Archives for posts with tag: Playboy

MR. SPEAK!

July 30, 2015 //
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The Quirky Brilliance Of The Head Guru

Haresh Shah

mrspeak_02

I have just swiped my card and entered the sixteenth floor through the glass door. I see Arthur sitting by himself through the glass wall of his office across the atrium – the bank of offices we have come to call the fish tank, overlooking the square. I hurry to my office, remove my outer garments and pick up the phone and dial Arthur’s three digit inter-office number. Might as well get it out of the way before I chicken out. Having to call Arthur is something of an ordeal, because you never know what kind of mood you might catch him in. But there is nothing I can do about it. I am the one who needs him. Most of our telephone conversations would go something like this:

‘Good morning Arthur!’

‘What’s so good about the morning?’

Or

‘Hi Arthur. How are you?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

Or

‘Hi Arthur. This is Haresh.’

‘I know who you are!’

This has me flustered for a small moment. Both of us breathing on our side of the line. While I am still trying to form my next sentence, I hear his curt

‘Speak!’

Or

‘Hi Arthur, this is…’

‘What do you want?’

And when I try to explain the reason for my call, he would cut me off abruptly.

‘Come to the point. I don’t have all day to talk to you.’ The gruffness of his voice scratches the skin of my ears.

Sitting in my windowless office, I imagine the frown on Arthur’s face, his eyes squinting behind his thick Coke bottle glasses. And when I do get around to tell him why I was calling him, rest of our conversation is brusque.

‘Why do you want me to meet with a bunch of Hungarians and tell them what you have already told them?’

‘Because you’re the head guru.’ Or, ‘So that they can hear directly from the horse’s mouth!’ While I’m just a chela, I am thinking.

He is not in the least flattered.

‘Cut it out. Have Mary (Nastos) call me later and I’ll look at my schedule.’

Done! Whew! And I take a breath of relief. I am on the edge of my chair, but now push my butt backward and make myself comfortable before picking up the pile containing that morning’s faxes from the editions around the world.

Arthur, if  you are wondering, was the Editorial Director of Playboy magazine for the thirty of it’s first fifty years up until he stepped down in 2003. He had started at the magazine as an associate editor to A.C. Spectorsky in the mid-Sixties, he took on as its editorial director in 1972, the year I too had joined Playboy, stationed in Munich, Germany. I don’t remember ever having met him up until 1979 when I was brought to Chicago. Even so, in my job as the Production Director for the international editions – if not for Lee (Hall) having handed me the organizing of the annual international conferences, I would have no reason to cross paths with him. And eventually working my way into everything international publishing including assuming the same title as that of Arthur’s, the Editorial Director, albeit of the International Editions. But even years before it had fallen upon my shoulders to orient and train the creative teams of every new edition that were launched over the years, being one of the most frequently traveling members of the division – based on my sheer fondness and acquired knowledge of the magazine, I would end up answering questions that were way beyond the realm of my job description and the responsibilities. Something that didn’t go unnoticed – resulting in me eventually running the whole show.

During my early days in Chicago, one of my most important tasks was to do major in-house PR. International Publishing, then referred to as the Foreign Editions was tucked away on the ninth floor, which most everyone must have passed on their way to the production department without giving much of a thought to our existence. Some of the U.S. Playboy people may even have looked at us if not with some disdain than with indifference. To the most of them, we had become just THEM, the people who came bothering them wanting something or the other.

It took a while, but over a period of time, I was able to establish close working relationships with most of the top editors on the 11th floor. That is, except with Arthur. As much as I would have liked to have a pleasant and friendly working relationship with him, it wasn’t any consolation to be aware of the fact that neither of my two bosses, Lee Hall and Bill Stokkan were able to crack the hard shell that was Arthur. While Lee was quite reticent and tight lipped about it, I know that it frustrated Bill not being able to communicate with Arthur with both of their hair down and over a couple of drinks. I didn’t know anyone else who did. Bill once told me that on one occasion, he even went as far as approaching him at a party thrown by Christie Hefner for her top executives aboard a boat cruising Lake Michigan. Hi, my name is Bill Stokkan, I run the Merchandizing and Licensing division of the company. Unfortunately, to no avail.

‘Are  you kidding me? Him and Ed (Wattlington) get along famously. They even play tennis together!’ Tells me Karen (Abbott), my first heart throb in the U.S. when we worked together at Time, and coincidentally who now worked at Playboy along with Ed, both as photo lab technicians. Similarly, my assistant Mary had absolutely no problems communicating with Arthur. This was a sign of relief for me, because even though as a matter of protocol I would make the first call, Mary would take it over from there, sans any difficulty. And of all of my international editors, he got along famously with Holland’s Jan Heemskerk. Most every time that Jan came to Chicago or during the conferences, they made it a point to get out and hit some tennis or golf balls. I envied them, because I was never included in those soirées. I would often share with Jan my “conversations” with Arthur. He would find them funny. Somewhere along the line, we both came to refer to Arthur as Mr. Speak. And so it continues even today.

I have often wondered why? Because other than his exterior demeanor that can make you feel totally uncomfortable, when the time came, he always came through. He met with the editors, and once we were in his office, he never rushed us out. During the conferences, when he took the floor, he would be the most fascinating and precise speaker of them all. He knew Playboy inside out, from cover to cover. He would define for you the purpose and the philosophy behind every single page, rubrics, the graphic style, the focus of each article and fiction, the illustrations. Now that I think of it, even better than Hefner (Hugh M.) himself did. I have heard hours and hours of tapes of Hefner speaking to the first set of editors that came for the orientation, and spent a couple of days at his mansion in Chicago. Of course, who would know the magazine better than its creator? He was good and he was precise. But seemed a bit bashful when imparting the information. While Arthur was clearer and more emphatic, passionate even.

No one, not even the interview editor G. Barry Golson could define the tone of Playboy Interview  as clear as Arthur once did during a conference in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin in the early Eighties: over and above Playboy Interview tries to bring out the human face of the person being interviewed. If we were to interview Hitler, he would come out to be a sympathetic figure. You could hear the silent gasp from the editors.  Absolutely admirable, considering this coming out of the mouth of the born during the war time Jew. And he said of the anyone who still had any illusions about the magazine reflecting the current lifestyle of its publisher and therefore the young American males: No one aspires anymore to Hefner’s lifestyle. And I said to myself, right you’re, why would I want to live like Hefner in the self created gilded cage, if I could be sitting at a sidewalk café in Paris and sipping on my pastis, watching the world go by?

He was just brilliant when he spoke. He would be the star attraction of all of our conferences. And our personal relationships or lack thereof apart, I often said to myself that he never once hindered my ability to get closer to the people like Tom Staebler or Gary Cole, or any of his other top editors from devoting as much time as I needed of them. Why then not Arthur himself?

