Archives for category: Corporate Matters

MULTIPLYING LIKE RABBITS

June 18, 2015 //
1

The Pirates of The Intellectual Properties

Haresh Shah

haresh_bunnyworld

Soon, Playboy was no longer just a magazine. There was Playboy Mansion and were Playboy Clubs and Playboy Bunnies and even Playboy theater and Playboy movies and television show Playboy After Dark, hosted by Mr. Playboy Hugh M. Hefner himself. And then there were Playboy products. The first noticeable were air fresheners dangling from the rear view mirrors, mostly of the cabs, auto decals donning black and white image of the by now ubiquitous rabbit head, key chains. Mostly cheap products. Most of them unauthorized and unlicensed. When you have a fertile swath of land, and the year is good and it rains and rains and rains, what happens? Suddenly, you have shrubbery and uncontrollable weeds. Nothing you can do. This was not in the plan. Literally, you see your rabbits multiplying at the pace you never in your wildest dream imagined. No way to stop them fornicating and swelling in population unless a natural disaster the scale of Malthusian theory of population were to strike. You can’t keep your act together to keep it all under control, let alone begin to reign them from growing greater.

Just the kind of situations trademark sharks around the globe are waiting for. While Hefner  decided not to put the month and the year on the cover of its first issue, sporting now the iconic black and white photo of Marilyn Monroe, for the fear that he may have to leave it on the stands for much longer, the copies of his pioneering publication flew off the stands like freshly baked soft pretzels at the Munich hauptbahnhof.

After the two mutually beneficial and highly successful back-to-back contract negotiations in São Paulo and Buenos Aires, my boss Bill (Stokkan) and I make a side trip to Córdoba to deal with the tricky business of trying to “buy back” our own trademarks. Something I have had only a limited knowledge of. This is our first trip together and being together 24/7 for several days has given us a unique opportunity to bond and to observe up close each other’s businesses. Now he has been our division’s head already for two years, but up until now he has left me alone with minimal of supervision and interference. Now he feels comfortable with the business of publishing and even so, he still leaves the details of making of the magazine to me, he has started to gingerly giving me his input into the business and the marketing side of what I do. Not only do I appreciate his invaluable input, but over the dozens of long drawn out meals we have shared, we have become more like partners in crime.

On our first outing together, he has brought his unique perspective and pragmatism to our two most delicate make it or break it negotiations his mantra. Let not the minimum guarantee become a minimum penalty. Both Roberto Civita in Brazil and Alberto Fontevecchia in Argentina are floored when Bill lays down the deals which screams WIN-WIN if successful and if not as much, Playboy would share in the risk. Sound fair?

After we’re done with the publishing business, we venture on to deal with the local problems of Bill’s core business – which is licensing and merchandizing of products bearing Playboy logo and other trademarks. That takes us to the second largest city of the country – Córdoba, 435 miles (700 kilometers) north west of Buenos Aires. It is the geographical center of Argentina and is proud of its colonial charms and the history. But from the little that we saw, I remember it to be dilapidated and dusty, almost a depressing town.

Before boarding the plane in Buenos Aires in the afternoon, we breakfast with Alfredo Vercelli of Editorial Atlántida, who has license to produce and market Playboy branded stationery in Argentina and the surrounding countries. We also touch basis with our local trademark attorney Julia Elena Tellechea over the lunch. Armed with her input, we land in Cordoba.

We are picked up by Carlos Rodriguez Pons – the holder and the king of Playboy trademarks in Argentina and its surrounding territories in the multiple categories, that exclude the magazine itself and other related publications and the paper products – but the list of other products he has registered is impressive. How well he is doing with them is questionable. But there are telltale signs in the car he picks us up in. It’s Mercedes Benz 350 SLC. Obviously, I barely manage to squeeze into the back seat of this what once must have been a fleshy sportswagen. Not any more. Soon as he puts the car in the gear, we hear the killer breaks – the metal grinding on the metal. The windshield has a major crack going across. For whatever reasons, he is unapologetic and oblivious to what we may observe. He takes us to his house. The furniture seems to have seen better days. The walls weather beaten and sun bleached. He shows us around his factory, the shopping mall he owns and a rental apartment complex. All of the entities are named PLAYBOY. He is the Mr. Playboy of the region.

‘I have never worked for a living,’ he muses.

Like multitudes of others around the globe, when he saw Playboy name and its logo rising, having become the second most recognized in the world after Coca Cola, Carlos Rodriguez promptly and smartly and swiftly registers the name with its logo and the rabbit head in as many categories as he can and then begins to license it to the regional merchandizers. Since he is the one who has legally registered and therefore the owner of the trademarks, Playboy would have no rights to do the same.

Once realizing the potential, Playboy began to file for registrations all around the world – but would be denied their application in the territories and products categories that were already registered by a third party. Most of the third party registrants are small time hustlers. They neither have a know how nor money or infrastructure to do anything with it. While some of them succeed licensing the trademarks they have registered to the legitimate and serious producers and merchandizers and collect royalties, however, they have no support system to nurture the licensees. Everyone knows that the products they are making or distributing are not legit – actually majority of them are of inferior quality. They might as well be the rip-offs from one of the third world countries or in those days maybe the contrabands from Hong Kong and China.

The best hope for the third party registrants is to be able to “sell back” those trademarks to the legitimate creators and the owners. And in the most cases, they succeed. The originators buy them back, if for nothing else, then to keep the inferior and illegitimate products off the shelves. And to preserve their reputation for the highest quality guaranteed by their superior standing within the industry.

We arrive in Córdoba late in the afternoon and allow our host to take us around and show us his empire. At the end of the day, Carlos Rodriguez takes us out for the traditional Argentine barbecue at Asado Don Polidoro. We talk and we listen. The great strategist that Bill is, he doesn’t utter a word about the business until it’s midnight. He is never the first one to blink. Every extra word is said, every expression shown on the face of the other, he studies and analyses them. From the day we spend with Carlos Rodriguez Pons, it’s clear to us that the man isn’t doing well with the Playboy trademarks he has registered. Then the question remains – what would those trademarks by now so abused and downgraded would be worth? How long would it take to legitimize them in the eyes of the producers and the customers? At what cost? Once lost, you can’t build back the reputation just like that – if ever.

As Asado Don Polidoro begins to roll up its doors, Bill strikes a deal with Mr. Playboy of Argentina – which is non-committal as can be and based on multiple “ifs”. Because Bill has already figured out by then that buying back of our trademark in Argentina at the very best would be a losing proposition. And so he lets it be. I am not sure if there was any follow up or not, other than the perfunctory pleasant thank you letter or two.

Long forgotten, just out of curiosity, I googled our friend Carlos Rodriguez Pons. He is still well and alive and still the “proud” owner of those Playboy trademarks. His company Playboy Internacional SA has three employees – which I presume are himself, his wife and their son. How well is he doing? I can’t tell from his web page. Like everything else featured on the internet the varnish shines brighter on the cover. Whether the inside pages are worth reading – I don’t feel like finding out. But one thing you’ve got to give Sr. Pons is the admiration for his perseverance and ability to survive – now for almost four decades.

© Haresh Shah 2015

Illustration: Jordan Rutherford

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

You May Also Like

OF BOOKS AND WHORES

THE TRADER OF EVERY PORT

ONCE BITTEN FOREVER SMITTEN

THE GHOST OF DON MANUEL

TABLE OF CONTENTS

On Friday, July 3, 2015

JUDGING THE BOOK BY ITS COVER

It never ceases to amaze me how people react to the fact that I worked for Playboy. They roll their eyes, wink and smile. Make a nervous comment, must be fun to work for Playboy. And then there are the ones who wrinkle their noses – Playboy!!! You can’t help but notice on their faces apparent disdain and/or disapproval. Though majority of them have never as much as flipped a single page of the magazine, they have a strong opinion of the publication.

 

Tags , , , ,
Categories Corporate Matters, Memoire, Playboy, Third Party Registrations, Trademarks

TO HELL AND BACK

May 21, 2015 //
2

Terrorized By The Righteous Rage

Haresh Shah

pointingfingers
I am impressed by the opulent looks of the agency. They show me around beaming with  pride at the facilities they offered. I, as a senior executive would have my own office, they tell me. Each office is named after the wonders and the major landmarks of  the world. Whenever possible, I would be assigned the Taj Mahal, they promise. I would have my own direct phone line and my personal voice mail.  I would have access to the support staff.

Hanging on almost every wall are expensively framed inspirational quotations by Dale Carnegie, Orison Swett Marden, James Allan, Malcolm Forbes, Lee Iacocca,  Albert Einstein  and such. The tone of the quotations assumes that you are down and out and are in dire need of pick me ups. Unlike clients in other businesses, we are the fired lame duck executives.

I still am not clear about what exactly I am supposed to be doing sitting in one of those little larger than cubicle offices, and more importantly, what it is that they would do for me. So I sit down with the president of Benson and Associates, Bob Benson and his partner Herb Lester, face to face for an initial interview. The interview itself lasts for more than an hour, during which they ask me whether my “separation” from Playboy was voluntary, as if there were such a thing!

For someone who is just fired after having twenty one years of fun filled life at the magazine, I am in fairly cheerful disposition. I have left the company with no hard feelings and am looking at my departure as an opportunity to do something else.

During the meeting, I make it very clear that I did not need any of the physical facilities that are customarily provided to all their clients. That I have all of it available to me in the comfort of my home. They tell me it would be great, we could work through faxes and phone calls. I share with them that  instead of trying to find another job in the publishing industry, what I would ideally like to do was to take advantage of the natural break in my career and try at least to see if there was something else I could do. I mention my fascination with the airlines. I wouldn’t be opposed to exploring either advertising or even the entertainment industry.

During and after the interview, Bob and Herb, excited, tell me that with my international experience, the language skills and the cross-cultural background, they could do wonders for me. Bob drops a few names of the chairmen and CEOs of the companies with whom he could set up appointments. They could send out 500 mailings! 500? But what do I know about how outplacement works?

And so it begins. They want me to come back for another two hour meeting so that we can go over CAPS (career and personal summary). CAPS contained what they called “materials”, an extensive questionnaire which establishes your existence as a total person.

‘Is this something you can mail to me?’  I ask. I sense an astonishing reluctance on the other end of the line.

‘I guess we can do that’ comes the lukewarm answer.

The next morning, FedEx delivers a bulky envelope containing fifty pages of questionnaire and almost as many pages of explanations/instructions detailing the procedures. Half of the questionnaire concerns itself with the work history and other work related issues. The rest asks you about the most intimate details about yourself, and each one of your family members, your relationship with them, what would you change in the way you grew up if you had to do it all over again, whether or not you had a good relationship with your spouse, what caused the divorce and why. The questionnaire stops short of asking  about your sexual preferences.

They contain psychological tests divided into several segments such as personal motivation and satisfaction, building blocks for the future, whether you were a leader or a follower, aggressive or passive, were an early bird or a night owl. Who was the best manager you worked for and the worst? Why? It is filled to the brim with buzz words of business school, good sounding but as useless as discarded banana skins. It takes me major part of three weeks, several hours every day, to answer those damn questions. By the time I am done, they had more information on me than would the CIA on President Clinton and his flings.

The outplacement agencies, like  funeral parlors, must  justify  their existence. This they seem to be doing well by playing on your vulnerability when you are at your lowest ebb.  Most of the discarded executives are absolutely devastated and destroyed when they are pushed out of their jobs on account of the revolving door management monopoly game called “reorganization”. The companies fish out big bucks to give you outplacement as a part of their severance package, mainly to absolve themselves of the guilt they would otherwise feel at having pushed you out after years of what may have  been loyal and productive service. One of my editor friends calls it “calling the priest”. They must take comfort in the knowledge that come Monday morning, you wouldn’t be completely lost, you will have a place to go to and people to talk to. There would be a phone and a make believe office and the secretarial pool, and even a pseudo-boss. Sort of sending you on to a halfway house, instead of discarding you cold turkey and leaving you out in the open all by yourself.

But this is not what I am thinking when I receive the CAPS package. After the initial amazement, I actually get into it with vengeance. The questions make me think and they give me a chance to analyze things I otherwise would have no reason to. I even enjoy digging deeper into my subconscious. By the time I am done, I have raked up solid twenty-three single-spaced typewritten pages, containing in excess of 8500 words.  Pleased with my handiwork, I send out to them the whole ball of wax.

A few days later, we sit down in Bob’s spacious corner office. For the next four hours, we review the pile of materials containing of close to a hundred pages. Bob goes down the list,  making notes, writing down his comments, asking me further questions – mainly asking me to elaborate on the answers I have already given in elaborate detail. I see Bob drawing  squares similar to tic-tac-toe and filling them with the letters D or P to determine what percentage of me was Dictatorial and how much I let my staff Participate in the process.

Moving right along, stopping just to go to the bathroom and refill our respective coffee and coke receptacles, I feel two distinct emotions. One, I am plain enjoying their probes into my personal life in a perverse sense. And yet, what constantly nags at me is the emotion that what did all these intimate details of my personal and professional life have to do with finding another job?  Why should I be telling these two complete strangers what was so personal and confidential part of who I was? They never as much as said it to me, but I could just feel their amazement and apprehensions at my answers to why Carolyn and I never got married but had gone ahead and had a child, had raised her out of wedlock and lived together for longer than an average American couple is married. When in the answer to the question “what would you like to change about your early family life and why?”  I said, “nothing, because I wish everybody was lucky enough to have been born in a family such as mine,” Bob throws a pointed glance at me with the curt, “nothing?”  As if it were some sort of crime to have had a happy childhood.

‘There is so much meat to this,’ concludes Bob.

‘Most everyone who comes to us wanting more of the same – but this is different!’ adds Herb.

I too feel a bit euphoric, like a kid who has just passed his orals with flying colors.

I see them again a little over a week later to partake in the Christmas party. It is interesting to meet with their other clients, curiously, majority of them are ex- CFOs. Though, the atmosphere of the party is cheery, I couldn’t help but feel a certain amount of sadness and desperation beyond those seemingly smiling faces. Not too long ago, they all must have been like roaring lions, mighty and powerful. And now, they must all feel like little lambs herded around by Bob and his sidekick Herb.

Soon after the holidays, I am invited to the agency’s the first fourteenth of the month luncheon. We talk for a while about our respective holidays and about the book I am working on and then he informs me that in order for them to proceed, he needed for me to “pull together” a country-by-country outline of my experience, knowledge, economic and political climate etc., of the parts of the world I had been in charge. I am not too happy about his request, but reluctantly, agree to do it.

