picked up the stemmed glass and methodically surveyed the room while taking a sip of the sparkling water. She returned the glass to the white linen surface.
“I can’t believe I just did that,” she said while toying with the glass.
“Maybe,” I replied, watching the male audience working to feign indifference. “I almost believe that.”
Chapter Two – Angel of Success
Find the calming inner voice. Act like the Dali Lama, hibernate the testosterone. Displays of Type A ego and greed tonight risk all the behind-the-scenes preparation to make this meeting a slam dunk. No happy feet.
Follow the script – cool and relaxed, polite and respectful, with the professional smile firmly in place. In a few minutes I’ll skillfully play the cards from all the Company’s sales training imprinted in me and land this deal. This final deal puts me in the President’s Club for superior achievement, my opening gambit in manufacturing visibility and moving up the career ladder.
The game plan is to assuage Mrs. May, a retired junior high math teacher who has been a pain in the rear. She steadfastly has opposed the deal from the beginning. Almost every school board has some conscientious, law-abiding citizen like Mrs. May, one who insists on doing a conscientious and ethical job. Idealists, they simply don’t understand how things work in the real world of business, all the tricks of which are explicitly detailed in the Company’s sales training.
She’s rebuffed all of my schmoozing attempts to secure her support. She never accepted an elegant expense account lunch or dinner. Sports were of no interest she said as she declined offers of free baseball and football tickets. She pre-empted further gratuities by saying further offers of free tickets to cultural events, such as the symphony or opera, would be unwelcome. Her unassailable morality was baffling.
Tonight her jaw is set with a determined look that spells trouble. But fate hasn’t favored Mrs. May tonight. She was struck by a falling piece of plaster from the water-damaged ceiling when entering the building. The book-sized chunk fell from the ceiling and knocked the antique millinery off its perch atop her head as she navigated the construction barriers that herded us into the dilapidated old school that serves as the administration building. She calmly picked up her hat, dusted it off, and fitted it back atop her thin silver coiffure. She was finishing with the hairpins as she made her deliberate path to the podium to make her remarks for the record.
Public schools can be onerous customers, with elected boards and all the eyewash about competitive bidding for spending tax dollars. But this particular school district is safe for the Company, I’ve seen to that. It’s populated mostly by demanding professionals wanting the most for their indulged progeny. The clincher for this deal is this elemental parental desire to give their kids a superior education. These parents actually want to spend more money on computers, thinking that gives their kids a head start in their lives and future careers. It works every time.
Landing this deal makes me the first account executive in the Company’s storied history to earn a spot in the prestigious President’s Club in a mere three years, and starts my ambitious ascent into the Company’s executive ranks. We’ve already worked the school board behind the scenes so the votes to carry the deal are in the bag.
The microphone affixed to the podium looms large over Mrs. May’s head as she carefully adjusts it down to her level. She recites her name for the official minutes and clears her throat before launching a direct frontal attack.
"Quite frankly, young man, I’m having a difficult time understanding all this redundant language you’ve included in your proposal," she began. "Could you simply have responded in the format we requested and informed us in plain English how these computers will provide better classroom instruction? On second and third reading, it seems most of the many benefits you’ve described are not for students at all, bur rather benefit the administration. I’m not sure you’ve adequately addressed what I consider to be our primary concern, which is better prepared students."
Welcome to the world of high stakes business deals, Mrs. May. The Company’s sales training has a lengthy chapter to deal with your undesirable comments and to make certain that we remain in control. It includes a library of techniques to silence objections. I straighten my right arm and dramatically tug the crisp shirt cuff where it protrudes from the suit jacket sleeve. The Company has armed all sales executives with a giant class ring just for such occasions. I flourish it like a hypnotist’s orb and drop my hand to the hard table and tap out a rhythmic drum roll.
Even Mrs. May, with the hat resembling a crushed blue milk carton can’t confuse my message. The staccato tapping of my giant ring is the career drum roll for the corporate perquisites, stock options, and country club memberships. Mrs. May opens her petite purse and removes a pair of antique reading glasses with sequined frames. After carefully affixing them to her nose, she begins looking myopically at the notes she’s penned neatly in the margins of my proposal. She’s oblivious to the drumbeat.
"Why do your computers cost so much more than those of your competitors?" she asks while peering beneath her brow at her notes. "And will this high cost continue over the life of the new system?"
Back to chapter and verse from corporate charm school. Here is a great opportunity to turn a disadvantage into an advantage. I stop the ring knocking and begin speaking through an enhanced professional smile.
"We’re giving the school district a special discount because of the Company’s very strong commitment to high-quality education."
This deal was done anyway, despite Mrs. May’s stumbling upon the ugly truth. School administrators do receive most of the benefits delivered by the new computers because they sign the checks. The Company has perfected this bait-and-switch over the years because it works. The Company hinges its sales pitch for the school board on the politically correct, but questionable, notion that computers make kids smarter faster. Almost everybody will spend money to make kids smarter.
Mrs. May’s public airing is only a minor speed bump on my way to the President’s Club. It’s been more than ten years since this school district has bought a computer from a competitor. Following the Company’s time-honored sales juggernaut, we’ve bought the loyalty of the administrators and all Mrs. May’s counterparts on the school board are firmly in our camp.
I straighten my back, chin up, huge smile, striking a very regal six-foot-two pose in my $2000 Italian power suit as I resume the drum roll for overcoming objections through intimidation.