Well, one of those anomalies of life. Something you just accept. Things you accept about your dad or someone you respect, and resign to that’s just the way he is. And yet, I hated to be alone with him face to face. Because he would go without saying a word for the longest time. If not for the entire duration you are sitting across from him. Once I ran into him at my favorite fast food restaurant, Mama San, located in the Water Tower Place. Turned out to be his favorite as well. Seeing how crowded the place was and there was only one booth open, we end up parking ourselves across the table from each other.

‘The damn best fast food Japanese place in the city!’ Is the only thing I remember him saying during the whole twenty or so minutes it must have taken us to do justice to our food. We may have exchanged a couple of uncomfortable sentences at the very best. Realizing that he would not be the first one to blink, I somehow managed to live through those most uncomfortable moments.

The other time I found him towering over me on the other side of the partition in the bathroom of Playboy’s corporate offices. While we are both peeing, I sense his face turn over to mine and hear him utter:

‘You know, with the nose like that, you could be Jewish!’

‘I don’t think so, because my dad’s nose is much flatter. Perhaps I should check with the good old mom!’ I try to be humorous.

That’s as close as I ever got to Arthur.

On my last day at Playboy, Mary organized a going away party for me and invited everyone she could, especially from Chicago office. While everyone else had something to say; be it funny, sympathetic or just wishing me luck, I don’t remember Arthur having said anything that stuck with me. And yet, in the photos that Mary sent me afterwards, Arthur and I are posed together, he has his arm around me and both of us have on our faces the matching happy laughs. Uncharacteristically, Tom is standing next to us, looking a bit removed and looking sad and confused. I put the photo in my personal scrap book, the caption underneath reads: Is that a genuine smile Arthur?

That was the last I saw of Arthur up until three some years ago when Jan came to visit. We got together with some Playboy old-timers to reminisce the shared déjà vu. We meet up with Arthur at his favorite restaurant The Indian Garden on Chicago’s Devon Avenue. The best Indian restaurant on the strip! He proclaims. He is regular at the place and is made fuss over by the staff and the owner. He has now gone vegetarian and frowns at the sizzling Tandoori chicken being served. He has ordered Baingan Bharta which they specially prepare for him. Another proclamation comes: the best baingan bharta! I suppress the urge to say: have you tried the dish across the street at Udupi Palace? But I know better to keep my trap shut. With Arthur, it’s mostly him talking and you listening. And so it is during the lunch. Even so, if you pay attention to what he says, you are more likely than not to part with a feeling of having added something vital to your cache of knowledge. His very presence intimidated me, creating an atmosphere of speak only when spoken to. So it were Jan and Arthur conversing with me pushed in the background. But somewhere along the line, I got to interject and now having acquired distance of time, I confess, I was always intimidated by you.

‘You should have been.’ He answers and even though I would have liked to know precisely why, I leave it at that.

© Haresh Shah 2015

Illustration: Jordan Rutherford

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

Other Profiles

FACE TO FACE WITH GABRIEL GARCÍA MÁRQUEZ

FACE TO FACE WITH JAN CREMER

DESIGNING IN HIS DREAMS

TRAVELING AGENT EXTRAORDINAIRE

ABOUT

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Next…

PLAYBOY STORIES ARE FOREVER

This post marks the 100th Playboy Story. When I began blogging them in the fall of 2012, I thought I had about twenty five stories to tell, at the most. And here we are… I still have a list of about a dozen more and can’t tell how many unlisted would pop up along the way. But the stories that don’t compel me to write, are the stories that are not yet ready to be told. Basically, stories tell themselves, an author is just a medium – the facilitator. For now seems they are going on to an indefinite hiatus. But I am sure one or more of them would pop up and compel me to return to the screen. Hope you all will still be there to receive them. In the meanwhile, I have some other writings that I want to do and the stories that I want to tell. Stay tuned.

Can’t thank each one of you enough for  your staying with me for almost three years and keeping me inspired and motivated to roll them out week after week. And you would agree with me that this blog wouldn’t have been as complete as I have tried to make it without my illustrative partners in crime, Celia and Jordan. I feel absolutely lucky to have stumbled upon them.

So long my friends until our wiedersehen.

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Categories Arthur Kretchmer, Editor, Memoire, Playboy, Profile

THREE CHEATING HEARTS

May 15, 2014 //
0

Falling Like Dominos

Haresh Shah

threehearts

The plan is for just the two of us to go out for dinner. Leave the business behind and talk men talk without women tugging at our arms. For me, whenever I am in Munich, it would be Susi as my forever companion. Normally Günter would have brought along his wife Hilda. Our usual double date every visit. For tonight, I am thinking of maybe us two having dinner at my early favorite neighborhood kneipe, Georgen Stuben on Prinz Regentenstrasse and afterwards maybe hit a couple of Schwabing locals like Tangente, Giesela’s and Domicil. Go down the memory lane, re-live the nostalgic days of my not so distant life in Munich.

But first, we’ve got to talk some business. Günter is one of the senior editors at the German Playboy. He has spent time in America as well, so we have got that too in common. We have spent lot of time together and have shared hundreds of silly laughs.

The first McDonald’s in Germany opened in Munich scant ten months before my arrival there in October of 1972. Just in time for Munich’s 1972 Summer Olympics. It must have taken a while for the national Life like illustrated Stern magazine to notice this American invasion, prompting them to run a cover story with the blurb screamingly calling Big Mac der Schmackloss Hackfleish – the tasteless minced meat. Günter and I couldn’t agree more, especially considering the humble German fricadel, a tasty meat ball the shape of a hamburger patty, made of the minced meat, eaten lukewarm with a hard shell brötchen – a bread roll and blob of yellow mustard on side. Lekker.
But that didn’t stop Günter and me to frequent the local MacDonald’s, conveniently located on my way home on Lindwurmstrasse. Often we would feel nostalgic about America and go grab a Big Mac or McChicken menus with some beer. Yup, you could actually have beer at McD’s in Europe. In Prague you also have a choice of white or red wine. And we would talk about the Stern story and how horrified the editors must have been along with a large amount of German population vis-à-vis the arrival of the Yankee Golden Arch. We would agree that fricadel was great, but once in a while, nothing would do but a juicy Big Mac. We would come to the conclusion that it must be Ronald McDonald’s secret sauce. We would often get carried away with our wild imagination of the Big Mac’s sex appeal, calling it a furburger instead, and acting out asking for them to be easy on onions – the silly childish stuff. I really am looking forward to spending this evening alone with Günter.

‘How if we first go to my hotel, have a couple of drinks in the lobby bar, then have dinner at Georgen Stuben and then following that hit a couple of joints in Schwabing, just like god old days?’ I suggest.

‘Sounds like a plan.’ He responds, but lacking in his voice is his usual exuberance and enthusiasm.

We drift away talking something else while I notice a certain amount of uneasiness on his face as he switches his butt back and forth in his chair.