While the pungent smell of the take out Chinese food still lingers in the air, he asks each one of us to share with the rest something about ourselves. One by one, everyone  bares his desperation to the group. Though there are some who aren’t quite as desperate and display sense of humor about the whole thing, all in all, here were the guys who had made it to the top of whatever their professional world was, and now suddenly they are left out in the open, with families to support, kids to send to college and mortgages to pay. Most of them, all dressed up in their crisp shirts and ties, coming in there day after day as if they still held regular jobs, answered phones, sent out resumes or whatever. It was sad. After  lunch, as we sit around to the chatter of our own voices, Bob complacently, if a bit self-consciously fishes out from his breast pocket what looks like Mao’s little red book.  He reads a bunch of “uplifting” quotes from it, as we all look on  apprehensively. Though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it and remember where, when and what it was that I had experienced – the whole scenario is reminiscent of something very similar and not very pleasant.

Soon as I have recovered from the holiday hangover, I pull together fourteen single spaced pages of my country-by-country  involvement.

‘The time has now come for you to work on your resume.’ Bob tells me.

I am not prepared for yet another “homework” thrown at me. If all they wanted was a plain and simple resume, prepared by myself, then I was missing the point.

Over the follow-up telephone conversations with Bob, it becomes apparent to me that they weren’t happy at all at having to do the resume for me. Some two months later they fax me  what they have put together for my perusal. As I discuss the contents of it with him, Bob couldn’t contain his frustration anymore and let it be known that “it is you who should be doing the resume and us editing it. Instead, you are having us do it and you editing it.”

This confirms to me what has been nagging at me for some time, if I did everything, then what did they do for me? After all, I was their client, wasn’t I?  My company was paying big bucks for their services, and all they said they would do for me was to “coach” me how to go about “marketing” myself. I choose to ignore him. The resume goes back and forth  several times. There is nothing in it that I couldn’t have done myself, or if I wasn’t up to it, the Alpha Word service across the street would have done a better job for a mere $25.00 and would have even printed it for me. It had more typos than I could count, some of it was plain redundant, and most of the resume swung between the present tense and the past.

Towards the end of the day on a Friday, once again we sit across from each other in his office to “fine tune” the resume. He takes the edited version of the resume to his secretary for her to make the necessary changes. As he once again takes his place across from me, he is fidgety, or more accurately, not happy. Finally, he lets it out.

‘You know, I am frustrated with you.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because I am at a loss as how to position you. We have all this information on you, and I don’t know how and what to present to someone like Phil Schmidt while I myself  am not comfortable with it.’

‘Who is Phil Schmidt?’

‘He is the chairman of Brandt, Schmidt and Kohl. He is one of the best there is in the advertising business. He is very open minded and the kind of person who would be willing to try new things.’

‘If you are frustrated Bob, it is obvious that I am as frustrated, if not more. When I first came to see you and  met with you and Herb, I had made it very clear that with all the international exposure and experience I have, I would like to explore communications fields other than publishing. At that time, you and Herb seemed excited.  I don’t see where there can be a misunderstanding, but it seems to me that we have misunderstood what you are supposed to do for me.’

‘Yes, we have.’

‘The way I see it, this isn’t quite working, is it?’

‘No it isn’t.’

‘Where do we go from here?’

‘We need to boil down the list to the top ten places to send out resumes to.’

‘Okay, so let’s look at the possibilities. United Airlines is based in Chicago, so are Foote, Cone & Belding and Leo Burnett. Maybe they could be the beginning.”

By this time he has moved to the other side of his desk. His face tenses as he eases his hand over his hair.

‘Only that I don’t know anyone at United, FCB or at Leo Burnett.’

I look back at him with bewilderment, remembering all those names he had dropped during our first interview.

‘We have a whole bunch of reference material in our library. I encourage you to spend four or five days and pour through the material.’

I am still looking at him with bewilderment, now mixed with a bit of confusion. What he is asking me to do I could do sitting at the Evanston Public Library.

His secretary interrupts us with a couple of hard copies of the resume. He holds those in one hand while retrieving another bunch of paper from his desk drawer. He lamely puts those on the desk.

‘Here are some sample cover letters that you should look at.’ I briefly flip through the bunch.

‘You know Bob, cover letters are not a problem. First we need to agree to the list of ten people to whom we should send the resume, and I can easily make up individual cover letter for each one of them. You know, I can do them without much of a problem.’

‘Then do it!’ He slaps down my resume and the diskette on his desk.

‘Fine. But I don’t see a reason for an outburst.’

‘Take that and get out of here.’

‘Come on Bob, let’s just agree that this isn’t working out, let’s just shake hands and forget about it.’ I extend my hand in a conciliatory gesture.

‘I said get out of here!’ He has raised his voice and now the contorted expressions of his face show flames of anger bordering on violence.

‘Fine, this is your office and you can throw me out or anybody else for that matter. Let’s just  shake hands and I will be out of here.’ And once again I extend my hand towards him. By now he has moved to the edge of the desk, diagonally opposite to where I am standing. Perhaps to acquire enough distance from my extended hand. He pulls his hands closer to his chest.

‘No! Get out of here, right now and never come back. I never want to see you again.  All the years that I have been in this business, I have never been as frustrated as you frustrate me.’

‘Just give me your hand once Bob and I will leave.’ The more I try to calm him, the angrier he gets. Now there are definite traces of violence on his face and if I had any sense, I should have gotten the hell out of there in a hurry.

‘Okay, fine.’ I say and pick up my files. His huge two hundred and fifty plus pounds body looms over me. He is breathing heavily and saying to me, as if in a chant – out, out, this very minute, pushing me out of there with his shadow. He follows me to the door, and it occurs to me that my leather jacket is in his closet. He charges back to the office, retrieves the jacket and throws it at me. By now, I should have been scared for my life. But as if possessed by a devil, I catch my jacket, looking straight into his eyes.

‘Give me your hand once, and you will never have to see me again.’

‘Get out!’ He roars.

‘I have been in this business since 1975, and I have never met anybody as lazy and frustrating as you.’ He delivers the coup de grâce before slamming the door on me.

As I wait for the elevator, suddenly I feel all shook up. He had not as much as touched me, but I could feel that he was on the verge of doing me physical harm. When I get in to my car and drive out of there, my entire body is shaking and suddenly I am terrified.

●●●●

And then I remembered.

It was almost thirty years earlier that I had sat around a dining table in a suburb of London, talking, in a similar manner as we did during that first fourteenth of the month luncheon. Our hosts were Mr. & Mrs. McLain, who had invited a bunch of us foreign students for dinner. In what I had thought to be out of the goodness of their hearts, turned out to be an attempt by Mr. McLain to shove Christianity down my throat. It was obvious to me from the grace Mr. McLain had said earlier that the bunch had gotten together to talk about Jesus. And talk they did. I sat there listening and not saying a word for about an hour.  I respected what they all believed in and there was nothing to argue. That is, until Mr. McLain began to knock down all of the world religions in general and  Hinduism and  Buddhism in particular. When I no longer could stand his barrage, I stepped in, however unwillingly.

‘Excuse me, Mr. McLain, but you are lucky that it’s me and not my father sitting here at the table.’

‘How do you mean it Mr. Shah?’

‘Your berating other religions of the world doesn’t make Christianity any better.’

Friendly Mr. McLain’s face suddenly turned tense. In the next few minutes he became a different man, hysterical and furious.

‘We will pray to the Lord, Mr. Shah, that he forgives you your ignorance….’

‘Please don’t Mr. McLain, I can take care of myself.’

‘Mr. Shah!’ he screamed in desolation.

Realizing there was no sense in me belaboring the point, I excused myself and made a quick exit. Mr. McLain followed me out in the front yard, screaming like a maniac. Christ will never forgive you Mr. Shah, you will pay for your deeds, you will go to hell, your soul will never find salvation. I pretended he didn’t even exist. This made him even more violent, he even attempted to hit me.  Fortunately, his wife had followed us, and was able to hold him back.

I had walked to the station on that cold January night. As I waited for the train, I began suddenly to shake and break out in a cold sweat. Echoing in my ears were Mr. McLain’s Christ will never forgive you Mr. Shah, you will pay for your deeds, you will go to  hell, you will never find salvation. And now, Bob Benson’s outburst, out, out, this very minute. As I stand in the garage, all shook up and sweaty, it is a déjà vu with both their screams and anger super-imposed on each other — beating on my brains like the African drums.

● Shorter version of this was originally published in The Wall Street Journal.

© Haresh Shah 2015

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

You May Also Like

THE CORPORATE CASTE SYSTEM

THE COMPANY POLICY

PERFECTLY UNBOUND

“HE’S A SON OF A BITCH”

On Friday, June 8, 2015

NOT SURE YET

Whichever iron in the fire lights up first. 🙂

Tags , , , , , , ,
Categories Consultants, Corporate Matters, Employment, Memoire, Outplacement Services, Playboy

THE ARABIAN NIGHT

December 18, 2014 //
2

From Irish Eyes To The Razzle Dazzle

Haresh Shah
haremgirl_2

The year before, Helga and Fred Baumgärtel (Mr. Playboy of the German edition – retired by then), Gudrun (Thiel) and myself  had gone to the Oyster Festival on a private trip. On the second day or so, Gudrun suggested PLAYBOY-Germany organize an Anzeigen-Meeting for next year’s festival. The participants, so she predicted, would sure be thrilled. I can still see her sitting by the portside, a glass of Guinness in her hand,  warming to the subject, as it were, while developing this wonderful idea. And so it happened.

Reminisces Andreas Odenwald – the editor-in-chief of Playboy Germany at the time. And I happened to be one of the dozen or so to join Germany’s top advertising executives who were invited with their partners to spend a long weekend in Ireland and experience the annual Oyster Festival. I don’t remember having eaten many oysters there, but drinking lot of Guinness to be sure.

We all meet up in Dublin and check into Gresham Hotel. That night Andreas and I stay up until three in the morning. Earlier, our guide, an attractive blonde, Clare Finnegan shows up and Andreas and I promptly develop incredible crush on her. That night sitting in the bar named Night Train, I hear a pretty and pretty drunk lady calling out: Hey handsome devil! Could have been for Andreas because he is certainly better looking, tall and handsome. The next day, it’s onto Shannon and Fitzpatrick’s Hotel. Late night again.

The morning after, Clare leads us to Galway and soon after we check into Ardilaun Hotel and  to the Oyster Festival. The day is cold and windy. The only way to stay warm is bar hopping. What I remember vividly is that I urged you all to follow me into the pub “King’s Head” the history of which had thrilled me the year before. Myth has it that the tavern was given by Oliver Cromwell’s people, to one Richard Gunning as a reward for beheading King Charles I in 1649.

When that’s not enough to keep us warm, Andreas and I pop into a clothing store and buy ourselves identical plaid flannel shirts – forming what I have come to call Plaid Brothers. We watch the Oyster Festival parade and admire the Oyster Queen Maeve. There is a gala banquet at Great Southern Hotel, which is where it all began back in 1954. Held there is the ceremony and crowning of the Queen. We have a Playboy table up onto the balcony. When everyone is properly fed and drunk, Maeve floats from table to table spilling her sweet smiles, hugging some of us. As she grazes my neck with hers, I hear her say: I would like to take you home with me. Wow! I am 53, and she is, what? Eighteen. I guess they grow them differently in Ireland!

It’s raining that night and it’s as late as the previous nights. Clare has plans to get us up earlier in the morning and take us to show another Irish landmark. We’re all dreading it. But she is duty bound and insistent. She offers sweetly to even be our wake up call. Still, we strike a compromise. It’s a no go if it’s still raining. We all go to bed praying for rain like the drought ridden farmers in India. The phone rings at seven. It’s Clare crooning softly: I’m singin’ in the rain.

Two days later, I am sitting in the restaurant Casserole in Munich with Andreas and his deputy Bernd Prievert. Andreas and I are still savoring our weekend in Galway and begin to talk about how we can do something similar the next year, but on a bigger scale to celebrate the 20th anniversary of Playboy in Germany.

Within three weeks Andreas is fired. Our partners Bauer Verlag replaces him with Wolfgang Maier. Sad, but that’s how the corporate roller coaster turns. I miss soft spoken and suave Andreas, who had also become a good friend. Now I am subjected to deal with loud and arrogant Wolfgang. Which is a bit difficult. Because he is pure and simple defiant.

He has a vision to turn back the tide of the declining circulation and the advertising revenues. Whatever his claim to fame, I haven’t seen one ray of hope in his ability to do that. His resume looks like hop, skip and jump. He has his own image of Playboy, which has almost no relationship to the magazine Hugh M. Hefner created forty years earlier. My job it is to make sure that each foreign edition, even in it’s diversity retains certain salient features of the mother edition.

Not that I haven’t butted heads with the others, but at the end of the day, we would have always managed to come to a mutually acceptable and satisfying compromise before moving forward with our combined ideas. Not so with Herr Maier.

‘I will make us all so much money that neither Chicago nor Hamburg (Bauer Verlag’s headquarters) would have any reason to complain!’ He once tells me condescendingly, as if handing a bag of candies to a little kid to pacify him.

By the time twentieth anniversary rolls in in August 1992, we have established some semblance of working relationship. The anniversary issue and its celebration is pushed off a month to accommodate the return of the Europe’s vacationing advertising executives. In the meanwhile, the event has been hyped and built up to be the happening of the decade – the self proclaimed BIG BANG affair.

For the first time three of us U.S. Playboy executives are going to be attending the party. So is the top brass from Hamburg. We are assembled in Munich’s newly opened City Hilton on Rosenheimerstrasse. I have just flown in from Chicago. Playboy’s Publishing Group President Mike Perlis and the divisional marketing director Henry Marks too may have already landed from New York and should soon be on their way in. Also joining us is Ivan Chocholouš from Prague.

This landmark anniversary means more to me personally than to anyone else present. As far as I can tell, I am the only one who was there as a part of the German team almost from the very beginning. Several editors and art directors and advertising directors have come and gone and as the reality of the corporate life goes, none of the past creators of the magazine have been invited.

The event is held in two of the big glass houses of Munich’s Botanikum. Set up in the Theaterhaus are various arcade games with pinball machines and the popular fuss Bal, the games room made in the image of Playboy Mansion West, but roomier and more dramatic with the multi-colored track lights beaming down from the ceiling high up above.

The adjacent Grashaus with the slanted glass roof and the glass side walls are lined with the panels of white fabric and is set up like an elaborate and lavish tent in the desert. The atmosphere in it is a bit more relaxed and is set up for mingling and eventually would serve as the dining room. It is decorated with tall potted plants, huge white cushions placed on the ground in circles around cloth covered very low square tables. The ground is the naturally grown lush grass lawn. Wafting from the piped in music are soft tunes and the chirping of the birds. It’s to be the Garden of Paradise  à la the Sheikhs and the Pashas.