"Thank you, that’s reassuring to hear young man, but hardly obvious here. Can we expect then, that these discounts you say you’ve quoted here will continue over the term of the agreement, and include high-cost items like maintenance, updates and training?"
Hiding an ugly truth is in the chapter the Company calls “managing information”. I’d have to manage the information on her question, knowing sooner or later they will figure out how discounts are calculated from an inflated list price, a trick we called uplifting. The Company has no guidance for dealing with any remorse that may come from bending the truth when talking to little old ladies. I could only hope her hearing aid would fail as I launched into some managed information.
"Mrs. May," I said, returning the room to quiet as I dug deep into the lessons from the managing information chapter. I made a grandiose gesture and stepped towards the small, still diminutive figure at the podium. I caught the sweet scent of her ancient perfume and her wrinkled cheeks peeked out beneath thick rouge. Her gray eyes bulged serious and wide behind the thick lenses of her glasses.
"You have my complete assurance that the annual support costs for these systems will carry the same discount levels that we’re offering today."
It’s time for one of our toadies on the school board to call for the question before Mrs. May stumbles onto something that embarrasses us all. Meaningful eye contact is being passed around the room in nervous glances. Except for Mrs. May, they’re straining uncomfortably in their folding chairs, anxious to vote to accept our proposal and get out of here. She’s still pouring over her notes, readying her next question. The Company’s sales training says close for the kill before she can grind away further with embarrassing arguments.
"Mrs. May, if you don’t mind, since you’ve asked about discounts, let’s move on to the costs." Naturally this issue was the most important to me (and the Company). I’d done a masterful job of downplaying it. I advanced a few slides and left the numbers on the screen briefly before advancing to the summary slide. Somebody will pre-empt further embarrassing questions from Mrs. May and ask about financing.
“But I do mind young man, I have more concerns.”
The Company’s sales training stressed extreme politeness and big smiles, even while intimidating and humiliating. I gave her the big enhanced smile and ignored her question. The Company’s dictum says to drive to the close by focusing discussion on benefits, which will conveniently pre-empt all previous topics, including Mrs. May’s objections.
"And so, ladies and gentlemen of the school board," I began while stepping back from Mrs. May. "I think you will agree that we have all the pieces in place to meet the information needs of the school district well into the future. These systems are in heavy demand so we must act now to guarantee installation before classes start in the fall."
"Young man!" Maybe I could shut her up by sewing a Boy Scout merit badge on my tailored Italian suit. The other school board members are all small-time politicians, biding their time for election to a higher office, playing the game and not particularly inclined to read the fine print and ask too many questions.
"Before we get side-tracked with the prices,” she continued, “I must apologize for saying this, but I think you should have spent a little more time explaining some of these important details. I don’t think we’re the type of school district that makes hasty decisions on expensive acquisitions, and based on some well-dressed, fast taking young salesman’s recommendation."
She’s thrown this out before I could finish playing the big, ugly FUD card - Fear, Uncertainty, Doubt. I have queued up another classic piece of sales chicanery from the Company’s library of tricks, to unite the other board members and quickly close this deal. I’m going to raise the specter of them not being able to get what we’ve just sold them, a tease of the first order. We could install these systems in a week since they are collecting dust somewhere in a warehouse. But once again I must divert my attention to quiet Mrs. May.
"Mrs. May," I beamed, resuming my drum roll on the hard, varnished oak. "Please take as much time as you think you’ll need. I’m sorry if I’ve confused you."
When rated with the Company’s name attached, we sales executives carry considerable prestige. In rankings with the Company’s name removed sales executives are next to the lowest two professional categories - lawyers and politicians. Maybe I could buy some forgiveness with a few dollars of the sizable sales bonus I’ll collect from this deal.
"May I ask sir," she was waving a white-gloved hand, "if you could please stop that obnoxious banging with your ring?”
My finger froze in mid-air above the table. Mrs. May had just launched a direct frontal assault upon myself and the Company. This was unprecedented. A chilly silence settled across the room as I dropped my hand to my side.
“Now,” Mrs. May resumed, “what allowances are made for trading these computers in for newer ones, when the need arises? I’ve read and observed that there always is a great deal of change taking place in technology. I think it best if the students and the school district are protected from the risk and uncertainties that this represents."
Mrs. May probably has a mattress stuffed with discount coupons and drives a 20-year-old Buick with only 30,000 miles on it. Her question raises the obsolete issue, the Achilles heal that I dread like no other. The reality is that the ten-year-old Series One computer system the Company wants me to sell this school district is an expensive high-tech boat anchor. They will hit the school district with large and immediate market depreciation. Maybe some competitor has coached her to ask these questions, to force me into an embarrassing public disclosure and torpedo the deal.
I can feel beads of sweat forming on my lower back. The stakes couldn’t be higher. My plan to win the President’s Club hinges on the loophole presented by the double quota and commissions the Company is offering on the Series One, an incentive to clear the inventory of these old dogs. I can’t make it into the President’s Club without that double quota credit, to escape the curse of my humble past in a triumphant blaze of capitalistic glory. I need this deal to put me into the fast lane. Back to the Company’s book, put on the silver tongue and the big smile, and dodge another tough question.