‘The thing is, something else has come up since we made the plans!’ Looking nervous, he finally spills it out.

‘Like what?’

‘I got two press passes to tonight’s Paul McCartney concert.’

‘Wow! Paul McCartney live?’

‘I thought we would have a quick drink. Go to the concert and then get a late night bite at some place.’

‘That sounds super!’

‘It does, doesn’t it? I was very much looking forward to it.’

‘But…?’

First I see a bit of shrinkage with some wrinkles suddenly appearing on Günter’s face and then watch him take a deep breath and let go. That irons out his wrinkles and the smoothness of his face returns.’

‘The thing is, there is this woman!’

‘What woman?’

‘Her name is Ursula. Uschi.’ I wait for him to elaborate. ‘We see each other on and off.’

‘You mean…?’

‘Yup. Seitensprung!’ And we both break out laughing, remembering the fun we’ve had years earlier defining and re-defining the expression. Literally, it means a sideway leap. Simply put; straying or cheating in a relationship. Have a fleeting affair on side. Hoping no one notices it and then leap right back in the line. No harm done!

I am not happy about it, but I understand. An opportunity of a quick clandestine bums always trumps an evening out with a friend. But why tonight of all nights? The crossing in my mind of the expression bums makes me want to burst out laughing. Because it’s one of those other German words – literally it means, to bump! bounce! bang! Or normally used to run into something or someone. But it also means…

And I remembered another one of the editors during the early days: Carmen Jung using it and then telling me what it really meant in answer to my simple question.

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

‘A steady one? No. But I do have someone I have bumsverhältnis with…recently it was perfectly defined in Justin Timberlake and Mila Kunis movie, Friends with Benefits. And then she goes on to elaborate, how perfectly it works for her. That they have each other, and yet they are free.

‘I wouldn’t do this to a good buddy like you. But she called me a while ago whether we could have a rendezvous tonight that her husband had to take a sudden trip to Hamburg.’

‘I still don’t say anything. The expression on my face has a question mark.

‘And?’

‘And Hilda knows I am having dinner with you. You see?’ I certainly do. What could be more convenient?

But I still don’t want to see it. I notice a certain dismay on his face and then watch him slide open his desk drawer and pull out the two strips of the tickets and hand them to me. Printed on them is Paul McCartney & Wings. Not a bad trade off.

‘I guess.’ I say. Since I am busy for the next two evenings of my stay in Munich, I won’t be able to re-schedule another dinner with Günter this trip. But the next time around? After all, how often you get all access press passes to Paul McCartney concert?

‘I am sure, you and Susi will have fun at the concert.’

I am sure that Susi would be ecstatic. But wouldn’t it be great also if Barbara were free that evening? A thought crosses my mind. But out of sheer protocol and the guilt I would otherwise feel, I call Susi from Günter’s phone, wishing that she wouldn’t be around to answer it. And she isn’t.

‘I’ll try to call her again from the hotel.’ I say.

It’s half past five when I leave Playboy offices in New Perlach, wishing Günter nice evening with his seitensprung with his squeeze, Uschi.

I catch the S-Bahn back to the hotel and immediately call Barbara. She’s already home from work and answers her phone on the first ring.

‘I would love to!’ I can hear the excitement in her voice. Takes me back to the days when we both lived in California.

‘Let me hang up. We don’t have much time. I just got home and need to change and freshen up. Where are you staying? I’ll pick you up at 7:30.’

Her little BMW pulls up in Grand Hotel Continental’s driveway. The concert is at the Olympia Halle. Normally I don’t really care for such large venues packed with thousands of people. But though our press passes have no reserved seats, they allow us an easy access to everywhere except the back stage. We spend the entire evening in the arena – which is the open area right in the front of the stage and dance the night away as if in a small and cramped smoke filled venue of Schwabing or on Ripperbahn in Hamburg where the Beatles first began. Instead, on the stage are Paul & Linda McCartney and Denny Lane and rest of the Wings belting out their Band on the Run repertoire interspersed with some Beatles classics.

© Haresh Shah

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

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MAKING FRIENDS

One of the fringe benefits of me working for Playboy in the job that I did, was an opportunity to meet the most interesting and creative people from around the world, many of them have become lifelong friends. More importantly, it allowed me to maintain those friendships by not fading into out of sight, out of mind state. Because I had no geographical barriers. It also allowed me to re-kindle non-Playboy relationships. Among them Dieter (Stark), whom I had originally met and worked with at Burda in Offenburg.

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Categories Friendship, Memoire, Playboy, Relationships, Romance, Women

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.

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Categories Corporate Matters, Memoire, Playboy, Profile

“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.

.

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Categories Corporate Matters, Employment, Time Inc.

DESIGNING IN HIS DREAMS

August 22, 2013 //
0

 Haresh Shah

The Spookiness Of The Creative Mind

dreamer5

It’s It the Easter Monday in Italy. I am on an over crowded train going back to Milan from Pontremoli. Everybody is returning from the long holiday weekend and as squeezed together as we are, I have managed to find a “comfortable” corner of my own where I get to stand for all three hours of the train ride without being crushed.

This is the first time I am alone face to face with myself since the fateful late Monday night of the week before. I am reading Andy Warhol’s autobiographical excerpts, while the conflicting thoughts rush through my mind, they collide with each other to the rhythm of the oscillating motion of the train piercing  through  the still night of the Italian country side.

I have just spent a very pleasant and a relaxing weekend with Rainer (Wörtmann) and his wife Renate in their newly acquired  old mill in Italian country side. It’s a beauty, standing proudly in a little village called Mulazzo near Pontremoli. It stands forlorn in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a stream and rocks and a cluster of trees. The place is to serve as a retreat from their hectic lives in Munich. It also turns out to be a great and timely escape for me in the aftermath of the week before.

Lee (Hall) is smooth as silk when he tells me how great a job I had been doing, so much so that like any good manager, I had succeeded in eliminating my own position. It’s the night of Monday, March 24, 1975. Lee is doing his regular European stint. Bob (Gutwillig) has left the company and Lee is traveling with Richard Kopf, the new divisional VP. His note at the reception leads me to his suite 375 at Principe de Savoia, which is where we are staying.

‘How about some Scotch now?’ The offer I had declined earlier. Seems he have had a few already. I guessed he probably needed them before he could execute  a swift coup d’état. Shocked? Yes. Devastated?  No. All of a sudden, I see the word FREEDOM begin to flash in front of my eyes like on a digital billboard. This meant I could now write the book I have been wanting to for so long and go to California – the vacation I had planned to take the very week I took over the job at Playboy . Okay, I do end up spending a sleepless night. But am thinking about the ways this will change my life as I toss and turn.

Two days later, I return back to Munich with Lee and Richard. They are travelling in the first, of course. While standing in line at Milan’s Linate Airport, I run into Rainer, who is returning to Munich from his Italian country home. I don’t yet tell him about me having been fired, because Lee needs to inform the top Bauer management first. That evening. Rainer  and I end up having dinner at Le Cave.