Creation of Bettina and Heinrich Bunzel, the Botanikum is conceived to seamlessly blend together the humans, the art and the nature in an urban setting of North Western Munich. We too have good memories of the Playboy event in our green houses. It was one of our first big party at the Botanikum. Herr Bunzel fondly remembers, reminding me of the long forgotten details about the venue. The photos he was kind enough to send me shows how much planning and work went into preparing the two green houses for the events. The result is absolutely spectacular.

Invited are who’s who of the industry, pre-dominantly the top executives of Germany’s advertising world. The party is to impress upon them that the new & improved Playboy under Wolfgang Maier’s helm was just the right vehicle to showcase their luxury cars, higher end liquors and no-one can afford brands of watches, computers, electronic gadgets and other toys for the grown up boys.

We make our way to the venue, dressed formally in our evening best. The low tables and sitting on the pillows on the ground is not something we’ve anticipated. But the first hour or two are us standing, cooling our hands with the chilled glasses filled with champagne and other beverages. Scurrying around, serving drinks and appetizers are not the ubiquitous Playboy Bunnies, but equally as young, curvaceous and pretty women dressed in billowing multicolored loose and transparent pants, thin see through scarves wrapped around their heads like Gypsies and tight fitting tops over their bare midriffs like that of the belly dancers.  The band of them scuffling and delicately negotiating their prancing in the middle of us conjures up the image of the Houris – the sex slaves of the paradise, made to descend to the earth to entertain every whim of the men on earth and make themselves available in total submission. As Naomi Chambers describes in her article Houri – The Islamic Sex Slave In Paradise: When he (her master-husband) tells them to bend over – they must bend over. When he tells them to open wide – they must open wide.

They have hired professional models to do the job. The girls are obviously beautiful with near perfect bodies. Just like Ms. Chambers quotes from numerous Hadiths and Quran – whitish virgins, beautiful with tight transparent bodies, wide eyes, of the firm pointed breasts and permanently Brazilian waxed pussies. Their bling adorned curves make pleasantly soft jangling sound and throw back the blinding rays at the every move they make. There is a sudden hush in the air, appreciation even and wonderment. Probably because we are still in the process of deciding whether or not we like what we see. And if the tableau reflects what Playboy as a magazine and the lifestyle should project. Not to mention the misogynist message the event would communicate.

But we file away those thoughts because while we’re getting drunk without realizing and beginning to feel the chill in our bones, for the unseasonably cold air outside has permeated through the glass walls and it has suddenly turned cold and we’re all starving and yet there is no sign or whiff of the food wafting our way. They are having some logistical problems transporting our dinners from wherever and then having to keep it warm.

Now we are seated on the floor, cross-legged. Soon our legs begin to go numb and some of us begin to feel the cramps ripple all the way down to our feet. We wiggle and shift our weight from one hip to another – change positions. We try to keep each other amused for a long while before we see the Houris  parading down the aisles towards our tables with the large trays perched atop the palms of their hands. They are having hard time negotiating the open spaces and balancing the plates while trying to avoid tripping on the flowing fabric of their loose pants and managing not to be blinded by the scarves flailing over their heads. Absolutely amazing how they successfully avoid dropping one or more of the plates and gracefully place them on the barely two feet high tables.

We all take a collective breath of relief and like famished Neanderthals tackle the feed. Just to find out that the gourmet dinner was barely lukewarm. We gorge it down nevertheless – or could be that that we may have stopped at the City Hilton’s all night cafeteria and grabbed ham and cheese sandwich and beer? But I certainly didn’t.

By the time I make it to bed, it is four in the morning. Famished, disillusioned, jetlagged and absolutely drained, I immediately fall asleep. I have seven o’clock breakfast meeting with Mike and Ivan before I depart with Ivan on a several hours drive to Mariánské Lázně in Czechoslovakia and get ready for that night’s reception for Playboy sponsored fund raiser.

Charmed life indeed!

© Haresh Shah 2014

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

You May Also Like

ALL ABOUT WILD PARTIES AT PLAYBOY

SCENES FROM MISS PLAYBOY INTERNATIONAL BEAUTY PAGEANT

THE DUTCH TREAT

DINING WITH THE STARS

Next

CHRISTMAS BREAK FOR TWO WEEKS

Playboy Stories to return on Friday, January 09, 2015

TENDER LOVING CARE

The winter of 1983/84 in Chicago was as severe as the one we had in 2013/14. The mounds of snow on the ground. Constant sub-zero temperatures for days on end. The cars wouldn’t start. Our radiator freezes and cracks. And one of my office plants is frozen stiff.

Tags , , , , , , , , ,
Categories Corporate Matters, Germany, Memoire, Playboy, Playboy Promotion, Travel

THE NAIL THAT STUCK OUT…

November 20, 2014 //
1

Haresh Shah

Daring To Be Different

geishabrau
When our Japanese partners were reported what Shah-san was up to all through the week, flabbergasted, the executives and the editorial team are in awe of the fact that an executive of Playboy Enterprises was in their country expressly for meeting with them and yet they would not see him for an entire week. They were equally astonished when heard from Ray Falk’s office that Mr. Shah, nay Shah-san, accompanied by Sasaki-san, was crisscrossing  their country and visiting places in an attempt to glean first hand some understanding of the land  and its culture, its people in general and the young existing and potential readers of the Japanese edition of Playboy in particular.

Even though they didn’t know what to make of this Shah-san, they were positively impressed and intrigued, not to mention amazed. And then approved of my itinerary as was set up by Ray’s office. The places I would visit and the people I would be exposed to should give me a fair idea of some of what they had hoped to communicate to me when Lee (Hall)  had originally conveyed to them what my mission would be working with the new team.  That my role would go beyond giving them pep-talk,, turn around and then catch a plane back home. That I would roll up my sleeves and work hand-in-hand with them, not only in making and re-defining the magazine itself, but also talk about and make possible ancillary publishing activities as an extension to the regular issues.

I have returned to Tokyo that Friday night from our six day long exploratory trip through the country. On Saturday morning, I am met by Yuko Kato of Shueisha. American educated, Yuko is not a part of the creative editorial staff. She is more of an “it” girl who is assigned to expose me to the bustling with colors and the neon lights in the high decibel city of Tokyo. Yuko is in her mid-to late twenties, moon faced – sort of an attractive girl who is brimming with energy and enthusiasm to add and to finish up what Yastaka Sasaki had started out. It’s a rainy and a crowded day. Not that Tokyo is ever without crowd, but it’s Saturday and the people are out in troves, further cramming the space with their colliding umbrellas. Yuko and I huddled under a large umbrella loaned by the hotel, we negotiate the streets and alleys of the city. Duck in and out of the various places that I would visualize years later when I began to read works by Haruki Murakami. Neighborhoods clustered with cafes and jazz clubs and the cozy little bars and down home compact and crowded mom and pop eating places. The dark and narrow alleys, dingy little public establishments, the smallness of everything that would eventually define Tokyo and Japan for me.

After having stuck to the typical Japanese eating places through the week, Yuko takes me to the Italian Toscana and French Ile de France.  At night we end up at the Tokyo branch of the discotheque  Maharaja. We spend most of the Sunday roaming about the all alluring neon signs bedecked Ginza. That night I have a date with uncle Jaman’s publishing associate Frank Watanabe accompanied by Mrs. Watanabe and his son Nori. They take me to Zakuro, an exclusive and expensive Shabu-Shabu restaurant. Sort of like Swiss fondue, cooking your own food in the boiling water in a larger pot, instead of in smaller fondue pot sizzling with oil. We are seated on the floor and are served by traditional Geishas. They prepare the spread for us, making sure that the water is properly heated and spiced and then bowing, reverently walking backwards, leave us to prepare and enjoy our meal. Popping in now and then to make sure our Sake cups are filled and if we’re in need of anything else.

Submerged in all things Japanese for an entire week, now I feel ready to face the Shueisha crowd and hopefully be able to ask and answer and defend a group of them sitting across the long conference table, with me alone on the other side, albeit Sasaki or Kayo Hayashi interpreting by my side.

Even though I have already forgotten about the hot water I had found myself in five years earlier over Norman Mailer’s The Executioner’s Song,  however faint the memory, it still plays out in the front of my eyes.

As I face about ten of them, sitting across the table from me, the showdown about to erupt, conjures up the image of a hundred Kauravas to my lone Arjuna with Krishna as my chariot driver on the battle field of Mahabharata. Me having to fend off my hundred step-brothers, the bows tensed and the arrows ready and pointed at me like in a modern firing squad, over something I had presumed settled between them and the rights manager Jean Freehill in my office. The Japanese language rights to the excerpt  of the Mailer book. That was 1979 and to the best of my memory the beginning of splitting of the rights to the text that was bought by Playboy. Up until then, the rights to the text would normally be available to all of our editions around the world. But not in the case of The Executioner’s Song. The foreign rights were sold separately. Playboy wasn’t even given an option to bid on them.

I no longer remember exactly, but to add an insult to the injury, the Japanese rights were sold to Shueisha’s arch rivals, Kodansha. I knew our rights department had fought and negotiated hard for our international editions, but to no avail. I remember some clever literary agent summing it up for me. There is no such thing as exclusive rights any more, that the rights now could be infinitesimally divisible. Whew!!

Soon the pattern followed when Playboy bought a bunch of short stories by Gabriel García Márquez, our internal table of contents started showing up with NO FOREIGN RIGHTS stamps in the bold type face. In my naiveté, I show up at García Márquez’ agent Carmen Balcell’s office in Barcelona.  I offer her $10,000.00 for foreign rights. She all but laughs me out of her office. But considering that after all I was a señor de Playboy, gives me as a gift, the original first edition of the master’s El Amor en los Tiempos de Cólera. The book I still cherish and from which read a paragraph now and then and be in awe of how fluid his original words in Spanish are.

Even though this phenomena of  NO FOREIGN RIGHTS  by now is more of a norm than an exception, I am still prepared to face the “squad” with whatever grill worthy issues they may have to confront me with.

But wonder of all wonders, this time around, not only they don’t have any bones to pick with Chicago, there are absolutely no group meetings planned. My whole week of already being in Japan and not wanting to see them so that I would have a better feeling of things Japanese, have thrown them off balance. Instead they have decided to meet with me individually or in pairs to discuss with me section-by-section of how they envision the future editorial direction of the magazine and are eager for my input. And even more astonishing is: other than a perfunctory quick visit to the editorial department, they have arranged to meet with me informally at cafes and bars. In restaurants and talk over lunches. Absolutely un-Japanese thing to do.

I guess I have earned my stripes over the five years since my last visit to Tokyo by collaborating closely with them and having facilitated several mutually profitable special projects. My week long trip through their country expressly designed to get know them better has added to the PR rhetoric from Lee and Ray. It has become clear to Shueisha, that Shah-san is not there to lecture them. That honest to God, as communicated to them, I am indeed there to roll up my sleeves and become a part of their team  in Tokyo and their solid ally when back in Chicago. They are appreciative and welcoming in the way I would have never imagined the Japanese would ever do.

I am overwhelmed by the biggest honor bestowed upon me one evening by the top Shueisha executive Mr. Tadashi Wakkana by hosting a dinner for me at the garden restaurant Happoen. Invited are about twenty of the company’s top executives and the editorial staff of Playboy.

It’s a traditional Japanese affair in which we are all seated on the floor in a large circle and are being entertained by a group of Geishas. What I remember fondly of that evening and with a smirk on my face is: as we settle down, an aging and experienced Geisha kneels down in front of me. She is holding a platter full of little ceramic Sake cups surrounding the tokkuri (carafe), ready to be filled . The polite most and the traditional thing for me to do would have  been to motion her to fill the cup and then wait for all the glasses being served and for Mr. Wakkana to propose a toast.

As much as I love Japanese food, raw fish as in sushi and sashimi and all, I just haven’t acquired taste for the two of their most traditional beverages. Green tea and Sake. And what I really feel like having is and normally drink with the Japanese food is one of their great beers – fresh and chilled.  Either Kirin or Sapporo. But at the time, I am in my newly acquired taste for the crisp and cold Asahi Dry phase. I almost accept the cup of Sake, and then thinking to myself, that would mean an evening full of drowning the potent liquor that I didn’t care for in the first place, why not be honest and have a beer instead? After all, I am the guest of honor! I also know that by then I have accumulated fair amount of capital in the goodwill, perhaps I can risk just a little bit of it and dare order a glass of the thirst quenching beer instead.

So I ask the Geisha, whether they had any beer? For a moment, just for a split second, there is a palpable hush in the room. I have knowingly committed a faux pas. But then, without missing a beat, from the opposite side of the circle, Mr. Wakkana commands: ‘I’ll have a beer too!’ And guess what? Everybody in the room orders biru. Very Japanese thing to do. Deru kui wa utareru. Literally: Nail that sticks out, gets hammered  down!

It turns into a lovely evening. Along with the exquisite food, first the beer and than the Sake also flows. Rest of my stay goes well. The discussions, the agreements, the concrete plans and the time table for their execution of editorial changes and the promotion to follow.

But there still had to be a group meeting. Not the kind I remember from my earlier visit, cooped up in a windowless corporate meeting  room, sitting around with a group of editors at a long conference table with me alone on the opposite side with Kayo or Sasaki sitting next to me to interpret.

This time around, they have another surprise waiting for me. On Thursday afternoon, Sasaki and I board yet another bullet train and head for the resort town Hakone, known for its hot springs and picturesque Mount Fuji, about sixty miles (96 km) south of Tokyo. After having checked into yet another Ryokan, Sasaki escorts me to the inn’s spa featuring its own private hot tub. Sitting around are all the editors I have worked with through the week, naked as jaybirds and sipping on their Kirin beers, the bottles resting by them over the rim. The splashing in the tub and drowning of beer and an elaborate dinner that follows makes for a wonderful farewell. Mission accomplished, I am touched at finally being admitted to their inner circle.

© Haresh Shah 2014

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

Related Stories

SEX EDUCATION À LA JAPONAISE

BOYS’ NIGHT OUT WITH PLAYMATES

A NIGHT OUT IN TOKYO

You May Also Like

THE BEST MAN AND THE BRIDE

THE TAIWANESE BARBER SHOP

 

Next Friday, November 28, 2014

UNDERNEATH HER CLOTHES

You might think that the glamour photographers who shoot the nudes would be devoid of any such male fantasies. After all, what would remain to fantasize about when you see the most beautiful women in their most seductive attributes through your lens and watch them prancing around the studio in the nude, day in and day out?