"Yes you certainly can," I replied, trying my best now to act like a deferential sophomore while employing another old trick from the Company’s overstuffed bag. Now I was answering the wrong question, like a politician caught in a scandal. In this case I was answering, "Would we allow them to buy a new, more powerful (and expensive) computer?" I studiously avoided mentioning trade-in allowances, hoping the wrong answer would confuse and silence her.
"We’ll be happy to negotiate a new and larger system," I continued, "at any time during the five-year lease. We will be happy to negotiate on the same favorable financing terms we are offering," hoping that hearing the word "negotiate" would calm her fears.
It’s a safe lie. The risks and costs in changing vendors are high and careers will be on the line. They know it, so do we. The beads of sweat were trickling down my back now.
“There will be absolutely no problems whatsoever." Her perfume, a honeyed mixture smelling like ancient rose hips and sweet pickles, had wafted completely across the front of the crumbling auditorium. Doubtless it had anointed King Tut. Thankfully my Italian power suit conceals any sign of sweat and stress.
Mrs. May, for the good of the gross national product and my glorious career, please shut up. The safe course for all concerned is to accept the Company’s proposal. It’s also well past the time for one of our stooges on the board to come to my rescue by making the motion to accept the proposal.
"Young man, I must apologize again, but I’d like to have that assurance in writing."
"Yes, or course Mrs. May" I beamed, with the professional smile lubricated by selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors. The truth is that Company never commits beyond what is in the sales proposal on the table. The other school board members were squirming uncomfortably in their seats. Let’s be done with this, where is the cavalry?
"Very well then. I’d like the board to adopt a policy that provides for all savings gained from future trade-ins to be allocated for new library books."
"On that note," one of our safe board members finally piped up, "I’d like to move for accepting this proposal for new computers." Three other hands simultaneously shot into the air to second the motion.
“So moved,” the board chairman intoned. “Call for the question.”
Yes! Hook, line and sinker! The board president and all hands, except Mrs. May’s white glove, punctuated the motion. He gaveled me into the President’s Club as Mrs. May’s perfume morphed into the fragrant orchids of Hawaii.
My mother always said angels work in the lowliest places, bringing miracles to the poor and humble. We prayed every night for an angel to come to our house, to bring money for all the nice things that we could never afford.
There is an angel here tonight, working miracles for me with this lowly school board. It’s my career. I pray not for forgiveness from displaying the killer instinct but for the double quota credit loophole. It wasn’t just luck. I’ve used every trick in the Company’s vast repertoire to make it happen, with an extra boost of cosmetic psychopharmacology from the little green 20-milligram Prozac capsules. Small wonder we are the world’s most admired company.
Chapter Three - Exaggerated Ravings
I arrived early at the non-descript sales office in a bland office park to pick up the official purchase order faxed in from the school district. Fred Q. Wilson, my tweedy Company mentor, already was at work in his office cube across a narrow aisle from mine, leafing through an accumulated stack of faxes.
“Congratulations, Sonny,” was Fred Q. Wilson’s greeting, uttered without looking up from his bifocals. “You’re hot stuff. That deal will become PCBS fast.”
Wilson extracted a dozen pages from the sheaf and handed me the school district’s purchase order. “Thanks, Wilson. Coming from you, it means a lot.”
Wilson was known by the nickname “TLA,” - for “three-letter-acronym”, after his peculiar habit of speaking in techno-speak buzzwords and acronyms of the Information Age. I was pretty sure “PCBS” was “politically correct bullshit,” which Wilson was anything but. Wilson had hung the Sonny moniker on me early in my tutelage, parodying senior management’s tradition of adopting colorful, macho-sounding nicknames when they assumed a vice presidential title. No way would that nickname follow me as I climbed the rungs of the Company. It didn’t command respect and I had asked Wilson not to use it when others were around. I had some time yet before deciding what my vice presidential corporate nickname would be.
I sat at my desk in my gray cube, sitting my $500 Italian leather briefcase on my desk. In a few years I would have a manager’s private corner office and I wouldn’t have to look at Wilson’s trash heap every time I turned my head.
“Yes sir, that’s some pretty fancy execution,” Wilson called out as he rose from his chair, still peering down at the sheaf of fax documents through his bifocals. “You’ve done the Company good, pal, multiplexing mega Series One deals RFT.” He meant Real Fucking Time, as in quick. Sometimes a translator was needed to carry on a conversation with Wilson, even if you were computer literate.
“Yes, that double quota credit loophole worked out rather nicely. The timing was perfect. Do you think I’m in the President’s Club?”
Wilson turned his large head away from the sheaf of papers and faced me across the aisle, looking over the bifocals perched on his nose with a raised bushy eyebrow. “Maybe TFP. You drove a truck through that Series One loophole, got downright non-linear front-ending all those CRR deals.”
TFP I interpreted as too fucking perfect, something I couldn’t imagine. CRR was cushy run-rate, or business that just dropped into your lap, leveraged by the Company’s dominant marketplace presence or extensive distribution network. They required very little work and CRR deals usually were assigned to those sales executives the Company most wanted to succeed for political reasons.
Wilson, my corporate mentor, is a textbook case of what happens when you can’t master the politics of the Company. He is a dedicated and skilled employee who never rose above carrying a bag as a salesman. I actually came to believe him when he said he didn’t care. His persona - he was much too careless to call it an image - is the nerdy intellectual, an outspoken and opinionated voice always representing the customer’s interest. He rarely displayed the deferential and politically correct management view, rationalizing that it was more important to be honest. He could benefit from some cosmetic psychopharmacology to soften the edges of his personality.