The night after, I am deep in sleep when the door bell rings. Its around two in the morning. I hear Rainer’s slurred voice on the intercom.

‘I was out late and as I was driving home, it suddenly dawned on me that poor Haresh is jobless. What would he do now?’ I am touched. I assure him that I was doing fine and that how this break opens up so many exciting avenues for me. But Rainer seems to need to talk and so do I. We sit around until four in the morning, drinking Sambuca and listening to music.

I am not even sure if Rainer went home that night or just caught a wink at my place before we headed for the airport to catch the Milan bound morning flight and from there on drive to  Pontremoli.

●●●

The place is not finished yet, but its very livable with open fireplace and little nooks and crannies that make for ideal dining, cooking and sleeping spaces. The only snag that weekend is: it’s wet and it’s cold. We place the only available electric heater in the middle of us as we try to keep warm through the nights. I slide into my sleeping bag with all my clothes on. Including sweater and socks.

During the day, we meet up with Udo Wüst, an editor at the  German edition, and his wife, they too own a similar property in the area. The weekend is spent living the idyllic Italian country life. Leisurely and languid. Strolling and stopping  for coffee and cake at cozy little cafés and I remember eating one of the most delicious Italian meals at a local family restaurant. I fall in love with their signature dish Testaroli, a version of home made flat pasta which I had never tasted up until then and have not since then. It tasted and looked so much like Khata Dhokla, as whipped up by Mama Shah back home in Bombay.  As cold and wet as it is, most of the weekend we just sit around and play Backgammon and drink Calvados – the golden glow of which rushing through our veins help us keep warm. Entspannend, I wrote in my journal. Couldn’t have thought of a more relaxing way to spend my first weekend of  freedom.   

●●●

As I lean against the outer wall of the train, making myself comfortable, Andy Warhol now snuggly tucked back into my shoulder bag, I think of the thirty wonderful months of being a part  of Playboy, and how I had landed in Munich in the middle of the overt hostile environment and how along with Freddy (Baumgärtel), Rainer was the first one to warm up and work with me. We also began to socialize. Realizing my predicament with the vintage apartment I had taken over from Gerrit, him recruiting his wife Renate to help me find a place more to my liking.  In general, Rainer becoming my guardian angel. Us two, along with Heinz (Nellissen) in Essen, becoming a team.

●●●

We are sitting in Rainer’s office, drinking champagne at eleven in the morning. I watch the bubbles rise in the flute, Rainer asks: ‘So what did you think of my idea?’

‘Which idea?’

Because Rainer is an idea machine, hailed by Quick and Playboy Germany’s editorial director,  Heinz van Nouhuys as the wunderkind, because at the age 27, he has become the youngest art director of an international publication. . And also because Rainer says with all the modesty, maybe (because I was) talented? By then he already has under his belt, the experience of having done graphically progressive magazine Jasmin. He has also put in his time at DM and Zeitung in Stuttgart. And admirably, he doesn’t jump at the once in a life time opportunity when offered the position at Playboy. Instead he stipulates: I’ll fly to Chicago at my own expenses and meet with the art director of the “whole shop “and see if at all I can make it with my own graphic ideas. A meeting is arranged with Art Paul, the man who designed Playboy’s ubiquitous Rabbit Head and defined the magazine then and forever for its graphic excellence. And then Rainer calls back from Chicago, Well okay. I’ll start with you.

I no longer remember the exact illustration and the article about which we began to talk, but here is a scenario I just made up as an example. It would be pretty much true of the way Rainer “dreamt up” visual aspects of Playboy’s German edition.

‘You know the one about the illustration for the Maxim’s de Paris.’

‘The one (Franz) Spelman is writing?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What about it?’

‘You know, the werkdruck, the special stock four page cutout?’

‘Sorry, I don’t. Refresh my memory.’

‘You know the one where the first page would be the die-cut pop up of the façade of the Maxim’s, and when you turn the page, the spread shows the interior of the main floor of the restaurant with the page four crossing  over the opener, showing the chefs working in the kitchen?’

‘Sounds like a great idea. With an illustration like that, why would anyone want to read the article?’

‘Genau. You know? Plus does it make a difference? I mean, who cares what Franz has to say?’

I don’t say anything to that. We just look at each other with knowing smiles on our faces. Probably envious of the fact that Franz got such a plum assignment, staying at George V in Paris and eating at Maxim’s a few times during his stay there. If we knew Franz, he probably had one or two of the local lovelies accompanying him to the meals – all at Playboy’s expenses. Franz certainly knows how to live! A born bon vivant!!

‘I’m sorry my friend, but I don’t remember you ever telling me of your idea before.’

‘How can you forget? It was last night, when we were having drinks at Le Cave.’

‘Can’t be. Because I just flew back from Düsseldorf.’

‘You did?’ And he momentarily seems lost in his thoughts. ‘Must have been that I dreamt about it. But I swear, I remember even having drawn you a rough sketch on the Le Cave napkin.’

‘Must have been on another night. Do you have the sketch?’

He fumbles into his jeans pockets and then breaks out in a broad smile. ‘Verdamt noch mal, things I dream about! Anyways, let me draw it for both of us now.’ And he pulls out the blue lined calibrated spiegel – the format sheet – and begins to draw the façade of Maxim’s.

●●●

Working with Rainer is fun. He is easy going, but can at times also be insistent and blunt when called for. I am amazed at his perception and being able to see through things.

A year  after I arrive in Germany, I am planning a trip to India and am in need of several rolls of films. Instead of just going out and buying them, I am being cheap! It occurs to me that perhaps I can get a freebie pack from the photo department which is under Rainer. I pick up the phone and call him.

‘I was wondering if I could get a dozen rolls of Ektachromes from your stock.’ Not to sound too obvious, I add: ‘Maybe I can get them at the same bulk rate?’

‘Oder umsonst? – or gratis!’ He doesn’t miss a beat. In the laughter that follows I detect slight sarcasm in his voice. Touché! He has seen right through me.

I save the day by laughing it off with: ‘Das wäre eigentilich besser/‘ – that would obviously be better!

Laughing back he says: ‘Of course you can have them.’ But boy his oder umsonst? stung. So much so that I still remember it forty years later:).

●●●

While I am still living in Munich and pounding away relentlessly at my bright orange Triumph portable electric typewriter, writing my book tentatively titled The Lost Identity – Personal Reflections, Rainer blows me away with a very pleasant surprise. He offers for me to become Playboy Germany’s photo editor. Susi (Pletz) and Helga Colle-Tiez the two who ran the photo department up until then have given their notices to leave.