Tags , , , , , , , ,
Categories Corporate Matters, Culture, Food & Wine, Japan, Social Customs, Travel

THE BOSS’ DAUGHTER

April 24, 2014 //
0

The Impossibility Of Being Christie Hefner

Haresh Shah

christie_v.2c

‘What do these conferences mean to us?’

It’s a legitimate question. I have gotten to the meeting room earlier as usual to make sure things are set before everyone else begins to stumble-in in another half an hour. Only other person fussing around is Mary (Nastos), and then there is Christie Hefner. The two of us standing in the middle of the conference room on the lower floor of The Pontchartrain Hotel, New Orleans’ old European charm. I have been organizing Playboy International Publishing’s conferences now for years and no one has ever asked me the question. It was something that was handed down to me when I was re-hired by Lee Hall ten years earlier in 1978. I hadn’t given any serious thought to the question Christie posed – now the president of Playboy Enterprises.

‘Well, it’s mainly for all our editions to come together with their counterparts from around the world and discuss the year since they met last and establish some understanding of what lay in the future. From these meetings some international projects of common interest have been born and accomplished. The Soccer World Cup pictorial in 1986, which we produced in the host country Mexico and the Miss Playboy International Beauty Pageant, broadcast live in Hong Kong.

‘More important is they offer a venue for everyone to come together and bond. Even though we do have a formal agenda, what is more important in my mind are the informal dinners and other social activities. For four nights and three days, they are all together 24/7, and the relationships formed and enthusiasm generated are priceless. They go home with a feeling of belonging to a close-knit global family with us at head of the table. But most of all, for me, this is our Thanksgiving, having them all under the same roof gives them a feeling of belonging. Something only parents can provide.’

Not exactly in the same words, but that was the gist of what I felt and said in answer to her question. It seemed to me that she was skeptical about reasons other than the ones I mentioned, but I could sense a trace of agreement and understanding about us being parents and the concept of Thanksgiving. My answer must have satisfied her, because I never heard anything more about the conferences as I continued doing them year after year I was with the company, and as I write this in 2014, twenty one years since I left, another conference was concluded in London last summer. And soon they would begin planning one for this year. Now completely organized by Mary.

But this simple question did put me on guard. She as the president of the company must have been thinking in terms of the cost-benefit ratio of +/- $60,000.- an average cost to us to host the event every year.

●●●

I first met Christie in February of 1977. She was then twenty four years old. Fresh out of school and in the process of learning the ropes of the business her father had built. Lee had set up luncheon for us during my short stop-over in Chicago, en-route to Mexico City.

Strange, I don’t remember where we had lunch, but must not have been that close by. Because what I remember is a spark of static cracking when she touched the back of my hand in a gesture of parting before getting off the cab. I don’t remember what we talked about or what we ate. What I remember is: I was quite taken by her. I saw her as a charming young woman. Attractive, still in process of shedding her baby fat. I perceived her to be simple, friendly, unpretentious and congenial. Warm and a likeable.

Five years later, at the age of 29, she was named president of PEI. In the meanwhile, I had re-joined the international publishing division as its Production Director. Depending on how the company was organized and re-organized over the next years, I was at least two, if not three rungs below Christie – leaving me not having to interact directly with her. Playboy was still headquartered at 919 N. Michigan Avenue in Playboy Building with its bold white PLAYBOY letters lighting up the Chicago sky up above the Drake Hotel’s outlined in red neon sign. Our offices there were spread out over several floors, our paths hardly ever crossed. Except at some company functions and at the international conferences, at which she would be our star attraction.

By then I had become the department head with the corporate title of Vice President. Even so, I never reported directly to her, it became inevitable that I attend many of the management meetings and be the voice of the International Publishing. Something I didn’t cherish, but it came with the territory. Up until then, I successfully operated under the radar, did my job happily and never had to worry about the politics of the corporate life. But no longer.

But that’s not why I am writing this. The thing is: how could anyone ever begin to write Playboy Stories sans Christie Hefner?

●●●

I got to know Christie bit-by-bit. Her corporate side was always on guard. Always watching her P’s and Q’s and jumping over every hurdle of tricky questions asked of her. Having graduated summa cum laude from the prestigious Brandeis University, she was equally as bright in her day-to-day dealings. Her answers were brilliant. Her spellbinding ability of public speaking would have even the most averse listener in the audience in awe, or like Bill (Stokkan) used to say, he would get goose bumps whenever he heard her speak. How can you not marvel at her saying something like my asset goes home in the elevator every night at five?

She would do it without notes and without any prompting. How else would you claim to be a feminist and get away with running Hugh M. Hefner’s empire with Playboy magazine as its flagship? How do you even begin to stand up and defend your father frolicking with women so young as to be his grand daughters? But she did, and did it with aplomb. Her well articulated answers un-armed the person asking those questions – if not to their satisfaction, to realize that to stay on the same track was futile. They saw something intimidating in her friendly but firm demeanor. So they would let it be for she commanded enough respect to have earned that.

I am not easily intimidated. But I must admit that I often felt uncomfortable in Christie’s presence for no apparent reason and whenever possible avoided any un-necessary encounter with her. So much so that it never even crossed my mind to invite her to the opening night dinner for the mini-conference of the selected editions I held at my home in Evanston. Soon as Gary (Cole) mentioned that Christie was quite miffed at not being invited, did I immediately realize what a faux pas I had committed, remembering that one of her most favorite Indian dishes was chickpeas curry? Not much I could do about it. Something I have always lamented.

Christie was an asset so invaluable to be ignored. It’s been said that if there were no Christie Hefner, Playboy Enterprises would have to invent her. For she was the public face of the PEI. Easily accessible and unpretentious. For what she signified, Christie lived just like anyone of us. She traveled by herself like the rest of us would, hail a cab off the street, dined in the neighborhood restaurants where you could run into her or have informal meeting over a lunch. She drove her own car in stark contrast to once being picked up by a limo from her school to bring her to the rendezvous with her dad. Every summer she would throw a party at her rooftop apartment in the heart of Chicago’s Gold Coast and invite her top managers and their companions. Let her hair down and be the most gracious hostess.

She was our secret weapon, the flesh and blood persona. To Hugh M. Hefner’s illusion, she was our reality. Often perceived of as an all business and no fun, she would let her hair down during my international conferences, be it at Playboy Club in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, or Corfu, Greece to New Orleans and Rio de Janeiro. She would get up early and not unlikely to be found in the meeting room while I’m testing the sound system in Lake Geneva and everyone still remembers fondly how she blended-in in New Orleans and swung to the crazy Laissez Faire Cajun Band – lifted up in the air by our German advertising director, late Wolfgang Robert and charm the skeptic Dutch during the sight-seeing boat ride in Amsterdam. The Dutch hosted a wonderful meal in her honor at… you guessed it: de Hoefslag.

When we launched the Chinese language edition in the spring of 1986 to come out of Hong Kong, our local publisher Albert Cheng, came up with the idea of beaming Christie Hefner live from Chicago to his press conference in Hong Kong. What’s today a child’s play, back in 1986 was an elaborate and expensive undertaking. Just the technicality of the multiple satellite uplinking and downlinking between downtown Chicago and the center of Hong Kong in itself was awe inspiring. And because of thirteen hours time difference she would have to be in the studio a little after three in the morning and be ready to greet the citizens of Hong Kong at seven in the evening their time. Fully aware of the possibility of hundreds of things going wrong. Fortunately, the transmission at both ends and in-between went well without a hitch. And the Chinese loved it. Probably even more so than had she been there personally. And Christie must have felt a pioneer of the sort for being able to demonstrate the dawn of the new technology. The first time I ever heard of the concept of pay per view, was from her. I must admit, I was quite skeptical about it. But she was our new generation.

I got to know her really up close when she so gracefully agreed to take a long trip to Taiwan to help us boost Playboy’s image. Even though I personally wasn’t totally convinced of the merits of dragging her along on a day long journey, each way; when I hesitatingly asked her, she said yes with I know how difficult it must have been for you to ask. And it was. But my Taiwanese partners felt strongly that her sheer presence would make all the difference.

At the personal level this gave us an opportunity to be together practically 24/7 for six days. During which she graced several meetings, held a press conference, partook in the celebration of the first anniversary of the edition, sat through twelve course Chinese meals, played tourist visiting Chaing Kai-shek Memorial, Taipei Concert Hall, National Palace Museum and even Taipei’s Huaxi Street Night Market popularly known as the Snake Alley. And one night after dinner, joined a group of us hit a Karaoke and let our talents shine. We posed together in the front of Madame Chaing Kai-shek Soong May-ling’s shiny black Cadillac. And she even photographed me in front of a Taiwanese Barber Shop.

The day we were to return to Chicago, the city of Taipei was a big mess. It’s the beginning of Qingming Festival – a long holiday weekend and the traffic arteries of the city are clogged to its limit and beyond. We’re on our way to the airport for our flight back home. Inbound, she had to travel by herself because I was flying in from Brazil. This is our first trip together and with the change of planes in San Francisco it would take us almost a whole day and a night.

With all the traffic to the airport moving at snail’s pace or not moving at all, it wasn’t starting out too well. While I’m not that easy to succumb to anxiety, especially over something that I have no control over, I could sense Christie getting a bit anxious as we were getting closer to the checking-in time. But with intermittent moving forward we make it to the airport and have checked in more or less on time. We’re standing in the very slow moving immigration line. Irritated, she is visibly nervous.

‘Don’t worry. They won’t leave without us.’ I tell her, but it’s not enough for her to stop looking at the ticking clock. As much as I have traveled, I know that once checked in, they just won’t leave without everyone on board – certainly not leaving behind two of their first class passengers. Even though flight is not yet listed as being delayed, with the mob scene as the Taipei International Airport is that afternoon, not many planes are likely to leave on time. Delayed by an hour or so wouldn’t make much difference, if any to our long haul flight.

To make matters worst, now that we’re in front of the line, I realize that missing from my passport is the departure slip that immigration had handed me upon my arrival. No departure slip, no departing. This makes her even more nervous watching me fumbling into all of my pockets and inside my briefcase and not finding it. I watch her waiting impatiently and irritatingly.

‘Why don’t you go ahead and I’ll catch up with you.’ I tell her. It’s already a few minutes past the departure time.

‘Are you sure?’ She doesn’t want to leave me stranded.

‘Positive. Please go ahead. I promise, the flight wouldn’t leave without me.’ Suddenly I am relaxed and in a playful mood. After all, an international airport is my ultimate stomping ground.

‘Well, okay. I’ll just do that.’ And she is gone.

Now with no one making me nervous, I dig into my pockets some more and out comes the departure slip. I know there are still many passengers booked on our flight waiting for the immigration clearance. I even pop into the duty free shop and take a leisurely walk to the departure gate. When I walk into the cabin, I see Christie well settled at the window seat. I arrange my carry on in the overhead bin and as I am about to sit down, the captain has picked up the microphone.

Ladies and gentlemen, captain speaking. We’re still waiting for many of our passengers in process of clearing the immigration. It may be another half an hour before we push back from the gate. But we should still arrive in San Francisco on time.

Now settled, I give Christie a sideway look. Didn’t I tell you? She is not amazed at my smugness. Soon the stewardess brings us flutes of champagne.

‘No thanks. I’ll have some sparkling water.’ She tries to hide her frown. But still!

‘Come on Christie. Please have champagne. We’ve got a long journey ahead of us.’ I must have looked pitiful as I plead. It pleases me that she picks up a glass of champagne from the tray.

We have a very pleasant journey together and some very good talks. Our different visions for the future of my division, disagreements and all.

© Haresh Shah 2014

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

OTHER PROFILES

FACE TO FACE WITH GABRIEL GARCÍA MÁRQUEZ

I DANCED WITH DONNA SUMMER

FACE TO FACE WITH JAN CREMER                                                                            

FACE TO FACE WITH HUGH M. HEFNER                                                        

DESIGNING IN HIS DREAMS

Next Friday, May 2, 2014

YET TO BE DETERMINED

Because I am not sure which one of the two posts I am working on right now will be ready to go next week. Or as it often happens, something else will strike my fancy and a sudden inspiration would make it jump the line. Just wait and see.

Tags , , , ,
Categories Corporate Matters, Memoire, Playboy, Profile

OF BOOKS AND WHORES

April 10, 2014 //
1

Scattered Gems Of Practical Wisdom

Haresh Shah

news_stand

The train pulls up at some unknown station. The peacefulness of the night turns into a little puppet show for those few minutes. The flickering dim gaslights illuminate the platforms, the guard blowing his whistle, the signal man running in front of the locomotive with his red and green flags, the tea and food vendors reciting their sales pitches, “chai garam babuji, chai garam, garam garam bhajia, khalo saab, aisi puri bhaji aage nahin milengi, pani, thanda pani. (hot tea, hot hot fried dumplings, have some, you won’t find them as delicious at the next stop, cooled water)The people getting off the train and running to the water fountains to fill up their water flasks with fresh drinking water, some sipping the piping hot delicious local chai in clay cups, some savoring the spicy puri bhaji. Sudden burst of activity, the train will pull away in a few minutes, the station would doze off once again. If there is another train arriving in an hour or so, they would just sit around puffing on their chillums, and the next puppet show would begin at the sight of another approaching express. It’s amazing to watch all those people moving around in such synchronized harmony, like in a well choreographed musical. Everyone has his own place, his own kind of product to sell, his own price, his own lyrical voice to recite and get his product to his consumer’s ears and eyes who only have seconds to make up their minds. Make a quick sale. And then once again, they disappear, they fall asleep. The train moves on.

I still feel dreamy and nostalgic about those train rides of more than fifty years ago when I crisscrossed India and played traveling salesman for Wilco – my uncle’s book publishing company. Train stations were some of the biggest outlets for the periodicals and the paperbacks. If there were an impulse buying, the train stations with their continuous transient stream of passengers were it. People would have just enough time to glance at the display out of their windows. It wasn’t good enough just to have a good product tucked away some place under the counter. You had to make sure that your product jumped at them before anyone else’s. As one of the stall managers, Vidya Kapur at Kiul Junction put it, Look Sahib, books are like whores, if the whores and the books are not dolled up and displayed, neither of them sell. What incentive do we have to give your books prime display space and sell more copies?