As a tireless mule, Wilson stoically earned his small piece of the Company’s yearly revenues, never rising to meet the real challenge posed by a modern corporation. In a civilized world, corporations provide a legal outlet for man’s natural aggression, the moral equivalent of warrior combat to the death where the fittest battle for supremacy in the economic arena. The best rise to the top of their tribe.
Wilson, like most employees, never mastered the Byzantine politics to compete for promotions. The competition intensifies with each move up the ladder and the stakes to excel are high. The economic battleground is littered with the bones of poorly led corporations.
Wilson walked the evening’s faxes of incoming orders over to the sales contracts clerk before returning to his customary hunch over his computer. He was constantly chewing the ends from pens between his cigarette breaks outside. He surfs the Web incessantly in his endless pursuit of technical minutia to help his customers. He constantly groped through the accumulated trash heaped on his desktop, seeking items hidden in the layers of discarded paper cups and junk food wrappers.
As a corporate neophyte assigned to Wilson’s care, it was obvious that, with him as a mentor, I would need to develop political connections elsewhere. Wilson was great for learning the craft of sales and developing product knowledge, but he was of no use at teaching the invaluable political lessons. He excused his incorrect social style saying his mouth was memory mapped into his brain so that he didn’t have to incur the overhead of thinking too much about what he was saying.
Mentoring under Wilson, I began my career cautiously to minimize mistakes. I quickly got over the disappointment in being relegated to a lackluster assignment like the education marketplace and came to realize my luck. It was a less risky place to learn the business and Wilson was a natural at selling to educators. He succeeded by actually delivering on our promises. Wilson took the more difficult path of actually showing how computers could help to better educate students in a variety of disciplines.
Despite his clumsy incorrectness, he was the perennial President’s Club salesman from the Midwest region - until now. Since he was perfectly content being just a salesman, I considered it likely that Wilson would work for me when I became a vice president; something I was certain would happen before his retirement.
Wilson succeeded in demonstrating the potential of the education marketplace to management and they gave him a bright, up-and-coming junior account executive to see what could be had if the accounts were worked by a savvy, polished pro. At least that’s how I saw it. When the time came, I asked that the education marketplace be split so I could gain some visibility with management by duplicating his success with a new spin. It had taken a couple of years but a new face was going to Hawaii from the Midwest sales region. Bon voyage.
“Double quota or not, whatever works. I’m ready for Hawaii, lounging on the beach with some golf and tennis,” I said, returning the conversation to the President’s Club.
“You’re locked in, you earned yourself a ticket. You’ll be out there interfacing with all the BBSs (binary big-shots) so your new tan won’t be wasted. You’ll get wined-and-dined and you’re in for some surprises. You’ll see some things you’ve never seen before.”
“Like what? What kind of surprises are at the President’s Club that I’ve never seen before?”
“Cache yourself out there this first time. You got plenty of bandwidth to arbitrate in that network, but as many careers get overwritten at the president’s soiree as get accelerated. Access to those ports is gated by the sycophants, so be careful to use the correct protocols and always check parity.”
Wilson’s sycophants were the corporate staff that surrounded the executive suite. He railed at them constantly, comparing them to the eunuchs that rose to power in the Imperial Chinese Court as harbingers of dynastic decline.
Wilson’s rants could bring on a healthy dose of paranoia, for which I had great training. As a sophomore in high school, my father was promoted from his blue-collar job to foreman at a big grocery-chain bakery. It didn’t help my adolescent insecurity knowing that my blue-collar roots didn’t measure up to the pedigrees sported by the scions of doctors, lawyers, accountants and business professions with whom I associated. I worked constantly to keep my lowbrow family from embarrassing me.
My mother, a cosmetologist, wore faded housecoats with curlers in her hair and listened to country music on the radio while ironing in the kitchen. She kept a big professional model hair dryer in the corner of the kitchen and would gossip with friends as she did their hair for extra cash. My school friends had their laundry either sent out or done by a domestic. They listened to classical music at home and their mothers had their hair done in shops with names I couldn’t pronounce until after high school French.
My father sat in front of the TV in his T-shirt and boxer shorts, sipping cheap beer from a can. We had one token of the highbrow lifestyle, the family dog, Trixie, a toy poodle. Trixie would sit on my father’s ample lap and bark at the bad guys on TV. I was far too paranoid to ever have any of my school friends visit our home. I always declined offers of rides home after tennis practice.
“I’m not sure I understand, Wilson. Maybe in some plain English about these President’s Club surprises? Is it something more than a relaxing stay in a posh resort?”
“It’s a beauty pageant out there run by the sycophants. It’s not rational what they do out there, but that’s protocol,” he muttered to his computer screen as he hunkered down in his trash heap.
I could tell Wilson something about irrational behavior. As a junior in high school, I agonized over the driver’s license test, knowing that if I passed I wouldn’t get a shiny new car to support my status at school. I used long rides home on the public bus routes to shop for a new family car, stopping at car dealerships along the bus route. Dressed in tennis whites with a racquet protruding from a team bag, I negotiated deals with car salesmen.
By the summer before my senior year I had put together a deal to trade in the worn family station wagon for a new car suitable to the image I wanted. A character-building aspect of this little enterprise was getting the car salesmen to take me seriously, which lead to my initial fascination with the wonderful world of sales.