Rainer’s offer puts me in the whirlwind of conflicting emotions. I am flattered and I am emotionally overwhelmed. My mind begins to whirr with all sorts of special pictorial ideas, and the Playmates I would find and produce. Still living in Munich and working with Rainer and Freddy and Heinz, opening up a whole new horizon for my future. The offer puts me between a rock and a hard place. It hasn’t taken me too long to get over my job loss. In the meanwhile I am more than halfway through writing my book. And am dreaming of starting a magazine of my own with a real possibility of Celeste (Huenergard) – the young American woman working as editorial assistant to Donald Stewart, our Italian in-house editorial executive – partnering with me. She has been a big moral support following my termination, keep the chin up. We have shared many a meals together and have lingered in the evenings with Grappas. Boy she is beautiful. Rainer kept saying when we had stopped at the offices of the Italian edition on our way to his country home

So what do I choose? A bird in the hand or two in the bush? Rainer’s offer is so tempting that I really don’t know. For three sleepless nights I agonize over should I and or shouldn’t I? I am conflicted between the future I was beginning to envision and the future that’s offered to me on the silver platter. I am torn and tortured. I am tempted to accept Rainer’s offer and think later. Perhaps I take it for a year or two, defer my dreams for a while – I tell myself, Rainer doesn’t have to know. Things can always change, can’t hey? And I remember the wisdom imparted by Mr. Moore, while both of us laid next to each other at St. Charles Hospital in London; that in business, you should never let your left hand know what your right hand is doing. But that would be totally against my grain, and I want to be honest. I share with Rainer what I am thinking. Rainer wants me on indefinite basis, he has big plans for me.

At the end of those three nights of tossing and turning and having done some serious soul searching, I decline the offer.

© Haresh Shah 2013

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

Related Stories

HERR DOKTOR SHAH

DEVIL IN THE PARADISE

The Site

ABOUT: Brief bios of the author and the illustrators.

TABLE OF CONTENTS: Brief descriptions and direct links to the previous 37 posts.

Next Friday, August 30th, 2013

MY INTIMATE ENCOUNTER WITH EROTIC OYSTERS

How I Came to Like, No, Love Oysters? 

Oysters have been credited for their aphrodisiac qualities, but are also considered  visually erotic because of their succulent, raw, moist, tender and glistening look. And yet, I couldn’t for the life of me, see them in that context, let alone really put them in my mouth and savor. The story of my not so keen encounter with this most delicious of the fruit from the sea.    

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Categories Profile

FOLLOWING IN GANDHI’S FOOTSTEPS

May 9, 2013 //
1

Haresh Shah

An Emotional Journey Of South Africa

gandhisteps

As long as apartheid ruled, Christie Hefner wouldn’t allow us even to think of doing business with South Africa. The management team totally respected her for her stand. But soon as Nelson Mandela was released from prison in 1990, and when the South African President F.W. de Klerk repealed the remaining apartheid laws in 1991, I felt free to follow-up on a couple of leads that had landed on my desktop. I took my first exploratory trip to the country. Even so, something closer to home was nagging at me. Because if you are born of my generation in India, taking a trip to South Africa has to have some emotional undertones, for that’s where Gandhi’s Satyagraha movement first took roots.

The reason I was full of apprehensions on the night I boarded the Johannesburg bound Lufthansa flight from Frankfurt. I wasn’t quite sure of the kind of welcome that awaited me.  As usual, I had read up on the country and was a fan of J.M. Coetzee fiction, who would go on to win the Nobel Prize for literature in 2003.  And had just finished reading one of the most disturbing books about the country,  My Traitor’s Heart by Rian Malan – a former crime reporter who fled his country after witnessing unimaginable atrocities, returns in search of the truth behind apartheid. He finds the answers – not in the way black and white South Africans live, but in the way they die at one another’s hands.

The heat and humidity hits me as soon as I deplane in the tropical Africa. Standing in front of me in the immigration line is a young black family of four. The husband shuffling all their passports clamped in his right hand. I could feel, or I was just imagining a certain nervousness on the faces of the couple as they moved up in the line. Kids, the daughter of about five and the son a few years older were just being kids, jumping and holding onto their parents’ fingers. The passport officers are all whites, dressed in shorts and short-sleeved shirts, like in Australia and New Zealand.  I watch the officer check all their passports and ask the man, how long were they gone? I could only hear “years” and then “England.”  The officer handing him back their passports and flashing a big smile, saying: welcome back home. Both the husband and the wife said in unison,  Thank you very much, and I see expressions on their faces relaxing and then their faces contorting as if about to break down and cry.  When the officer yelled out “next” I could see sudden smiles appearing on their faces. I too had my misgivings up until then, knowing that I too fell in the category of coloured in the country I was entering for the first time. But having witnessed the graceful reception of the black family relaxed me too as I stood in front of the immigration officer.

‘First time in our country?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hope you have a great stay.’

I am met by Greg Psilos,  an aspiring independent publisher who had shown interest in publishing Playboy in South Africa. I check into Carlton Hotel in downtown Johannesburg, walk around the Saturday morning shopping hoards. I don’t see a single non-black soul all through my hour and a half of walk, not even a brown skin one like myself. It feels strange, but hey, I am in their country. I would soon find out that not many white South Africans would dare come into the city center over the weekends. The weekdays were a different story, but that too, after work every evening, they would fly away like migrant birds and into their gated secure homes in suburbs. In fact, I was warned against walking around outside my hotel after hours. But that wasn’t enough to deter me from doing just that. How else does one get to know a new place?

On Sunday, along with a small group of other hotel guests, I take a minibus tour of the notorious segregated Johannesburg slum of Soweto, guided by Opa James. James is your weathered young-old  man – probably in his early to mid-forties – who has now taken upon himself to show the visitors the soft side of Johannesburg’s riotous township. We visit a typical Soweto family and have a beer with them. The idea is to make us feel that they are like any other regular family.

So far so good. I spend three days in Johannesburg before boarding my first domestic South African Airways flight bound for Durban. If not exactly nervous, as I approach the business class cabin of the plane, I can’t help but think of  that image of the movie Gandhi, in which he is kicked out of his rightful place in the first class compartment of the train on which he was traveling  from Durban to Pretoria.

But my fear is immediately expelled by the stewardess who takes my boarding pass and flashes a big smile at me with Welcome aboard Mr. Shah. It’s just a short flight from Johannesburg to Durban and the service provided onboard is as good as that on any other airlines in the world.

I knew that Durban is where Gandhi had first arrived at the invitation of Indian Muslim businessmen to provide legal services. And I am also faintly aware of the fact that Durban has the largest population of the people of Indian origin anywhere outside India. So much so that had I been brought there blind folded, I would certainly not believe that I was anywhere else but in an Indian city. The publishers I was meeting in Durban and elsewhere in the country were all white South Africans. That is: with exception of Anant Singh, of Video Vision, priding in calling himself  the first black movie maker from South Africa.  That meant, despite my pleasant reception in the country, the separation or apartheid  as it is called in Afrikaans had to be real, still.  I didn’t have to wait too long to find out myself.