Pure and simple. True. What incentive did they have to display our titles up front at the standard discount of 25% as compared to other publishers doling out 33% and even up to 40%? The young Sureshchandra Jain in Nagpur throws at me, “We are banyas – business people, we do anything to make money, even sell your books.” And his brother Jagpal Jain in Calcutta even recites a poem of sorts for me: “It doesn’t help sitting on the shore if you are looking for the pearls, all you find on the shore are the shells. For the pearls, you have to explore the depth of the ocean.” Simplistic maybe, but their message was clear. Something no business school or the bestsellers can teach you.

Thus my first lessons in How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying came from the folk wisdom of those down home but cunning operators of the book stalls across India. I am still young and naïve, but this month long crisscrossing the sub-continent teaches me more than up until then, fifteen years of schooling.

●●●

My father’s way of dealing with crisis was to not react hastily, but sleep on it. Depending on the time of the day, he would either take a long restful nap or literally sleep it off over the night. And when he woke up, most of the time, the crisis had passed. Or he had woken up with a solution to deal with it. I have inherited this trait from him and must confess, it has served me well. But there are times when you don’t have such an option. Especially in the business world. I run into what could have been a major crisis the very first week of having taken up my job in Germany. It’s almost middle of the night and the crisis has arisen over my denial to sign off on the centerfold of that month’s Playmate Marilyn Cole. The only way to make it better would be to reprint the entire lot. We are talking tens of thousands of Deautsche Marks.

‘Where do we stand with this fucking folder?’ I am standing face-to-face with the publishing director Heinz van Nouhuys, who has taken a special trip from Munich to the printing plant in Essen, with his girlfriend Marianne Schmidt over that election night in Germany on November 19,1972.

‘This is how we stand with the fucking folder.’ I counter, and then sit down. We talk, and then both of us realize some other solution had to be found. I am not yet established enough to make that kind of decision. I call Bob Gutwillig, our group head in Chicago.

What do you think I should do? I ask. There is a brief pause. I could almost hear him figuring out what it would mean in the long run for us to take a harder stand. Do nothing. Go back to your hotel and get a good night’s sleep. Just like what my good old dad would have said. Sky didn’t fall because Marilyn didn’t look quite as radiant. And the goodwill created by our letting go that night puts our partnership on the solid ground.

●●●

I enjoy years of steady growth and the fun but secure work environment under Lee Hall. I am quite comfortable with my role of playing the second fiddle without having to worry about profit and losses, contracts, budgets and the ever present corporate politics. He’s happy that I have taken to the heart his mantra of iron fist in the velvet glove. And I respect his axioms of I don’t like surprises by keeping him informed and always telling him the truth – one thing about lies is that you’ve to have good memory. I am good at my job also because I like people and love what I do. He passes on appropriate compliments to me with comparing my diplomatic way of doing things to that of the Secretary of State Henry Kissinger’s.

What I appreciate the most about him is that he would give me an assignment, sit down with me and discuss it at length, introduce in minute detail the cast of characters I would meet and work with. Tell me what my mission would be. He may throw in a hint here and there, but all in all, leave it upon me to take it from there and pursue the course of action as I saw fit. His job was then done. He could then close his office door, sit down with his New York Times and put his feet on his desk and light up one of his smuggled Cohibas.

Despite his ivy league stiffness at times, Lee feels special affinity for me, because he has spent some time in India during his youth and remembers fondly those days and also because both of us have come to Playboy from what was and still is the gold standard in the industry – the house of Time Inc. He is pleased that in addition I bring to the equation the solid educational background of two completely different and yet quite compatible fields, including the philosophy of two of the teachers who felt it important also to teach us about the thing called life.

Professor  Nadarsha Mody at Jaihind College in Bombay taught us Shakespeare, but would often drift away talking about “life”, instead. If you are thinking God has given us these knuckles on our fingers so that we can count how much money we’ve got, wrong! Because in India we use the knuckles as if they were built-in calculators. When you’re on your death bed and if you could count even half as many friends, you know that you have earned and lived a good life.

Leap forward to our teacher Edwin Banks at London College of Printing, where I studied technologically oriented printing management. He would pound into us time and time again, don’t be afraid of trying anything. Mistakes will be made and sooner you make a mistake, better off you will be. And that you know that the foreman is doing a good job when you walk into the plant and hear the consistent drone of the printing press running, he is sitting on his chair with his feet up on his desk, reading the newspaper. Not the one who is frenetically trying to re-start the press with broken web and the ribbons of paper flying all over.

●●●

This all changes overnight, when after years of Lee having successfully run the department is suddenly usurped in a corporate coup d’état. Now I have a new boss – Bill Stokkan. It takes us a while to adjust to each other. But somehow we manage. Bill leaves me alone even more than Lee did, because he is not a publishing guy who believes that his managers should be able to do their jobs well on their own. But he does find his ways into all his direct reports’ areas more as an advisor/guardian than a boss. I like his modus operandi.

At times it takes me several days or even a couple of weeks to get him to sit down with me. Then suddenly he would show up at my office door just before lunch.

‘Let’s go!’ He would say. Hurriedly, I would collect my files containing things I need to discuss with him and we would dart out of there and walk a couple of blocks to our favorite Japanese restaurant, Hatsuhana, have our first course of sushi and tempura washed down with sake and beer, and then walk next door to the Shucker’s and top it up with fresh soft shell crabs, shrimps and oysters with some chilled vodka.

His favorite jargon is: That’s a no brainer, which would follow quick decisions.

‘Do it.’

‘Let’s discuss.’

‘Not now.’

And we would be done. But Bill is also given to what his other direct reports and I came to call, pontificate! He has an extremely analytical mind in which he has looked at a given situation from every possible angle. And he has a set of business philosophy that is plain and simple and above all fair to everyone concerned. Something I absolutely admire.

We are on our way to Brazil and Argentina. Up are two very delicate contract renewals. I have provided him with copies of the contracts and am giving him rundown on what we maybe up against when sitting down at the negotiating table.

‘They’re right. We should consider giving them reduction in the minimum guarantee!’ This is a new concept to me. He senses it and he knows what the corporate philosophy has been all along.

‘Minimum guarantee shouldn’t be a minimum penalty. I see that we actually make more money than they do!’ This too is a new concept for me.

Aren’t we supposed to be? I don’t even have to ask.

‘We may try to get 51% out of the deal, but even if we end up with 50/50 split, it’s still a win-win situation and therefore a true partnership.’

‘But that would throw off our budget…’

‘Don’t worry about the budget. Just make one up the best you can. In the end you could be either over budget or under budget.’ Well, he is right. But no one has put it to me that way before.

‘Just look at these numbers. What’s in these contracts for our partners? What incentive do they have to invest more and make more money? So they can pay us more in the royalties?’

The question hangs in the air while our Varig flight bound for São Paulo pierces through the dark of the night. His question what incentive do they have? takes me back to ten thousand miles away and twenty five years earlier. And to my month long jaunt across the Indian sub-continent and to a different kind of dark nights, not up in the sky, but down on the earth. And instead of the jet engines roaring, I hear the screeching of locomotives on their tracks and the train slowly inching into a station. And hear the echo of Vidya Kapur, loud and clear:

Look Sahib, books are like whores, if the whores and the books are not dolled up and displayed, neither of them sell. What incentive do we have to give your books prime display space and sell more copies?

© Haresh Shah

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

You May Also Like

HE’S A SON OF A BITCH

HONEST TO A FAULT

WHAT TIME IS IT?

AN INDIAN AMONGST THE INDIANS

The Site

ABOUT

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Next Friday, April 18, 2014

HUGH GRANT IN MY SHOES

When in June of 1995, Four Weddings and a Funeral and Notting Hill star Hugh Grant was arrested and booked by LAPD, his police mug shot along with that of the prostitute Devine Brown were splattered all over the international print and television media. I couldn’t help but think: it could have been me nineteen years earlier.

Tags , , , , ,
Categories Corporate Matters, Memoire, Playboy, Profile, Time Inc., Travel

WHAT TIME IS IT?

February 27, 2014 //
0

Butting Heads With Experts

Haresh Shah

whattime_revised

My ex-girlfriend Susan (Serpe) was a successful management consultant. And yet, I never quite understood what it was exactly that she did. Once in a self-deprecating mood, she told me a story of three consultants, which has probably been told and re-told or perhaps not.

A large international corporation in need of a consultant invites proposals from some of the top professionals in the industry. From the huge pile of applicants, they have boiled down the list to the TOP three that seem most likely to fulfill their needs. They are to be interviewed by the CEO himself. He seats them down around the conference table in his office.

‘Good morning to you all. And congratulations for making it to the top three. That’s quite an achievement, considering that we had received more than a hundred offers. You guys are the crème de la crème and it would be an honor for our company to work with any one of you. Unfortunately, all we have is only one position open, so here goes it – the final round. I do not wish to take up much of your valuable time, so without much a do, I’ll come right to to the point. Before we decide, I only have one simple question to ask of you, which is: Can you please tell me, what time is it?  Confused only momentarily, the three realize it’s one of those trick questions. Everyone could see clearly on the wall clock in the CEO’s office that its 2:30 in the afternoon. The first of them clears his throat.

‘We all know that right now it’s 2:30 in the afternoon central standard time here in Chicago. But it’s also 3:30 in New York, 1:30 in Denver and 12:30 in the afternoon in California.’

‘Excellent. I like it that  you see the time in a broader perspective of the entire country and not only from where we sit here in the Midwest.’ He shifts his gaze to the consultant sitting next to him. A slight smile crosses his lips as he begins to answer.

‘Well, my colleague here is absolutely right. We no longer can look at the time in the narrow confines of where we are currently. But since you’re an international organization, we need to go beyond the confines of the United States and look at the global time. For example, when it’s 14:30 here in Chicago, it’s 21:30 in the Western Europe and 03:30 in the morning the next day in Hong Kong.’ The CEO is obviously impressed by the second consultant’s world view of his business venture and hands out appropriate appreciation to him with an encouraging  friendly smile while shifting his gaze to the third and the final candidate, who seems to be somewhat lost in her thoughts. Feeling the pointed gaze upon herself, she puts down her memo pad filled with scribbles and doodles and a series of Xs and Os, gently putting her pen on top of the pad, plants her elbows firmly on the table, rests her chin on the bridge of her entwined fingers, she levels her gaze with that of the CEO’s and smoothly lets out.

‘Well, what time you want it to be?’

‘Guess, who got hired?’ Asks Susan with the cutest dimpled smile, which can only be erased  with a kiss. So that’s what she does!

I wish one of the consultants I had to deal with were as sweet and sexy and as professional. In fact, the consultants I was subjected to were all men, dodgy and full of themselves. Pontificating, pretending and patronizing bastards. I have had one too many brush with the bunch of them and as a result had come to disdain most of them. I can sincerely say that there was no love lost between them and me when and if we were forced to cross paths.

Some of my contempt for the consultants came from my days at the GATF, where I got to experience first hand how intimidated the people were when we walked in to audit their plants. A couple of total strangers are there to observe and analyze and report on them. Everyone is nervous, trying to be on their best behavior and therefore not being their natural selves. And that’s what most of the consultants are counting on.

There was a phase when us Playboy managers were made to attend a series of consulting sessions with the so called experts on the modern management. The first one of such surveys titled Management Practices and Tactics Feedback Report, had me placed as one of the company’s most popular managers or as John Mastro put it, I’m not as damn popular as you’re. The very man who had hired me, based on his gut feeling and some feedback from the plant supervisor at the printing company. John had his ways of doing things, and yet, no one would argue that he was one of the best in the industry. But unfortunately, that’s not how the young consulting Turks saw it.

The second set of consultants focused on the inter-departmental synergy and reported me to be not a team player. (read, I didn’t fall at their feet and touch their toes with reverence!) Because I refused to fall for their ruse of finding faults in my relationship with my direct reports. The conversation went something like this:

‘You mean to say you have absolutely no conflict with one or more of the people who report directly to you?’

‘Of course I do too. When you work with a group of people day in and day out, some conflicts are bound to happen. Like my good old mother would say: when you throw silverware together, they also make noise. But nothing the sort that the two of us involved can not resolve between ourselves.’

‘Well?’ The leader of the consulting team points his gaze at me. I can tell, he doesn’t like my answer. Years later, I would face a similar gaze from another such consultant, who didn’t like my answer to his: If you could change one thing in your life, what would it be? ‘Nothing!’ was my answer. Because I am one of those people who has realized that you can’t turn back the clock – or make things un-happen that have already happened. But to use the corporate/consultants cliché, going forward, play the cards you have been dealt the best as you can.

‘Nothing?’

In the corporate world and in the consultant speak, this would be sloughed off disdainfully as  status quo. A BIG NO NO. Even though one of Hugh M. Hefner’s favorite axioms was, If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Another was Why do we need to reinvent the wheel? Whereas, for most of the consultants, I felt the motto was: Never mind if it ain’t broke, let’s break it and then we’ll fix it.

‘You know Haresh, with your experience of years, you can actually help your colleagues sitting around the table!’ The message was clear. Smug and sarcastic and self-righteous. My answer: If I understand it right, you want me to have problems so that you can fix them? I look across the table at my boss – Bill Stokkan. Even in his attempt to remain neutral, I could read in his face that it was okay. It nevertheless earned me the reported reputation of not a team player.

●●●

Up until yesterday, I had completely forgotten about the days and the days a whole bunch of us spent cooped up at the Drake Hotel’s Astor Room participating in what they called the Ideation sessions. It was basically what normal people call Brain Storming. But there is no consulting if not for buzz words and euphemisms to make things sound important. The fact that I had even forgotten all about it and don’t remember even a word of what conspired during those days, in itself proves that whatever ideas the team of the consultants threw at us were ever seen worth putting into practice. The sessions lasted so many long days that we had to have an official break of a day or so to go back to our offices and make sure that the barn wasn’t burning in our absence. What my staff was curious about was: what was it that we talked about for so long? When I gave them a run down on what was it all about, one of them comes up with: sounds more like Idiation to me. Bravo!

●●●

The session I remember the most and could have even been fired for my impulsive response happened in then Playboy offices on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles. It was to focus on our international businesses which included product licensing, magazine publishing and the video/television divisions. A well renowned international consulting firm was hired and a team of experts presided by their famous president, lined the opposite side of the conference table. All of our international divisions had achieved various degrees of success in the markets away from home but at this point having already reached the saturation point and/or reached the point of marginal returns, we are experiencing bit of a lull. Let alone the changing market conditions, competition and the altering dynamics of economies of an individual country. But there could have been factors that had escaped our scrutiny. Hence the consultants. The guys facing us were supposed to be the expert international hands with more intimate knowledge of the international markets. For my division, the focus was going to be Japan.