So I concentrated on tennis and became the best high school player in the state. That alone guaranteed me a permanent place with the in-crowd. The fame of my game got me invited to country clubs and the best homes in the city. I parlayed tennis into a scholarship at a prestigious private university.
“So the sycophants run the President’s Club and turn it into an unpleasant event?” I asked.
“It’s worse than you can imagine, the sycophants really stick it to you there. Keep your parity in check.”
Wilson’s useful advice usually ended with rants about the sycophants. His view of the President’s Club obviously was tainted by his eccentricities and wild opinions. There was no future in further discussion of the President’s Club so I let him drift off into his Web session.
Corporate America is a breeze compared to the obstacles I’ve had to overcome to get here. The politics are as straightforward as the recipe for my father’s bread loaves when compared to what I had to do to maintain status in high school. All the sacrifices paid off when I accepted my position with the Company. I arranged for the job to be offered in a city far away, to minimize any chance of my humble roots interfering with my career goals. I was working with MBAs from the top schools. I dressed as if I had stepped out of GQ, with a BMW, a condo in a prestigious hi-rise building, expensive consumer electronics, European vacations, and fluoxetine (the chemical name for Prozac) for cosmetic psychopharmacology. The desirable amount of a chemically enhanced sparky personality gave me the confidence to remind management of my brilliance with enthusiasm and conviction.
Wilson’s exaggerated ravings about the dangers of the sycophants and the President’s Club were living proof that my career model was achieving the desired results, I was certain of it.
Chapter Four - The Strategic Advantage
I confirmed the school district’s purchase order in the Company’s sales tracking system and walked to the foyer of our office building to share the big news. The foyer was best for having a discrete phone conversation, the cube farm not being private. Doris answered while I was looking in a mirrored wall for crow’s feet and gray hairs. There were no signs of either, just Doris’s lively voice.
“Hello,” she lilted.
“Indeed,” I replied.
“Oh Rod, have you heard?”
“Yes. I got a fax purchase order this morning. Roger should make it official this afternoon. I’ve already had it confirmed from other sources.”
“Wonderful!” There was an immediate uplift in her voice. “Where did you rank?”
“I’m not sure but probably between 80 and 90.”
“And only the top 100 get to go?”
“Yes, each with a significant other.”
“Significant other? That’s me!” She was practically squealing like a pig being readied for a luau. Exotic tropical islands brought out the inner child.
“So be your seductive best and maybe you’ll receive a windfall gift courtesy of my hard work and dedication. I got a huge boost from this sales promotion, double quota to clear out an old computer system. That really made the difference. I’m not sure I would have made it otherwise.”
“Is that the computer you sold to all those schools?”
“Right, the deal was the clincher. It made my annual quota for those antiques. Checks start coming soon and continue for years.”
“You haven’t been paid for it yet?”
“Not to worry about finances, my darling. Your new sable coat is not in danger. People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals will have fur coats outlawed before the enlightened educators discover their computers are obsolete.”
“Yes, I’ll need a new wardrobe! A new swimsuit, some outfits for tennis and golf, cocktail dresses...”
“Is that all?” I was enjoying the thought of showcasing Doris’s curves as she clung to my arm at the President’s Club. That would be blatant self-promotion. Doris attracts - demands - male attention with practiced ease, even in this politically correct world. There would be lots of face time with senior executives.
We first met when she strutted into the exclusive shoe boutique where I sold ladies’ shoes to pay the bills while completing my MBA. She tried on an expensive, hot red pair of Italian pumps with three-inch heels. The instant seductive rapport caused my hand to linger on her ankle. I followed her shapely calves as they disappeared in her too-tight-for-business skirt.
It was difficult to woo her away from the plastic surgeon whose credit card she brandished to pay for her selections that day. She left her phone number on the credit card invoice, played hard to get, but managed the interface nicely.
“It’s probably not all I’ll need,” she continued. “I haven’t been to Hawaii since I won the Miss Topical Tan title when I was 20. Which one of my little black dresses would be best for this trip?”
Each sample in her collection of very dramatic black dresses clung to her curves like a second skin. I could see the dirty old men on the company’s executive committee ogling and lining up for an introduction at the President’s Club Ball.
“We’ll go shopping soon. I’ve got to run now, must get ready for my lunch meeting with my manager,” I said, as she squeezed a kiss into the phone.
To know how to achieve and sustain a competitive advantage in the brutal contest for the Company’s top positions I’ve developed the strategy of interface management. It’s just a little tool that helps me to take maximum advantage of organizational change, a constant condition in the Company as you move up the corporate ladder.
Career opportunities always surface as interfaces - those areas where unfamiliar or unlike items meet. Interfaces always offer some risk and a corresponding reward because of the uncertainty caused by changed, from hair to skin, road to tire, land to water, hardware to software, customer to company, manager to subordinate, personal versus professional, ad infinitum.
Controlling where and when a dangerous interface is navigated give a tremendous advantage in knowing how to advance your career. Instead of reacting to the symptoms of change, observe the characteristics of the interface and gain a deeper understanding of the nature of the opportunity. Change creates added risk and vulnerability and can create confusion unless you’re prepared.
Gaining the quick and enthusiastic support of my manager, Roger, will help navigate the Company’s dicey political environment. In the Company’s rich traditions, one’s immediate superior is always a manager, not your boss. I have regular lunches with Roger to keep a reservoir of goodwill and support. Roger also manages rivals who will not be pleased to hear of my President’s Club achievement, reactions which must be neutralized. Today’s meeting is an excellent forum to up the drama for that interface.