Upon my arrival in Durban, I am met at the airport by Christopher Backerberg of Republican Press.  We have a drink together in the hotel bar and then I have a free evening. I have checked into Maharani Hotel, situated on Snell Parade right on the Indian Ocean. As the name suggests, it’s ornate with lot of gold and glitter. The lobby floors are all shiny marbles and tightly upholstered burgundy red leather couches in the lobby remind me of an English library.  The reception area is dark paneled wood and behind the counter are three or four young and pretty girls of Indian origin, with sparkling smiles on their faces. And I am quite pleased with my large room with a large bed, overlooking the beach and the ocean. I get goose bumps thinking that if I were to jump into the ocean and swim into the diagonally opposite direction, I could wash up on Chowpati Beach in Bombay and walk home to Mama Shah for dinner.

I have arrived in Durban on November 12, 1991. I meet with the executives of Republican Press on the 13th and the 14th and have a meeting planned with Anant Singh for the afternoon of the 15th. But Anant has arranged for me a city tour in the morning. I have been up and about for quite some time and have walked around the beach before it got to be hot and humid. The beach is practically deserted and its peaceful listening to the ocean waves. The driver, a  young man of Indian origin pulls up in a Mercedes Sports 450 SLC and gives me a comprehensive tour of Durban. Along the way, he asks me whether I’ve already had my breakfast, and I tell him that I have been up for a while, and yes, I did already have a breakfast and that I even had time enough to take a walk on the beach.

‘How long did you walk?’ He asks. A strange question, I think.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Half an hour, three-quarters of an hour maybe.’ I answer. He doesn’t say anything for a while and keeps driving, but his silence is unnerving.

‘Why?’ I ask.

‘You know, you couldn’t have been able to do that a month ago.’ He blurts out. I don’t show it, but I couldn’t help but cringe inside.

It suddenly strikes me that almost a hundred years ago to the date, in 1893 to be exact, not only was Gandhi pushed out of his first class compartment at Maritzburg, but also while traveling by a stagecoach between Charlestown and Johannesburg, subjected to sit outside next to the driver and then when the leader of the coach wanted to smoke, he ordered him to sit at his feet, which Gandhi wouldn’t do. He was denied rooms in hotels, and even the ones who took him in would not allow him to eat in the dining room along with rest of the guests. And here I am, his child two generations removed and flying first class and staying in five stars hotels and no one has stopped me or even given a feeling somehow I didn’t belong. Even then I couldn’t just slough off what the driver has just said. But ever optimistic that I am, I also feel that F.W. de Klerk having signed the end of apartheid’s got to be the first step towards the eventual colorless co-existence.

Unbeknown to me, the sea change is taking place across the ocean in India during the five days that I am in South Africa.  Banned from International Cricket by the world twenty one years earlier, the South African cricket team is playing a series of one day international (ODI) games across India. The first country to take them back into the international fold and have been the most gracious hosts. It makes me proud to be born in India and I wish Gandhi were there to witness his  children following in the path of forgive and forget – something he firmly believed in along with Ahimsa and Satyagraha.

I would later read about the South African team’s overwhelming reception  upon their arrival in Calcutta in the 2010 reminiscence of Kanishkaa Balachandran, sub-editor at Cricinfo: Their reception in Calcutta surpassed all expectations. Upon landing, some of the South Africans mistook the large gathering of people near the airport for protesters, but they had actually gathered to welcome the team. Children waved flags, flower petals were showered over the players, and the 15-mile journey took a few hours. The South African captain, (Clive) Rice summed it up perfectly: “I know how Neil Armstrong felt when he stood on the moon.”

For me the most emotional moment came on the evening of the 14th. As it was, South Africa had lost the first two of the series of three games, in Calcutta and Gwalior. Disappointed but not disheartened,  their countrymen are just happy to be playing international cricket. But they win the third game in the nation’s capital, New Delhi. And they win it big. By then I too am caught up in the hype that has blanketed the whole nation.

I stop at the reception to get my key and stop for a while to flirt with the sweet receptionists. I try  to make some lame joke about the series that has just concluded. And I hear them say in unison, BUT WE WON! These are the girls born of Indian parents, but I love their pride in their team. And from what I caught on the television, the crowds in New Delhi and the Indian team too were as jubilant that the visiting team had won. That their first time back in the arena, and it wouldn’t bid well for the hosts to send their guests back home downbeat and defeated.  Far from it. As I am leaving from Johannesburg’s Jan Smut International Airport on the morning of the 16th.. on my way to Bombay via Nairobi, the airport is swarming with the jubilant crowds – not knowing what had brought them there – I get a peek at the deplaning South African team returning home from New Delhi – all smiles and joy on their faces.

They would reciprocate India’s hospitality by inviting them a year later to play four test series on South African soil, billed as the Friendship Series and universally hailed as the historic tour in more ways than one.

 

© Haresh Shah 2013

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

Next Friday, May 17, 2013

YES

Thought the time has come to answer something you have been dying to ask since I began writing this blog 25 weeks ago. All is well and good, but where’s the beef? Come on, after all we’re talking Playboy! Well, just one more week and you would know!

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Categories South Africa

MY SPRING VALENTINE

April 4, 2013 //
0

As The Time Goes By

Haresh Shah

myvalentinev2

Exactly thirty six years ago today on April 5th. 1977, in Santa Barbara, California, it was another fucking beautiful day, as my neighbor Greg Ketchum and I had began to refer to our forever such gorgeous weather, whenever we both found ourselves out on our respective balconies, overlooking the awesome Santa Ynez Mountain Range.  I was done with my writing for the day and was sitting around in my living room with Mike and Guusje, drinking beer, when the phone rings.

Without any pleasantries, the female voice on the other line dives right into it.

‘I understand you are auditioning young ladies for Playboy.’

‘Not quite.’ I respond with trepidation, trying hard to think who it might be. Sensing confused silence on my end of the line, the voice breaks out in a hearty laugh.

‘This is Carolyn,’ it says.’ It still doesn’t ring the bell.

‘I was just passing through. I am on my way down south to see Gwen in LA.’ And then I knew.

‘Where are you?’

‘I am here. In Santa Barbara.’

‘You are? Why don’t you come on over?’

‘Okay.’

She doesn’t ask for the direction. Soon I see her pulling up on the Linfield Place in her yellow Volkswagen, named Rachel Rabbit.  She had once lived here before moving up north to Sacramento.  She plans to spend a couple of days walking down the memory lane, perhaps meet up with some people she knew and then continue on to Los Angeles to see her sister. As soon as she walks in, we hug, ever so self  consciously, but there is a feeling of a certain intimacy, which becomes apparent after Mike and Guusje leave. We stand in the middle of the room with our arms wrapped around and holding each other as if we were long lost lovers, and then abruptly but gently step back.