Each of us divisional heads had prepared our own presentations and delivered them one by one, which was basically our own analysis that included input and cooperation of our partners from around the world. I made my presentation with all facts and figures. The team of experts seemed diligently to be making notes in their legal size yellow pads, looking ever so attentive and contemplative. We thought with the intent of addressing the problem areas to discuss further and then suggest some practical solutions – things we may have missed.

Instead, during the second round when my turn came, their Japanese expert shuffles the papers in front of him, puts the pile down in a neat square and shoots: So Haresh, what do you think went wrong and what can you do to correct it? Didn’t I just give him the whole nine yards of what was happening and the measures we have taken and were planning to take? Was he sleeping? Drugged? Doodling instead of making notes? High on something? Pulling my leg?

No, but I wasn’t thinking any of it. Flabbergasted, the answer just rolls out of my mouth, smooth  as the toothpaste slithering out of its tube. I thought you are the ones going to tell us that! And as if I had popped open a can of laughing gas, everyone on my side of the table bursts out in a roar of laughter. Later when we break for refreshments, the group clusters around me and Bob Friedman – the Entertainment Group President walks up to me, puts his arms around me and goes: Haresh you are our hero!

© Haresh Shah 2014

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

Other Corporate Stories

THE COMPANY POLICY

DEVIL IN THE PARADISE

TO EXPENSE IT OR NOT

THE CORPORATE CASTE SYSTEM

The Site

ABOUT

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Next Friday, March 7, 2014

TENDER TRAPS

They are everywhere, especially if you’re looking for them. But even if you aren’t, they find you. After all, that’s what they do for a living. Someone who traveled as much as I did, always staying in the top hotels and frequented the most trendy spots around the world, you are more likely than not, stumble upon one of those pretty and tempting ladies of the night.

Tags , , , , , , ,
Categories Consultants, Corporate Matters

HONEST TO A FAULT

January 9, 2014 //
0

Taking My Turn At Collecting Unemployment Or How To Drive Bureaucrats Batty

Haresh Shah

 

officeman2

I am sitting in the front of the IDES (Illinois Department of Employment Security) officer Mr. David M. at their downtown Evanston branch. I have him  absolutely and positively flustered. He is almost on the verge of pulling his hair off his head – that is what is left of it. The few locks of  curls hanging around his neck from his otherwise bald as a water melon crown. He is a gaunt looking skinny man in his middle age. His eyes squinting behind his dense Coke bottle glasses. The shriveled frown on his face fits perfectly that of an accountant – overworked, underpaid and underappreciated, all of which he probably is. The more I answer his questions to clarify, the more confused and frustrated he looks. At some point he just smacks my paperwork down on his desk, kicks his chair back, jumps up like a Jack in the Box from a suddenly unlatched top and begins to walk to the back.

‘You’re driving me crazy!’

Nothing is amiss with my application. My paperwork is well organized and is in order. I am entitled to receive the unemployment benefits that I am applying for. Though I read a question mark on his face as to why it took me more than a whole year to get around to it. But that doesn’t disqualify me. No particular reason. I guess I wasn’t exactly hurting for the money and also because I had landed a week a month assignment in Florida. Procrastination? A bit of a discomfort and the false pride? I don’t think so. This after all is my second bout at collecting unemployment. But finally  my girlfriend Susan (Serpe) nudges me into it. You have paid into the system all your life. You’re entitled to it. Would you not claim what’s due you from an insurance company? Right! So a couple of days later I pick up the application forms, gather all the back-up paperwork and present myself in front of David M.

He looks at my application and studies it meticulously and checks off an item after another. Gives closer look to my work and the salary history. I can see him raising his eyebrows as he checks off my six figure salary, and lets out an exclamatory soft grunt followed by an intermittent comment.

‘Whenever possible, we try to help people find jobs in addition to what we post on the bulletin board. But in your case, I’m afraid, you’re on your own.’

Fair enough! After all, my kind of jobs are not exactly floating around like butterflies in a lush garden. Plus, in all honesty, I am not yet exactly looking for a real job. I still have my book to finish.

‘As far as I can see, everything looks fine. I’ll put through your paperwork. You will be receiving $321.- per week in two weeks’ instalments. Should you end up working during that period, you must report it. We’ll not pay for those times, but that amount would remain as credit to you. Your benefits will stop when you have run out of the total amount of the benefit you are entitled to.’

As if in a recorded voice, David M. rattles off the base information related to my application.

‘Any questions?’

‘Not really. I think you have explained it so clearly.’

‘Good.’ He says and then fumbles under his desk and pulls out a letter size pink form identified as Claim Certification. ‘Starting the week after next, along with your first check, you’ll receive one of these in mail with all your personal information already filled in. Fill in the info on the jobs you have been looking for during the period. You must list at least six in the columns provided, minimum three a week.’

Seeing my head lifted from the pink form, he meets my eyes, what? He asks.

‘How does one find six jobs worth applying for within two weeks?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean, I hope you realize that for what I did for a living, isn’t exactly like being an accountant or an engineer, or even a construction worker.’

‘Yes, but there’s got to be enough to write to six of them every two weeks.’

‘To the best of my knowledge, there aren’t even total of six such jobs in the entire publishing industry that require someone running the international division of their magazines. The ones that exist, I know for sure are filled. It’s going to take some doing on my part to even find something that comes closer.’

‘I can see that. But unless we have evidence that you have been actively looking for an employment, we can’t possibly approve the payment.’

I should have left it at that, but I am in my ultimate being Mr. Honest mode. I venture!

‘To be honest, I would have to be making them up!’

‘I don’t think so. Whatever!!!’ I get a frustrated and the pointed look from him. He doesn’t say it, but what I read on his face is: why are you being difficult?  You don’t think we have time to go through them week after week, do you?’

‘Okay. I get it. I’ll do my best.’

‘Good! You can fill in this form and mail it back to us on Sunday evening. Thereafter, you will do it once every two weeks on the date indicated at the top of the form – but it must always be mailed on Sunday evenings.’

‘Fine. Except that as you may have noticed, I work part time on as needed basis in Florida and I am not always here every Sunday evenings.’

‘In such cases, you can ask your daughter to do it.’

‘I can’t because my daughter doesn’t live with me.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘In Minneapolis with her mother.’

‘But here you have her listed as dependent.’

‘Yes. She is. Because I pay child support.’

‘In that case, we need a copy of your divorce decree.’

‘There was no divorce. Her mother and I were never married!’

It’s at this point that David M. loses it and walks away from me. First mumbling to himself, then I hear him saying out loud to someone behind the partition of the cubicle.

Here is a guy claiming child support and his daughter doesn’t even live with him. Not married or divorced – no divorce papers. To that I hear some muffled conversation behind the confines of the cubicle. Soon I see a sympathetic face of a big black woman stepping out of the side of the cubicle, turn around and look at me. I acknowledge her by looking back and raising my hand in a greeting. She gives me a certain look, smiles back and disappears behind the cubical wall. I hear her say: He’s alright. Some more muffled conversation follows.

David M. Emerges from the cubicle a few minutes later. He stumbles over to his desk, plops himself back on his chair.

‘How long have you been making the child support?’

‘Almost six years now.’

‘Do you have any proof to substantiate the claim?’

‘Yes. The canceled checks.’

‘We need copies of those.’

‘No problem. How many do  you need?’ I think he wants to scream: okay there you smart Alec! But instead he manages to maintain his professional demeanor and says: ‘Just a few, several months apart would do!’

As I happily depart the IDES offices, I couldn’t help but notice David M. picking up my file and walking back, shaking his head. Relieved probably of ridding of someone like me who doesn’t quite fit into any of the slotted categories in their standard form. Little did the poor man know, or for that matter I did, he isn’t done with me quite yet.

A week later I receive my first check along with the pink claim form for me to report my job search and return. Everything goes smooth for a month and a half until I receive a payment for the week I had reported as being the one during which I worked. If I had any common sense, I would have just cashed in the check and waited to see if and when they would discover their error and notify me. Nope. Instead an honest citizen that I am, I call David M. and report to him the over payment and ask him what was I supposed to do with the check? But he doesn’t quite get it. Confused, he retorts:

‘You got the check and you got the certification. So what is the question?’

‘Shouldn’t I be returning the check to you for the week I worked?’

‘Return the check?’ I sense his voice spike by a few decibels. And then there is a pause on the line. I hear the silent tick of his brain. He is probably thinking: now what sort of an idiot am I  dealing with? He has doubtless never heard of anybody offering to return the payment already made. There is probably no provision in their system to accommodate a returned check. It suddenly occurs to me that I must have been a rare bird to want to return the hard cash to Uncle Sam. It also occurs to me that by attempting to do so means that I am pointing out an error someone in his office committed and therefore putting him in a predicament.

‘I don’t know anything about returning the check. Just hold on to it and we will get back to you.’ He says after a long pause.

A week or so later, I get a phone call from one of his supervisors – a Mrs. Lopez. I go see Mrs. Lopez and it seems everyone is confused about the over payment. She wants me to see her supervisor, a Filipino gentleman Mr. Lamagna.  He weighs in the situation and realizes that I am just being honest, and yet everyone seems to shake their heads at my simple mindedness. How naïve can you be?

Still not knowing what to tell me, Mr. Lamagna finally says: ‘I have made a decision that you should go ahead and cash the check. I will instruct our people to take money out little by little from your future checks.’

Everyone lets out a sigh of relief while I run to the bank. As far as I can remember, there was no such taking out of the over payment from any of my future checks.

Is it for the people like me that the expression honest to a fault coined?

© Haresh Shah 2014

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

Related Story

MOTHER KNOWS BEST

You May Also Like

THE COMPANY POLICY

WELCOME TO AMERICA

TO EXPENSE IT OR NOT

THE CORPORATE CASTE SYSTEM

The Site

ABOUT

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ON FRIDAY, JANUARY 17, 2014

THE DOUBLE DOUBLE TAKE

Hanging on the wall of my rheumatologist Dr. Harpinder S. Ajmani is the progression of a female figure from her childhood till ripe old age. Even though this chart is meant to show the deterioration of the bone structure, in my mind it conjures up the near mirror images of the three generations of beautiful women I once came across.

Tags , ,
Categories Corporate Matters, Employment

“HE’S A SON OF A BITCH”

November 28, 2013 //
0

Haresh Shah

How Does One Get A Job At Playboy?

resume

The question I’ve been asked time and again is: How does one get a job at Playboy?  Or more precisely: How did you get to work for them?

My answer always is: Like any other job. You apply for it. You have an interview and then you get hired. If that sounds too simplistic, how about this? You happen to be at the right place at the right time with right set of skills and qualifications. And the pure dumb luck doesn’t hurt either!

Not good enough still? Okay. Here’s how it happened. But me telling this story requires me to take you back in time. Back to the London College of Printing. Shashi (Patravali), my roommate and also the fellow alumni of LCP, are sitting in the college canteen. We’re at the end of our two year long diploma curriculum and would soon have to face the reality called life. Shashi is clear about his future. Soon as we’re done, he wants to spend a couple of months traveling the European Continent. Return back to India and manage a printing plant somewhere in the South.

‘How about you?’ He asks.

‘I want to go to America. Spend a year getting practical training at the GATF (Graphic Arts Technical Foundation) in Pittsburgh. And then work for Time & Life and for Playboy.

Shashi doesn’t say anything to that, but in his characteristic manner smirks at me, probably  thinking, “yeah right!”

●●●

My plans to go to America fall apart like the house of cards when the offer of the paid internship is withdrawn at the last minute by the trustees of the GATF on the budgetary grounds. It deals me a devastating blow. I spiral down and hit the abyss of depression. But uncle Jaman’s encouraging and uplifting letters and several incidental jobs sustain me for the next six months. I put on the back burner my dreams of going to America, instead accept a job as reproduction photographer at Burda Verlag in the Black Forest town of Offenburg in Germany. I master the language along the way. At the end of the year, I have enough money saved to buy myself one way passage to New York on the low-priced Icelandic Airlines. I have in my pocket five hundred dollar in traveler’s checks. I borrow as many dollars from uncle Jaman’s friend Bernard Geiss. His son and my cousin Ashwin is going to school in New York. He gives me ride to Pittsburgh in his fancy phallic Chevy Camaro. And I’m on my way.

●●●

Ray (Prince) works at the GATF. He  is younger than I am, but has a big presence with his towering height and the  deep gruff authoritative voice of an older man. He scrutinized my résumé and makes some minor corrections and then he reads the draft of my proposed cover letter.

To my I am seeking a job in the area of…he says: ‘You’re not looking for a job.’ He goes on without waiting for my response. ‘You’ve two college degrees for Christ’s sake! You have to be looking for a position!’ Waiting just long enough to make sure it’s sinking in, he lays out the plan for me.

‘We’re going to have your résumé and the letter typed up professionally on an electric typewriter, then have them printed on onion skin paper.’

He doesn’t let me finish my ‘But…’ because all I have is my hard earned Olivetti portable typewriter. And about having anything done professionally?

‘We’ll ask Susan to do that for you.’ Susan is the executive director’s secretary and the only one at the Foundation who has an electric IBM.  ‘And I’ll have my mother invite us for dinner on Sunday. My dad owns a small printing shop adjoining to our home. You and I can do the printing.’

And then he tells me to go through the list of the companies I would most want to work for. No more than twenty. Using GATF’s repro lab, make as many prints of the best head shot of myself. Buy twenty highest quality folders with two pockets and heavy duty manila envelopes. The cover letter would go in the left pocket and in the right my résumé with my photograph stapled at the top right hand corner.

The responses take me to the World Color in St. Louis, Missouri and then by a small chartered airplane to their printing plant in Sparta, Illinois – the town where the movie In the Heat of the Night was shot. Then onto New York City and Philadelphia, Pennsylvania to be interviewed by the Parade Publications – the publishers of Parade magazine – the Sunday supplement to the newspapers across the country, followed by McCall’s and Look magazines. And to Chicago to Time Inc’s production offices. Taking advantage of it, I also check out a job at Huron Printing House – a small privately owned quality printers. And make perfunctory contacts at Playboy. Nothing concrete, except a job offer from George Geist of Huron at the salary of $9000,- a year. Quite a bit of money for those days.  But I had to ask myself, is that what I really want to do?

At that point, I qualify equally either to work for a printing house or a publishing company. Flip sides of the same coin. Difference being: working for a printers meant servitude as opposed to being a master working for publishers. The question I had to ask myself was; did I want to take shit or be in position to give shit? Plus, publishing is in my blood.  The answer is clear to me. I decide to wait it out with I need some time to consider my other options.

●●●

A week later, a telegram arrives.

Called four times unsuccessfully, please call me at 326 1212. After five o’clock call 677 5024.