En route to lunch I stopped at an exclusive haberdashery and bought a handsome pair of silk braces of the type worn by Wall St. financiers. Until now I hadn’t wanted to make this bold statement. In the Company’s rich traditions, the fast-rising young male superstars wear braces in lieu of belts, copying the Company’s senior management. I am declaring myself one of the anointed by sporting a bright new pair.
Roger was late as usual. We were meeting in a familiar spot he favored, an out-of-the-way Chinese restaurant nestled between railroad tracks, a cemetery, and a big freeway interchange. It was dog-eared red brick building with red carpet, red walls, and a red tiled ceiling adorned with red hanging paper lanterns. We always joked that the meeting spot was picked from a pulp detective novel so that nobody would recognize us.
“Congratulations Rod,” he beamed through his outsized smile as he strode into the dim dining room. I pushed myself back from the table, stood and shook his outstretched hand heartily. “Great work, you really nailed it for the quarter and the year.”
“Thanks Roger, I hope I was able to help the team in some small way.”
We sat and the waitress came with big red menus. No mention of the President’s Club as I let him carry the conversation. Smiles are a required fixture in the Company’s culture and Roger’s was firmly in place, as was my chemically enhanced professional version. Having the menus memorized, we ordered immediately.
“We’re having our end of the year sales meeting next week and we’ll announce the individual rankings for quarterly and annual performance,” he said. “I expect you to do very well in that ranking.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I replied as the waitress arrived with our hot-and-sour soup appetizer. “It’s been a lot of hard work. I benefited tremendously from that Series One promotion.”
Roger spooned some of the spicy soup. “You probably should start making travel plans. It’s likely the extra credit you got from that promotion will put you into the President’s Club.”
I feigned surprise, stopping my soup spoon in mid air, dropping my arm and letting the spoon clang noisily inside the bowl. To give a proper display of shock, I relaxed the professional smile.
“Really? What about Jane or Steven, they landed some nice deals and were way above quota.”
“Yes, they’ve worked hard, had good years and will be recognized. But they were not able to benefit as much from the double quota credit of the Series One promotion, so in the final analysis you’re going to score more points. This shouldn’t be too much of a surprise to you, judging by your new braces.”
I let his remark about the braces pass unacknowledged. “I know Jane and Steven worked hard,” I replied. “I often saw them taking their laptops to play golf.”
The practice was frowned upon but sales orders were routinely entered at the end of a month from wireless laptops at the country club where we maintained our corporate membership. Jane and Steven were rivals for the President’s Club and I wanted to put some distance between them and myself before assuming the pregnant silence, a practiced skill among the Company’s executives. A pregnant pause or strategic lack of comment and commitment is a subtle and powerful tool, magnified when accompanied by a beaming smile. I resumed the professional smile and remained silent. Our entrees arrived and we ate with chopsticks. Roger made small talk, going on about sports, his favorite subject, the success of his sales team this year and prospects for the next.
The big smile is a staple in my catalog of behaviors to create favorable impressions of myself. Another favorable impression entry in the catalog is the bottomless wellspring of positive comments. I delivered this through the professional smile as we were finishing and Roger was paying the bill, an endless succession of expressive, positive comments, such as “Great,” “Super” or my favorite, “Outstanding”.
As we were leaving the restaurant, Roger casually mentioned again that I should make plans to go to Hawaii in two weeks. I added some more wattage to my professional smile and nodded, saying how honored I was to be representing our sales team.
My manager is a great guy. He probably will retire in his job and is not a role model for me. My biggest worry about Roger was almost history - that he might uncover some trivial untruth buried in my personnel file and not promote me fast enough. Any incorrect facts in my personnel records will be of no concern once I’m in the inner sanctum.
For the past three years I’ve paid lip service to the attitude desired by management - teamwork makes success. This sounds great until it’s time for promotions and only one person walks away with the prize. Individuals, not teams, are promoted. Individuals, not teams, win the President’s Club. It’s a neat bit of acting to appear as a loyal team member while using interface management turbocharged with cosmetic psychopharmacology to leapfrog the competition.
How should a new President’s Club member look? Examining my face in the bathroom mirror in my high-rise condo that evening, I zoomed in on the left side to check the haircut. It had to be just at the top of the ear, and it was, the skin evenly tanned to, and underneath, the groomed, but not-too-recently-cut, ends. Doris had convinced me of the benefits of visiting a tanning booth to develop a base tan before arriving in Hawaii, for looking my professional best at the President’s Club.
Grooming is an investment and with impeccable manners, a vital self-promotion tactic. Its part of how you accelerate your career, demonstrating breeding while avoiding mistakes and staying visible in front of senior management. I’ve trained myself to say trousers in lieu of pants, have mastered etiquette from multi-party introductions through seven-course meals, and conversing politely over cocktails. My predatory instincts are chemically masked by a mannerly, discrete and polite façade, always smiling.
There would be photo sessions at the President’s Club with a photo in the Company’s annual report. A group picture but still excellent visibility to keep the career on the fast track. I punched Doris’ number into my cell phone. She still was giddy about the trip.
“Rod, this isn’t going to be all business, is it?”
“Quite a bit, I’m afraid.” Doris’ expectations needed managing. “It’s a very important occasion.”