I invite her out for dinner and we drive down to Dobb’s in the city center from Goleta, where I live off the UCSB campus. The dinner is animated and we talk a lot about relationships. Hers with her husband Bob has just ended and they have filed for no-contest divorce. I am trying to build a long distance relationship with Patricia in Mexico City, but neither of us is quite sure. We are sort of oscillating. Carolyn has also been sort of dating someone. But as we talk, the magnetic pull between us two is obvious. After dinner we take a walk on the beach, feeling mellow, listening to the gentle waves of the Pacific splashing the shore. The vast expanse of the beach is deserted that night. I don’t remember for sure if it were a full moon night, but let’s assume that it was, just to give an extra romantic edge to the evening. We feel the ocean breeze lightly feather our exposed skins. The stars seem to be aligned just right on this clear cloudless night. We are walking hand-in-hand and feel the tender but intense energy transpiring through our entwined fingers.

The way I normally tell the rest of the story is: I bring her back home that night, thread my three hour long reel-to-reel tape containing Keith Jarrett’s soothing Cologne concert. And keep her.

●●●

I first met Carolyn and her husband Bob in the bar of a canal side little B & B in Amsterdam, where I had stopped by to look for a room. They were fully booked. But I stayed to have a beer in their bar before venturing out in the early January cold. Sitting diagonally opposite from me was a young couple from Duluth, Minnesota.

I had not planned to be in Amsterdam on this trip.  Certainly not to spend the whole week there. A little over a week earlier I had run away from Chicago in hopes to mend my broken heart. I had picked Denmark literally by putting my finger on the map. The place where no one I knew lived and the place where I could be face-to-face with my lonely self, the place where I could nurse  my wounds and disappear in its anonymity. Copenhagen seemed to do just that for me. Regaining some of my spirit back, I flew on to Stockholm – thinking I would celebrate  my New Year’s Eve up there. But on that morning, it got to be too lonesome. At the last minute, I called my friend Franz-Hermann Gomfers in Wachtendonk, a little town in the lower Rhine, that bordered with Venlo in Holland. As usual, he was hosting the Sylvester party and I found myself amongst the jubilant throng of the New Year’s Eve revelers.

Four years earlier, also at Franz Hermann’s Sylvester party, I had met the flaming red head, Felicita. Fe, as everyone called her,  grew up in a house in the alley diagonally opposite from Fran Hermann’s house. Shy as she was, we had clicked and spent most of the night sitting on a corner sofa, talking. Getting up once in a while to slow dance and then sit down again.  There is a photo of me sitting next to her, holding her wrist in my hand and twirling her bracelet, gazing at it as if in admiration. As good a pretense as any to hold her hand. Three weeks later I had left Europe to come to the United States.

Reconnected, we drive to Krefeld to have dinner the night of the New Year. Staying out late, we  leisurely stroll the deserted streets of the town. Stop frequently at store fronts and window shop. Four years earlier, she wore her hair very short. Now seeing her in a longer than shoulder length hair, I am blown away by how breathtakingly gorgeous she looks. Her radiant smooth skin matches the color of her hair, her shy smiles has me absolutely captivated.

Playfully, I say to her: ‘I’ll marry you when your hair grows down to here,’ pointing to the small of her back with the blade of my hand.

‘Be careful what you say, because my hair grows very fast. In fact, I did have it down to my waist up until a month ago.’ She responds with an impish smile on her face.

And our game begins, as if we were an engaged couple, soon to be married. We pick the bridal gowns and the tuxedos that she and I would wear on our wedding day. We build an imaginary house and begin to fill it with the furniture we see on display. We select baby clothes and the little booties and bonnets for our baby. Even toss around a few names for the daughter we would have. And as we continue our silly little make-believe game, I imagine her walking down the aisle, her radiant face luminous behind the veil.

My plan is now to spend the remaining eight days of my escape from Chicago in Amsterdam. Something I had dreamt of doing with Karen. But it wasn’t meant to be. And now my fickle heart is longing for Fe to explore with me the canals, the bridges and the alleys of the Venice of the north.

●●●

On that Sunday evening, as I stand over one of the thousand bridges of Amsterdam and watch the canal floating down below, I see in its ripples the faces of the women that dot the canvas of my emotional landscape.

Netty, who worked at Drukerij Bosch when I was an intern there seven years earlier,  now lives in Amsterdam. It’s been nice seeing her again, but I can still feel a certain amount of tension linger  between us. Her girlfriend Reneé, on whom I had an incredible crush, leading to a few stolen kisses, is now married and also lives in Amsterdam. Both Netty and I went  to see her and her husband one evening. There is also Carolyn. I thought she was pretty and liked her American way of dressing in blue jeans and a simple top. Lacking of any visible makeup and the hair almost touching her waist. She reminded me of Joan Baez . But I don’t carry any  deeper impression of her. And of course, there is Karen, back in Chicago – the woman I have run away from. But the face that superimposes all of them is that of Fe’s.  What I see clearly in that fluid water is the parting  image of her, clutching the bunch of red tulips, her eyes fogging up and the tail light of her disappearing train.

Having spent the whole weekend together, walking around Amsterdam till wee hours of the morning – still feeling weary and sleepy after the late morning breakfast, we are lying sideways on her single bed – talking, almost whispering – sharing with each other and feeling a certain   closeness at our parallel stories of the bruised hearts, I am overwhelmed at the silence that has fallen between us. Us staring deep into each other’s eyes.

‘Willst du mich heiraten?’ It just pops out of my mouth. Something I had never asked anybody up until then and have not to this day since. ‘Will you marry me?’

The fog has fallen dense on the city of Amsterdam. My emotions are torn. The longing intensified. The faces dissolving in the ripples as they march on.

●●●

It’s January 3rd 1979. Delayed by two and a half hours, our United flight from Los Angeles is the last one to land that night at 12:30 at Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport, before the back-to-back snow storms would blanket and paralyze the city for weeks and months to come. We check into the Playboy Towers – the old dame of the hotel known as The Knickerbocker, before and after its present avatar – at two in the morning with a whole bunch of boxed live potted plants that make up the bulk of our excess baggage. Because we are told that they would never make it to Chicago in the truck. I have returned to Playboy full time to work out of their head offices. Carolyn is seven months pregnant. We have bought a condo in Hyde Park and would move in soon as our stuff arrives.  The side streets remain buried under mountains of snow up until April. When the truck finally makes it to Chicago area, they deliver bits and pieces by minivans. Soon as they deliver the mattresses on the 26th, we move in.

After three weeks of being stuck in a hotel, it feels good to be in our own place. However inadequately equipped. We are prepared to sleep on the hardwood floors if we had to. In the meanwhile, I keep trucking. Of which Lee Hall writes in his International Publishing Newsletter dated February 5: Haresh will be returning from Spain this weekend to assist in the last minute birth of his first child. He and Caroline (sic) have recently moved into a delightful apartment in Chicago but are currently awaiting the arrival not only of the baby but of their furniture van which has been marooned somewhere in the Mid-western snow.