Robert Anderson Time Inc.

I’m ecstatic and jump up and down several times before calling back. On  Friday the 9th of August, I am on TWA flight to Chicago. Wouldn’t you know?  The traffic controllers are on strike. They have adopted the disruptive GO SLOW tactic. The plane takes off on time. But we circle the Chicago skies above lake Michigan waiting for the permission to land. It takes an hour and a half before we get ours and then we sit on the ground for another hour to get the gate to disembark. Until then we sit inside the plane having come standstill on the runway, sweltering in the summer heat. Robert Anderson is to interview me at the airport over a lunch. He has been waiting there since 11:30. It is after two when I finally get to put my feet on solid ground.

‘First of all, let’s go get something to eat and drink.’

I concur. We walk over to the Seven Continents and order drinks. For an airport restaurant, it has a certain flair with its panoramic view of the airfield with planes landing, taxing and taking off. It’s expansive and very tastefully put together with the raised gallery and a long bar – the dining room a couple of steps lower and the tables placed by or in clear view of the huge floor to ceiling glass walls. I’m impressed.

When looking back, that was the toughest interview I’ve ever had. Bob Anderson is impeccably dressed in his navy blue Mohair suit and a crisp white shirt with red tie. He wears very short crew cut and has a set of intensely inquisitive eyes, he looks very conservative. He also gives an impression of a cultivated executive who likes to play it big, but could be very considerate and sympathetic at the human level. The most striking feature about him is  the way he rotates his head from the left to right when he talks, as if mounted on a revolving pivot. His eyes follow the motion and even the words come rolling out of his mouth instead of in a straight line.

He doesn’t ask any technical questions, neither does he talk about what the nature of my work would be, if hired. He asks me a stream of questions that don’t have anything to do with the job, but those answers bring out my attitude towards life, towards the day-to-day things and my opinion of what I thought of the way of living in Europe and in America and why. He asks my opinion on different magazines and their print quality, especially that of Life when compared with Look and the European magazines of the same genre. It isn’t difficult for me to answer his questions. The books and magazines have always been my biggest passion. I don’t only buy and look at them, I closely study them as I page through and I have an opinion on almost all of them. This of course impresses him very much, even though my opinion of Life’s print quality isn’t that great. He would ask me short questions needing elaborate answers. In the meanwhile he has finished his T-bone steak, and my chicken breast is getting cold. By now, I am absolutely famished and on the verge of feeling even a bit weak.

‘Do you mind Mr. Anderson if I finished eating before I answer your next question?’ It just rolls out of my mouth. I don’t think about it. I am just being myself.

‘Oh, I am so sorry! Of course.’ He is even a bit embarrassed.

I finish my meal. I am feeling better now. Bob orders an after dinner drink, I order another Heineken. The interview resumes.

‘I think you have fantastic qualifications and I find you very pleasant.’ He says at the conclusion of the interview.

‘Well, maybe this doesn’t sound business like, but what I want to know frankly is what are the chances of me being hired?’ I ask boldly.

‘I have to talk to my boss first before I can tell you anything. Call me on Thursday and I will tell you.’

‘I think we will hire you Mr. Shah.’ The voice comes from Chicago end of the line.

It is 15th of August. The 22nd anniversary of India’s independence, and for me, the day on which one of my
dreams has come true.

Thrilled, I call George Geist of Huron to decline his generous offer, he ups it to $10,000,-.  I tell him it’s not the money. I accept Time’s $6800.- instead.

When I am well settled in my job at Time and have become one of the team, Bob tells me over a drink: it was when you stopped me so that you can finish eating, did I make up my mind to hire you.   

●●●

It’s been now four years since I’ve been working for Time Inc. They have been the most exciting, to say the least. During these years I have worked on all four of their magazines: Time, Life, Sports Illustrated and Fortune. Currently I am doing Life full time and covering the fast edit for SI at the Regensteiner. After having worked late Tuesday and Wednesday nights, I still show up in the office for a few hours on Thursday afternoon. But I’m absolutely exhausted and drained dry. I find myself perpetually tired and sluggish. It takes entire weekends to catch up on lost sleep. Also, as much as I love my job, I’m no longer content, especially because I’m stuck in the same slot and don’t see any clear future.

In the meanwhile, I’ve established informal contacts with Playboy’s production chief, John Mastro and his quality guy Gerrit Huig. They are located not far from my office. They have alluded that perhaps I can step into Gerrit’s position when he is transferred to Germany. Nope! Instead they hire Richard Quartarolli.

We are not done yet. Stay in touch, John tells me. They are planning an American edition of the French Lui to be called Oui. When Oui comes out without me, I have given up all hopes of ever working for Playboy Enterprises, and still, I don’t know why, I pick up the phone and dial 642 1000. It’s past working hours and I’m thinking that by then his ever protective secretary Rita Johnson is probably gone home, so instead of me always having to leave a message, John would have to answer the phone himself. Wrong! But the wonder of all wonders, Rita puts me through right away.

‘Harry!’ John never learned to pronounce my name.

‘Hi John, I was wondering if we could get together for a drink soon?’

‘I can’t Harry.’ There is a pause on the line. ‘Harry, would you be interested in going to Europe?’

‘I love to.’ That’s all I could say.

●●●

Ben Wendt, the technical director at the Regensteiner Printing would tell me this story at the Thank You party I had thrown for all my Time Inc. contacts the weekend before making my big move.

‘So, little over two months ago, John calls me and asks. “How well do you do you know this guy Harry who does SI (Sports Illustrated) at your place?’

‘You mean Haresh Shah? The Indian quality guy from Time?’

‘Yeah, the one who talks funny!’

‘What you want to know?’

‘You know, like how is he to work with?’

‘He’s quite pleasant. Always in good humor. We like him.’

‘That’s well and good. But what is he like with his work? Is he good with colors?’

‘Okay. He’s very good. He doesn’t know whit about American sports, but he knows exactly what color jerseys the Lakers wear. He’s a real professional and he knows his shit. To answer your question honestly, as nice as he normally is – when it comes to quality, he’s a son of a bitch!’

‘Thanks. That’s all I need to know.’

Years later, when we’re sitting in John’s corner office and he has time to just chat with me, suddenly he pulls out of his file drawer a bright red folder. Here, I’ve got a gift for you. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s the résumé I had sent out almost ten years earlier. Both John and I smile at my clear cut innocent face looking back at us.

●●●

Coming back to Shashi and me sitting at the LCP’s canteen. Fast forward fourteen years.

I am walking down the wide aisles of the McCormick Place in Chicago. It’s towards the end of the day and I see a familiar figure walking towards me. No question it’s good old Shashi – clean cut as ever to in the meanwhile my long hair and bearded face. We instantly crack big smiles at  each other. We are both attending EXPO PRINT 80.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.

‘Checking out new technology for my printing company in Bombay.’

‘And you?’

‘I live here.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I am production manager for Playboy magazine’s international editions.’ Once again he doesn’t say a word, just gives me that big fat smirk.

‘And prior to that I spent six months at the GATF and also worked for Time & Life.’ Now I got double smirks from him. His look is admiring; ‘You son of a bitch!’ But he doesn’t say it.

© Haresh Shah

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

Related Stories

PANDORA’S BOX

DEVIL IN THE PARADISE

DESIGNING IN HIS DREAMS

ON FRIDAY JANUARY 3, 2014*

THE TERROR OF TWO Cs

This is the wine country story I wanted to tell you when I started out writing Of Pinot Noire and the Burlaping in Boonville. But as you know, I got a bit side tracked. As Jan (Heemskerk) says; of that evening, he remembers the wines and I women. And so it is. But I haven’t forgotten wines either and all the philosophizing from the owners and the winemakers that surround this noble drink.

*WINTER BREAK

I have another eye surgery coming up on the 5th of December and I thought this is as good a time as any to take some time off and come back rejuvenated. But don’t  go away anywhere too far, because I still have many stories left to tell and will resume regular weekly telling of them starting with January 3rd 2014. In the meanwhile, have great holidays. Wish you all a VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR.

.

Tags , , , , , , , , , ,
Categories Corporate Matters, Employment, Time Inc.

THE CORPORATE CASTE SYSTEM

September 5, 2013 //
1

Haresh Shah

A Touch Of Communism In The Capitalist Culture

tugowar2

In the fall of 1989 over the weekend of October, 6/8, Carolyn and I went to the Duneland Beach Inn in Michigan City, Indiana and returned with an agreement that the best course of action for us as individuals – to use the corporate cliché, going forward, was for us to go our own way. Not even a tiny blip on the world stage. That very weekend on October 7, Hungary becomes independent and on October 23rd, the acting President, Mátyás Szűrös declares the country a Republic in the public ceremony held in the same Kossuth Square where the first mass rally of the 1956 revolution was held.  The historic moment for which I happened to be in Budapest and along with the Hungarian  editors, would go to the square to hear the declaration proclaimed. We come back to the office and begin to put together the first issue of Playboy to come out a month later – the first of the three I would launch behind the iron curtain. On November 4, I turn 50 with a big fanfare and the nine liter Salamanzar  bottle of Lanson champagne, compliment of my boss and the friend Bill (Stokkan). The Berlin Wall falls on November 9th, the Velvet Revolution unfolds on Národní třída in Prague on November 17th, and in-between on the weekend of October 14/15, Playboy headquarters in Chicago move some three plus blocks south east  to 680 N. Lake Shore Drive from it’s imposing skyline presence at 919 N. Michigan Avenue. The Bunny Beacon that illuminated the Chicago skies for 23 years, is no longer and neither are the floor high letters PLAYBOY, lit bright.

I am not even in the town when the big move happens. Thanks to my most able and the efficient assistant Mary (Nastos) that I am moved into my new office and when I walk in a couple of weeks later, other than a few unopened boxes, Mary has found the new home for my stuff in a very organized way in the space I would occupy for the next four years. The office I have yet to see.

I park my car in the same building instead of a block away in a separate parking garage. I take the elevator first down to the lobby and switch to the one which would take me to the Playboy’s new headquarters on the 15th floor. I am dazzled by the cascade of natural and artificial light, the high ceiling and the U shaped railing up above, looking down at the receptionist a floor down below. Mounted on the wall on the west side of the reception area is a huge bronze sculpture of Playboy’s familiar Rabbit Head blinking at me with its left eye. Commissioned and created by the renowned Chicago sculptor, Richard Hunt. On the opposite side, in front of an expansive glass wall sits a slender, exotic looking dark skinned, very sweet and petite young woman, I have never seen before.

‘May I help you?’ She flashes a friendly smile, which is unconsciously seductive, her voice dripping with honey.

‘Oh yes! I am here – ur, I guess I work here!’

Soon I see in the background Mary coming down the steps of one of the two Terrazzo staircases.  At the first glance I perceive them to be  to be twin modernistic Spanish steps descending on to the either side of Piazza di Spagna in Rome. I see Mary rush towards the glass wall and yanking open the door on the side.

‘Welcome back,’ she gives me a hearty hug as the receptionist looks on.

‘Mona, meet my boss Haresh Shah.’ Mary introduces  me to the receptionist and takes me by the hand. ‘Let me take you to your new office.’

I am in awe of what I see as we approach the atrium. Instead of little shops and the stands found on a Piazza, I am face-to-face with a large oil on canvas portrait of Gloria Steinem, done by Chicago artist Ed Paschke, mounted on one of the panels, staring menacingly at me through her magenta colored glasses. Up the stairs on the wall facing us, I see a pair of giant red lips by Tom Wesselman, open wide in a hearty laugh, a set of perfectly aligned teeth sparkling. I also glance up at the  slanted modernistic metal canopies crowning the glass walls. The executive offices. Mary informs me, about what would come to be known as the fish tank. As we stop at the top of the floor, there is an office on my right, That’s John Mastro’s office. And the right outside begins the grey Steele railing that stretches over the expanse of the atrium, curved like  the shape of a luxury liner. Stunning!

Turning the curve, Mary  leads me to the section behind the lips; assigned to our group. Suddenly I am in the different world away from the glitz and the glamour of the areas surrounding the atrium and the executive offices.  It’s a large square space. Clustered in the middle are the work stations, mostly in blue with grey trimming. While most of the support staff sat outside the offices of their bosses at 919, here they each have their own work stations, separated by about six feet high soft padded partitioned walls. Over there is Bill’s office. She points to the closed door across what I will call the bullpen. And then there are other offices like fortresses to the support staff. This is where I sit, right outside of your office. She opens the closed door on her right, turns on the lights and lets me in.

I pause and stand at the threshold of my office and take it in. The floor is covered with bright royal blue soft padded rug, The bright white, perhaps 5000 Kelvin fluorescent tubes filtered through the chrome slated fixtures flood the room.  I am pleased that at long last, I’ve gotten the larger desk, the kind I had always wanted but never had an office big enough to justify having one. Unlike the beige marble desk top, this one has speckled black granite top. The base is the same with the filing and storage cabinets built-in as before, because it’s one of the same desks refurbished, in that instead of the natural oak stain, it is now painted black. It is flushed against the sidewall made up of the bright blue padded panels.  Behind the desk is wall-to-wall credenza – something I really love. A side of the desks had always been a small credenza meant for  typewriters. Which alas would become too small just in a year or so to accommodate desk top computers. The chairs too are the same, reupholstered and covered also with different fabric – now with either solid black or small black and grey pattern. On my right is a granite topped conference table, which is larger in diameter than the one I had. But no  couch for lounging during the meeting breaks.

Who got how big of an office and in which area and how each one of them would be furnished was determined by our corporate titles and the numeric personnel classifications. To be fair to everyone, a system had to be devised. It had to be just and egalitarian or at least to fit within our boss Bill’s definition of some people being more equal than others. Since there wasn’t going to be any natural light in our windowless offices, it became important to spruce up their interior  dressing.  Something we could choose. Sort of. So Sue Shoemaker, the Director of Corporate Administrative Services, stops by to see each one of us in advance of the big move.

‘What color wall paneling you like?’ Now the dirty brown cork walls to be replaced with the padded and fabric covered panels, to be used as before as our wall-to-wall bulletin boards. The choice was between bright red and royal blue. I chose  royal blue. Though I would get a larger desk, I had to choose between either a mini conference table and/or the couch.

‘I would like to have both!’

‘You can only have one or the other.’

‘I do have both of them right now.’

‘So I see. But with your position with the company, you’re entitled to only one of them.’

‘That’s new to me, but for what I do, I have a need for both of them. We have meetings all day long and it just makes it nicer to have a bit more relaxing couch when we break.’