“Can we go somewhere exciting on our own for a few days after the meeting, just to relax and be ourselves - have some fun and unwind from all the business?”
“Maybe, we’ll see,” I replied, knowing Doris was in her natural element on the beach or in a roomful of men.
“I just love the beach! Especially in February!” She was squealing again. “I’ve got to run, my favorite show is coming on and I’ve got to do my nails. Shopping this weekend, bye!”
She squeezed a kiss into the phone and I could hear the TV in the background. It was time to take a look. The balcony of my 48th floor condominium offers a superb view of the ever-changing patterns of lights in the skyscrapers. I reached up and stretched my arms over my heard before returning to my dresser for my new braces, a rich navy silk with a maroon and yellow vertical stripe. I put them on in front of the bedroom mirror, paying particular attention to how the braces interfaced to the buttons inside the waistband of the trousers.
My powerful spotting telescope, mounted on a tripod, could bring into close focus the Company’s World Headquarters, an eye-catching skyscraper a scant half-mile across the park. Many evenings I would spy on the Company’s senior management team seeking subtle and deep clues for how they acted privately. I had a complete journal of these observations to help me to emulate their personal styles, including a litany of sordid after-hours executive behavior. I logged the usual office peccadilloes of the Company’s senior executives when the lights burned late. Currently we had two male executive vice presidents enjoying after work trysts in their offices with female employees.
I opened the patio’s sliding door and threaded my way through the barren flower pots and planters to the telescope by the railing. A deep breath of the cold air and the energy rising from the streets instantly calibrated me for some executive suite stimulus. There was a soft green light, not the workaday fluorescent glare, in the expansive corner suite of Don “Butch” Gross, the president and chief operating officer of the Company. That glow signaled that Butch and one of his kittens were at it again, frequently in some kinky bondage and discipline ritual. Tonight it’s his old reliable, Zelda Hitchcock, a plaything and probable information source whose day job is executive assistant to the Company’s chairman and CEO. I had observed her countless times playing with Butch in his office over the past two years. This would merit a log entry.
The good life is quite extraordinary, courtesy of my mother’s angels, cosmetic psychopharmacology and interface recognition. I knew how it was done. Caesar must have felt like this when he first saw Gaul waiting to be conquered. All the life and energy of the city ebbed up in the crisp late winter air and lit my diodes. Just like Sherman McCoy or Jay Gatsby, I felt the complete master of my universe, a real comic book hero, all I needed was a cape.
The log entry said, “Vini, vidi, vici, Butch and Zelda are at it again.”
Chapter Five - Prophet of Profits
“So what do you know about the President’s Club,” I shouted to be heard above the street noise. I removed my gloves and fished in my pocket for a $10 bill for a bratwurst with chips and diet soda. Loud rock and roll blaring from Sigmund’s boom box added to the cacophony.
Sigmund smiled through his bushy beard, layering a thick line of mustard onto a spoonful of onions heaped onto a juicy brat. He was playing rock now, maybe Led Zeppelin, I couldn’t be sure. He varied the music selection with the hour of the day. Lunchtime was usually something that demanded to be played very loud. In mid-afternoon he would switch to something that played well at a lower decibel level, such as classical, or new age but his musical selection was always changing “to stay abreast of the market”. A knowledgeable observer could glimpse the concealed trader’s workstation in a bottom compartment of his hotdog cart, the screen glowing like a nuclear heat source below the tubs of rising steam.
“The President’s Club? You’re going to the President’s Club?” he smiled, handing me my brat, taking the proffered bill.
“Yes, I’ve had a good year so I’m looking forward to a week in Hawaii.”
“Alignment. The President’s Club is all about corporate alignment,” he replied.
“Alignment? You’re not talking about the front end of your car, or maybe what a chiropractor does to your spine?”
“One of the Company’s grand traditions is what I’m talking about. Aligning the Company’s operations with strategy is the objective of the President’s Club.”
Sigmund varied his costume daily, calling his changing costumes his business suit, always changing to “keep keep up with changing markets and avoid going stale.” Today he was in Hasidic garb, orthodox Jew with full beard, Homburg, and fashionable dark glasses, ruling his cart like a Yiddish Captain Ahab.
“Alignment with strategy? So in addition to being a reward for top performing salespeople, the President’s Club provides a forum for getting the sales force onboard with strategy?”
“Strategy always is synonymous with profitability. Increasing profits. That’s it. Profits always comes first, especially at the President’s Club,” he replied. “The business of the Company is increased profitability. So the President’s Club presents a unique forum to implement plans to increase future profitability.”
“So how do they do that at the President’s Club? Do they have some special motivational programs to get salespeople fired up to work harder? Training to increase sales productivity?”
The lunchtime trade was queuing up and customers increasingly interrupted my dialogue with Sigmund. He served three while I munched my brat in the cold winter air.
“Big risk for you, that’s what the President’s Club is,” he began as he wiped some spilled mustard from the stainless steel. “Career ending plans for some. There’s already a list of those at risk for termination as the Company plans to downsize the sales force to a more appropriate level based on next year’s forecasted revenues. If you are expecting to relax go somewhere else. Don’t confuse the President’s Club with anything other than business of the most serious type.”
More customers came and went. It was too cold to finish eating. I tossed the rest of my brat and unopened chips into a trash can and returned my kid skin gloves to restore circulation to my hands.