And then its March 6. Its 04:04 in the morning – the drama of a new child being born is enacted in the bedroom of our apartment. Propped up and leaning on the wall at the edge of the bed is me, Carolyn’s head resting on my shoulder. At the ready is the midwife Kay with her experienced hands to clutch and catch the baby pushing to emerge into this world. Surrounding the bed are Dr. Elvove, Anita and Keeline while Bob is clicking away with the little Kodak Instamatic with his trembling hands.  We see first Anjuli’s head pop out and then with another push, all of her. Dr. Elvove hands me a pair of scissors to snap the umbilical cord. A daughter born in Playboy family receives Playboy kind of welcome by telexes from around the world in response to Lee Hall’s following announcement, barely making it  in his Newsletter dated March 5, but not mailed until later.

PS: Anjuli Shah-Johnson, the first daughter of Haresh Shah and Carolyn Johnson, was born on March 6.

© Haresh Shah

Illustration: Jordan Rutherford

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

Next Friday, April 12, 2013

FACE TO FACE WITH JAN CREMER

It is very likely that the most of you have never heard of Jan Cremer, the ultimate enfant terrible of the Dutch literature and the art. He once famously said in an interview: Rembrandt? I have never heard of him. I’m not interested in sports. Arrogant? Brilliant?  Whatever. But I am a big fan of his books, I Jan Cremer and Jan Cremer Writes Again. And have had a pleasure of meeting and talking to him.

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Categories Relationships, Romance, Women

PANDORA’S BOX

November 17, 2012 //
11

Haresh Shah

Every Life Untold Is A Pandora’s Box

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The reason I decided to write Playboy Stories is: However I try not to talk about me having worked at the magazine for twenty one years, it always comes up. Like the afternoon when I was visiting my childhood friend Deven at his brother Madhu’s house in Elgin. I also met for the first time Madhu’s son Mehul and his wife Priti. We’ve had a leisurely late afternoon lunch and were just trying to catch up when out of a clear blue sky, Deven comes out and says to Priti that I worked for Playboy. No wonder you’re so cool! She exclaimed. Whatever that meant. As I began to answer some of her questions and mentioned I was thinking of starting a blog about my years at Playboy, suddenly her husband Mehul’s antenna popped up. Up until then, he hadn’t said a word other than the initial hello, beyond that his nose remained buried into the screen of his I-Pad.

About a month earlier, I had invited for dinner my two young neighbors, Alex and Evan with their  girlfriends Jessica and Tara. When Alex happened  to mention my Playboy connection, that answered the girls’ curiosity regarding why half of my wall in the guest room is filled with every single issue of the last fifty years of the US Playboy, as well as the landmark issues of the international editions of which I was editorial director. The girls had questions. Tara 22 and Jessica 23. What was it like to work for Playboy? Had I ever met Hefner? Had I been to his mansion? Was I ever present at photo shoots? What are those girls like? They can’t all be that perfect. And so on, is when Alex said good humouredly, Don’t ask many questions. Its like opening up Pandora’s Box. A week later, when I ended up sharing a steak dinner with Alex and Jessica, I couldn’t help but think how pretty she was, and how unpretentious, down home simple. Just like, yes, the girl next door. I said out loud, that she could be a Playmate.

‘No, I can’t. With my height, and…’ She didn’t finish the sentence, but I presumed, she didn’t think her breasts were ample enough.

‘No Jessica, not all Playmates are tall and buxom. For example…what’s her name?’ As it often happens to me, even though I could clearly picture Jenny McCarthy standing next to me, fitting snuggly under my arm – a whole head shorter than me. And I am only five-five (1.65m). After they left, I rummaged through one of my many shoe boxes of photographic prints waiting to be included in an album I may make someday or never get around to ever doing it. But our brief conversation inspired me to do just that – to throw together all the stray photos depicting bits and pieces of my life at Playboy in a scrapbook  ostentatiously titled,  La Vie Playboy – Das Leben und Zeiten von Haresh Shah – 1972-1993.

As anal as I normally am about order and chronology, I just decided to throw caution to the wind and not to worry about it as long as there was some semblance of both and let the captions I proceeded to write tell individual stories. Working on the scrapbook  lead me to want to write about the  answers I give to people and the memories I cherish of my long association with Playboy magazine.

For those of you who may not know, or only barely remember where I am coming from – here is a brief rundown on the professional trajectory I have followed.

I began working with my uncle Jaisukh in his just-getting-off-the-ground Wilco Publishing House in Bombay, right  out of high school at the age of seventeen. I worked all through my six college years. Four at Jai Hind College where I earned my B.A. in Economics and two more years at the Government School of Printing Technology,  before sailing away from the Ballard Pier, to get a diploma in Photolithography at London School of Printing. Spent a year at Burda Publishing in the heart of the Black Forrest in Germany as their reproduction photographer. Following that I landed  in the city of New York and my cousin Ashwin drove me to  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. My six months working on the floors of Graphic Arts Technical Foundation, put the cherry on the top of my educational achievements. A job offer from Time Inc, now Time Warner, landed me in cold and windy Chicago, becoming one of their  team of six quality control supervisors in charge of Time, Life –  the largest circulation weekly of those days –Sports Illustrated and Fortune.  Four years later, in 1972,  I let Playboy steal me away from them and ship me off to Munich, Germany to become its production manager for the newly launched “foreign” edition of the magazine. Over the period of next twenty one years, with a brief hiatus in-between, I worked my way up to the corporate position  of  Senior Vice President and international publishing division’s Editorial Director in charge of eighteen countries. It took me all over the world many times over. Along the way, I learned to speak fluent German and Spanish and also picked up fair amount of Czech, some French and Italian. I left Playboy at the end of September 1993. Since then I did Florida Sportsfan, moved and lived in Prague as editorial adviser to half a dozen women’s magazines and eventually  conceived and became Editor and Publisher of TV/Entertainment magazine Serial, until I retired in 2005.

Never mind that I try to tell all of this to people so that they can put in perspective where I am coming from or where I have been. All of that goes over their heads,  except of course the Playboy part. So what choice do I have?

That’s my motivation and the reason for undertaking this journey.  A past girlfriend Susan frequently said of me: You live in the past!  And so it is. I guess there is a certain amount of gratuitous  gratification living in the days that are no longer.

©2012 Haresh Shah

 Illustration: Deven Mehta

Next Friday, November 30, 2012

THE GIRL NEXT DOOR: is how Hefner defined his Playmates as opposed to celebrities and professional models. When I communicated this to one of my editors – his response while scrutinizing the current  centerfold was: If she is the girl next door, I must be living in a wrong neighborhood.

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

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Categories Uncategorized