‘Sorry, but we had to draw a line somewhere and only the Sr. VPs and above get both.’ I was only a VP.

What when and if I am promoted to be a Sr. VP? I want to ask, but stop short. Perhaps not a good omen. As it turns out, I am indeed promoted to be the senior VP within six months, but then the office I am assigned to is not big enough to accommodate both, and there is no provision for the expansion. Grudgingly, I accept what’s given to me.

‘Do you like your new office?’ Mary chirps.

‘I guess!’ She knows what I am thinking.

‘Well, I leave you alone to catch up with things. Welcome back again.’ And she closes the door behind her, leaving me feeling like a prisoner being lead to his cell and the door closed behind him. Feeling dismayed at not even a sliver of natural light peeking through, I try to forget it and settle myself at my new desk, pick up the piles of paper prioritized by Mary and begin with reading faxes that needed my immediate attention. The day slips by fast. Most everyone has left for the day, including Mary, leaving me behind still trying to catch up. Now with no need to keep the door closed, I am able to see out at the work stations outside. Even see a bit of the window at the farthest side of the hall, beyond which is Chicago’s pride and joy, Lake Michigan. The forbidden fruit for us.

When done for the day, I pack up and turn off the lights in my office. Suddenly its pitch dark in there, except for a bit of the light from the bullpen crossing in. On impulse, I put down my briefcase on the floor, enter back my office and shut the door. Never thought anything can be so dark. It feels like a cave with no opening. Closed in like a tomb. I hastily make my escape, and stop outside to look around at the exterior. While the atrium and other public areas and the conference rooms and the employee lounge are plastered with some of the magazine’s best art, none of the walls of our group have anything on their sterile white surfaces.

I approach Sue.

‘How about some artworks for our area?’

‘Its planned, but we just haven’t gotten around to it.’

‘How if I put up our own magazine covers that I had framed and hung outside our offices at 919?’

‘You can’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because everything has to be coordinated and in graphic harmony. I will talk to Tom (Staebler) (the art director) about it.’

Nothing for another couple of months. Either Tom didn’t have time or didn’t think we were important enough to deserve some of his fine illustrations. Or the discussion between Sue and Tom never  took place.

I broach the subject one more time and insist that what I really would like to do is for us to have our own identity and since I have already had those framed covers in my storage, why don’t I hang them up? If Tom comes up with something, we can always take them down.

‘Let me think about it!’ So she does. Still nothing. But I don’t let go and basically wear Sue out.

‘Okay, when Bill (the company carpenter) has some extra time, I will ask him to stop by and hang them up for you.’ That is almost like never.

‘I can do that myself!’

‘No, no, no. Its not your job. Should something happen, insurance doesn’t cover that.’

I want to scream, but instead say: ‘Well okay. Will wait for Bill to come by. Thanks’ And watch her turn her back and walk back to her office. I spend some time outside my office and scope the wall space I have and try to figure out how I can best display the framed covers on the walls available to me.

The next evening, its past six when I am certain that almost everybody is gone home, especially Sue, I pull out my measure tape, pencil, nails and the hammer that I have brought along from home. An hour and a half later, they are all adoring the International Publishing walls and suddenly those sterile looking white walls seem to have acquired colors on their anemic cheeks. I leave with a smile of satisfaction on my lips.

Late next morning, I see Sue walking past my office, stop and take in what I had done, I am not sure she even cared to look inside my office, but I see her shaking her head before walking away.

© Haresh Shah 2013

Illustration: Celia Rose Mark

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

Other Corporate Stories

THE COMPANY POLICY

ALL ABOUT THE WILD PARTIES AT PLAYBOY

TO EXPENSE IT OR NOT

The Site

ABOUT

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Next Friday, September 13, 2013

ALL IN A DAY’S WORK

Imagine this! Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. The sun is shining bright, the sky is blue as can be and the waves of Banderas Bay rushing towards the shore to hug us – wet and warm and heavenly. We are conferring by the poolside, deciding on the next dramatic but a fun shot, with nine of the world’s most beautiful women. Lined up in the water by the edge of the pool, holding on to the long railing and ready to lift their bare butts in action.

Tags , , , ,
Categories Corporate Matters, Eastern Europe

TO EXPENSE IT OR NOT

August 8, 2013 //
1

Haresh Shah

The Fine Art Of Getting Away With Murder

murder

By the time I heard this story of excess and padding of expense account by one of Life magazine’s star photographers, it had already acquired legendary proportions. There is nothing Life wouldn’t do to cover the world events and be the first and the fastest to bring it back to their nine million readers in words and living colors. Spreads and spreads of images – known among us at Time as fast edits. We were practically an assembly line of  experts from the reporters to the photographers to the writers to the editors and the art directors and at the tail end – us the production people. We would stand by days and nights, weekdays or weekends – and jump in so the magazine would be on its way to its loyal readers on time, week after week.

So it was no wonder that people at the front end of the making of Life were the most pampered, nurtured and spoiled rotten. The darlings among them were the photographers. The story I am told of is that of one of Life’s photographers most notorious for padding his expenses and constantly getting away with it to everyone else’s envy and chagrin. Padding itself was not too difficult, considering that we were not required to submit any receipts for the expenses under $25.00. If you happen to be on the road for several days, how much you can get away with writing off depended entirely on your own creative audacity.  No one ever questioned things you put down on your expense sheet – if for nothing else, not to sound cheap or earning a reputation of being a grouch.

This is how the story goes. A couple of editors and writers along with the photographer in question, who I will call Steve, are assigned to cover a major story in the USSR. They spend some weeks there and during their stay, Steve buys himself an expensive mink coat. No one is betting on Steve having paid for it out of his own pocket. So the editors rat on him and alert the editor-in-charge I will call Don, about the purchase. Steve walks into Don’s office as flamboyantly as ever – though a bit unsure this time around. He sits across the desk from Don and nervously watches  him scan and scrutinize his expenses. Though some of the charges seem a bit inflated, boy, those communist countries are expensive! Don justifies. But there is nothing in it that seems  out of ordinary. Certainly nothing in particular to make an issue of. So at long last he puts his John Hancock down on the dotted line. Relieved, Steve thanks him and begins to leave his office, but stops short of exiting.

‘Don!’

‘What?’

‘Just so that you know,’ and he stalls a bit, ‘that mink coat is in there!!’

None of us in the production department would get away with anything that came remotely as close. But it wouldn’t be unusual to put down and get away with charging for cabs instead of miles we drove on our cars, or when someone gave us a ride. Chicago cabbies were generous in peeling off their tablets and giving out blank receipts to their customers, especially the ones who tipped well.  And you didn’t have to be a rocket scientist either to ask for an inflated food and beverage receipt from your friendly waiter. Or we wouldn’t hesitate too much charging for the meals which the printers bought or that fancy dinner you took your girlfriend out to, especially on the evening that you had ended up working late. Little chicken shit like that.

Pretty much the same when I joined Playboy. Even though they had certain do’s and don’ts, their rules were quite flexible. More so for those of us who lived and worked abroad. We would book our own flights and book our own hotel rooms and keep track of our own expenses. I joined the division several  months after it came into being. I just followed the path already paved by the ones who had been around, such as staying always at the exclusive George V in Paris, Principe e Savoia in Milan, Excelsior in Rome, Vier Jahreszeiten in Hamburg.  This obviously wasn’t necessary, but that’s how it was. Though pretty soon I got tired of those pricey and pretentious places and whenever I could find a small boutique hotel, like L’Europe in Paris, El Cortez in Mexico City, U raka in Prague, I would stay there

They were small and cozy and personal and cost half as much. And I got to know the city from a perspective of a different neighborhood. I couldn’t see spending +/- $200.- a night, that is in the Seventies and the Eighties. Also because I wasn’t comfortable with the doorman, concierge, bellboy and sundry always picking up my stuff, calling cabs for me, opening doors, escorting me to my room and going through the motions of turning on lights and television, showing me how things worked with call buttons and at times even how the toilet paper rolled. Hanging around, fidgeting until you fumbled into your pockets and handed him whatever you fished out. With the currencies changing in every country, sometimes you gave too much, others not enough. I just felt so embarrassed at one human being playing the role of a subservient – waiting on you hands and feet.

I found this ritual to be quite humiliating. I didn’t see any grandeur in staying at those and boast about. Though I too have often done precisely that, it is mostly in jest, and also to communicate that I’ve been there. I’ve done that. And just because the company is paying for it, I had no reason to surrender my natural self – which is not being a subject of being fussed about.  I like just to step out and walk out on the street, walk down to a café and have some real good coffee with freshly baked Croissant or Brötchen or Simit or Media Lunas, whatever the specialty of the land was. Rub shoulders with the locals. I even went as far as convincing my boss in letting me rent apartments in Essen and Mexico City, where I needed to spend several days every month. A month’s rent would be covered by the equivalent of four or five nights of stay at one of our usual hotels.

Similarly, I never went overboard with my meals, just because they were paid for. Of course I went to and most of the time taken to some of the finest restaurants in those illustrious cities and enjoyed them, but when left alone for an evening or two – a rare occurrence – I would either stay in the room and order myself a club sandwich, heaped with the fries and wash them down with a beer – something I have discovered the glitzy hotels are better at.  Or I remember once in Paris, I had such a craving for the Big Mac, and thank God, they had a McDonalds right off the Champs Élysées  inside one of the shopping alleys. Or be able to eat Klobasa and beer on Václavské náměstí in Prague. And  I loved Köfte with rice at our Turkish publisher Ali Karacan’s staff canteen. I would really be embarrassed to charge those meals, so that I just left those columns blank.

I am not saying I have been squeaky clean with what I put on my expense reports. But its not something I would ever consciously entertain.  What was for the many: what can I  get away with? for me it was what can I  justify? For example, I didn’t hesitate a bit to charge the company’s Air Travel Card to upgrade myself to the first class of which I wrote in my last week’s Strangers On The Plane. Didn’t Chantal say that the economy was all sold out?  Or while I would be on a business track and invited a friend or family for a meal, it was fair to include them – a  philosophy I had picked up from Charley McCarthy of Cadillac Printing in Chicago: If I end up working late most of the week, I have no qualms about taking my family out for a nice dinner over the weekend at company’s expenses.

When I was re-hired, along with the others, I had negotiated the first class travel for myself, and when Carolyn accompanied me to Barcelona, I promptly traded in my first class ticket for two economies. It worked out about the same, because in those days, there were not a million different fares. There was first class and then there was full fare economy with no restrictions. And then there was “excursion” fare, that came with restrictions on the minimum and the maximum stays. And there was no business class.

Actually, some of what I put on my expenses was a laughing stock  in the accounting department. Such as several pounds of Pixies – the locally made Fannie May’s most delicious chocolates containing walnuts and caramel wrapped inside milk chocolate in the shape of a turtle. They are orgasmic, is how one of my managers – Jean Freehill described them. And once tasted, all of my partners across the globe had gotten addicted to them. For $6.00 a pound, (it has since gone up to $ 24.99 a lb.).  I couldn’t have done better. And sometimes, I also brought along a few bottles of California wines as gifts. What was there to question?

When I was in doubt and ran into a situation of to be or not to be, I would run it by my boss. When I was fired from Playboy the first time, I lived in Europe and my then boss Lee Hall and I  agreed that the company would pay for my relocating back to the States. Since I was in no hurry to get back, I thought it might be fun to sail across the Atlantic instead of flying back.  I had figured out that even thought sailing back would cost much more, if I took my car with me and filled it up with some of my stuff, it would actually be cheaper for the company. I talked to Lee. I personally don’t care, as long as you can convince the personnel – if they question.  So I returned back to the States, unemployed, but in style, on the luxury liner, Queen Elizabeth II.

Likewise, when I was re-hired, and joined the staff in Chicago, having gone through several suitcases, I realized that I needed something lighter but sturdier. My heart was set on an elegant looking but heavy duty Lark garment bag at the luggage store in the Water Tower Place. But it cost $350.00. Lot of money for a suitcase, even today. And this was in 1979. And yet, I was tempted to buy it and then a thought occurred to me, shouldn’t the company be paying for it? After all, a suitcase was one of the most important tools required for my job.

‘I don’t know about that Mr. Shah!’ Lee responded. So I had some convincing to do. I’m not sure if I succeeded, but he capitulated. ‘Look, I don’t think we can get away with it. But I will sign off on it, bur if they question it, then you’ll have to pay for it yourself.’ As much as I was inamorato with the damn suitcase, I agreed. And guess what? “They” never asked. Years later, my friend Nasim (Y. Khan) in Germany inherited it from me and its still out there somewhere.

Fast forward to 1992. The top Playboy managers from across the country are invited by Christie (Hefner)  to a management golf outing at the exclusive (read highbrow – pretentious) Westchester Country Club in Rye, New York, to spend an informal day with other executives, “bonding”. We are teamed up with appropriately matched novices and serious golfers. I had done a couple of those before and had presumed that I could go on the greens with my shorts and the t-shirt. Sandals and all. Wrong! While shorts were okay, the club  rules required that we had to wear a shirt with collar – i.e. polo shirt at the minimum and must wear  proper golf shoes. I didn’t have either and we are about to t-off. No problem. Like all of them, they have a gift shop stocked with everything that a golfer would need. As snooty as the club is, things are obviously top of the line, even though the price tags made you cringe. What choice did I have? I pick up a nice polo shirt made of fine cotton,  the club logo discreetly embroidered on it. It was like fifty bucks. And while I am trying out the shoes, that run more like a hundred and fifty, I grumble to no one in particular. Sitting next to me in the locker room, tying on his own shoes is Herb Laney, Playboy’s Divisional Vice President for the mail order operations.

‘What are you bitching about? It’s a business expense!’

‘You mean?’

‘Of course. See this shirt?’ He turns his hand and pinches the very fine fabric of his polo shirt with his fingers. ‘You’re damn right I am going to expense it.’

‘But I also need the golf shoes!’

‘Well, since you’re not a golfer and are buying them only for today, I would expense them too!’ I look back at Herb, dumbfounded. He gives me an amazed look as if I had just gotten off the boat!

Suddenly, I can’t help but think of how I could have gotten away with charging that Tuxedo I was suckered into buying for the Czechoslovakian launch.

© Haresh Shah 2013

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

You May Also Like

HERR DOKTOR SHAH

SMUGGLING SMUT

THE COMPANY POLICY

THE STORY OF MY TUXEDO

Next Friday, August 16th, 2013

JE NE SAIS PAS

I really don’t know for sure. I have three irons in the fire, so I guess it will be whichever begins to glow first. So let the next week’s entry be a surprise:)

Tags , , , , ,
Categories Corporate Matters