“Let me get this straight,” I began again when the crowd thinned. “You’re saying its part of the Company’s strategy to terminate some of their top account executives at the President’s Club?”
“Execution is what it’s all about. Simply executing a business plan to exceed Wall St.’s expectations and increase the share price. Revenues keep growing at a 12-to-15 percent clip yearly. The Company doesn’t need a large stable of very expensive talent to do that, given the Company’s pre-eminent position in the marketplace.” Sigmund was waving his serving tongs like a symphony conductor as he spoke. “Wall St. is impressed with companies that can continually grow more revenue per dollar of sales expense. For more than 20 years it’s been the primary tool to decrease sales costs against increasing revenues. It is a valid business strategy for any company with market dominance.”
He returned the serving tongs to a steamy hole before continuing. “It’s usually a big test to select those that will be terminated. Behind the scenes a cost-benefit exercise already has been performed to identify the most likely to be dismissed, with lots of politics rolled in. The Company’s traditions have intervened to make the President’s Club something akin to a tribal ritual, a running the gauntlet corporate style, a business and social test to survive.”
Agape, that’s what I was. My jaw was scrapping the sidewalk as I struggled to comprehend what Sigmund was telling me. He continued.
“You’re likely to be on the termination list if they’re uncomfortable with you in areas ranging from social skills to income potential.”
An incoming call sounded and Sigmund picked up his phone. This particular cart, the latest in a long line of Sigmund-designed and custom-built hotdog vending carts, included enough built-in electronic gadgetry to make James Bond jealous. It was a distinctive phallic shape sheathed in gleaming stainless steel with chrome accents, its lines subtly softened by classic pink and purple winged nacelles housing pink and white balloon tires. The call he was fielding was another in the many millions of dollars of financial trades he made daily, in between dishing up hotdogs from a sidewalk corner adjacent to the company’s World HQ.
“So if they don’t like you, you’re gone?” I asked after he returned his cell phone to its hiding place.
“On the spot. Up to half the attendees, depending on what the cost of sales has been for that year.” He drew a gloved finger across his throat to dramatize the execution. “Up to one hundred sales people in some years.”
“You mean to say that the Company gets rid of approximately half of their best account executives over some minor breech of etiquette?” My career-oriented, organization-loving mind was recoiling in denial. How could so much talent and hard work in clawing out a path to the top of the Company be so callously disregarded?
“Statistics tell the story,” he replied. “It’s all in the numbers, the analysis makes it impersonal, purely economics. They know you will probably repeat as a top performing sales representative. It’s statistically valid; the top 20 percent make a disproportionate amount of commission income. You make literally twice as much as the average sales person. Given the Company’s dominant market position, their products create their own demand. So why keep such expensive sales talent around to drain funds from the treasury? Recent college graduates can do the job for much less and they are much easier to mold and control. Read the literature, it’s all been well documented.”
I probably made close to three times what other three-year sales people made, thanks to the angels, the cosmetic psychopharmacology, and interface recognition. It seemed inconceivable to me that what he was saying was true. I could not grasp how that could be the Company’s plan, and how being a fast-rising sales star and having achieved the President’s Club in only three years had put a target on my back.
“This is incredible. It makes no sense at all. So that’s it? It’s all just one big seduction, to lure the top account executives into a trap so they can find an excuse to flush half of them? It just isn’t rational.”
“It may seem irrational if you have a moral and ethical code that conflicts with the Company’s pursuit of strategy. As a solution to the problem of finding the lowest cost distribution of information systems it’s very logical. Through the Company’s lens it makes perfect sense to control expenses in predictable markets that have a high cost of sales when you dominate the marketplace. To have a long career with the Company you need to directly support profitability and the prevailing political climate.”
“Sigmund, you worked for the company for what, eight years?”
“Seven,” he replied, “as an assistant treasurer in mergers and acquisitions.”
The rest of the story I knew: Sigmund Fracas had been directed to creatively finance a string of strategic acquisitions and equity partnerships to help pad the Company’s bottom line during an economic downturn. He made the requested transactions quickly and quietly. He left when his boss, undergoing a Securities and Exchange Commission investigation, made him a scapegoat and shifted the blame for the questionable.
Sigmund had washed his hands so clean of the corporate world that he didn’t even care that the SEC had barred him from trading securities for five years. He was totally on the outside now, an outlaw trader profiting from his sidewalk hotdog cart. I had discovered him when tailing some of the Company’s senior executives and directors. They would ritually come by Sigmund’s cart, one at a time, for dispensations of wisdom, clarity and atonement with a quick lunch. I quickly made the acquaintance of the maverick confessor.
“Well, maybe I should just stay home and play sick,” I speculated.
“Probably not an option, with your considerable investment in this venture as demonstrated by your manufactured tan. No-shows are not allowed, the first to go.”
His phone rang again and I eavesdropped as he bought several million dollars worth of short positions in gold on the Hong Kong exchange.
“Okay, so how do I survive? Who do I need to keep an eye out for?”
“Butch. Butch is in charge of selecting those for dismissal and the execution, the enforcer.”
Don “Butch” Gross, the president and chief operating officer and the subject of countless observations from my balcony. I knew how Butch rose in the Company along with other secrets from hacked emails. Now I had to be a President’s Club survivor, like TLA Wilson. How did he survive the years he won the President’s Club, with his tweedy and nerdy personality?