by Richard Hine
“Great,” I say. “I’ll see you at lunch.”
Another long pause. I wait in case Henry wants to say more. I don’t hang up till I hear him humming softly to himself, tapping an accompanying rhythm on the surface of his uncluttered desk.
Focus.
I need to focus on the job at hand. It’s the only way to get anything done. As the Chronicle’s sales development director, I have only one mission: to help our salespeople sell more advertising pages. I need to create presentations that convince advertisers that the Chronicle, the fourth-largest national newspaper, is the only place to be. Forget the top three titles. The Chronicle—smaller and cheaper, with a waning but still powerful influence—offers the kinds of advertising efficiency you just can’t get from the Journal or the Times or even USA Today. OK. Maybe that’s not true for every advertiser. But right now I only have to make it sound believable to one. I need a story that will convince the skeptical new team at Livingston Kidd. There’s no reason I should be worrying about Henry. Who sounded weird. Or Sam. Who doesn’t want me to touch her anymore. Or the problems in the newspaper industry. Which can’t find enough new readers to replace those who are dying off. Or the asinine way our company is structured. Which puts our print sales team in direct competition with our online division. Or the way our online sales team gets treated like heroes every time they convince a big print advertiser to run fewer ads. Don’t get me started.
Focus, Russell.
Don’t think about that job offer from Google you turned down six months before their IPO. Selling print is what you’re good at. Anyway, what else could you have done? Henry had just promoted you. Even upped your bonus target. You were loyal. You kept honing your skills in the newspaper business. You stuck it out in the land of dead trees even as those huge-but-nimble digital fortresses were being built all around you. You thought newspapers still had a role to play: helping us make sense of the world at least once every twenty-four hours. But then you woke up. Google had taken over the world. Digg.com—a company with fourteen employees—was getting more page views than the New York Times. Newspapers didn’t make quite as much sense anymore. Not in a high-speed, 24/7, continually updated, RSS-fed, screen-based, downloadable, do-it-yourself, read-listen-watch-for-free world.
Focus, Russell.
Just read the Livingston files. Review the client history. Assemble the key points from our audience research. Make a list of all the reasons why Livingston Kidd should continue to advertise in the Daily Business Chronicle. I wonder if this is how carriage drivers felt when they first noticed those Model-T Fords overtaking them a hundred years ago. What did carriage manufacturers do in those days? Build better, more expensive carriages? Make the seats more comfortable? Pioneer the use of rearview mirrors?
Focus, Russell.
Close the door. No more extraneous thoughts. No distractions. Remember Peter Drucker. The effective executive focuses on his number one priority. And nothing else.
Interruption #1: Barbara Ward, Departmental Assistant
“Excuse me, Russell, but I just have to ask you. Have you seen what Angela is wearing today?”
I didn’t hear her knock. But when I look up, I see Barbara is already inside my office, holding the door almost shut behind her. She’s a small, religious woman, speaking in a stage whisper intended to alert me to the scandalous nature of the news she’s conveying.
“To tell you the truth, I haven’t,” I say. “And I’m really quite busy right now. But I will pay close attention when I see Angela later.”
Barbara is one of those people I never quite know what to do with. She’s worked here since 1975 and seems not to have updated her wardrobe or her job skills since then. Because jobs at my level no longer justify full-time assistants, Barbara is supposed to support my entire department. But beyond the fact that she sometimes answers my phone and offers to transfer people into my voicemail, I simply don’t have any work I can give her with confidence. According to Sam, whenever she calls me at the office, Barbara is more likely to connect her to someone called Katie Krieger’s voicemail than she is to my own mailbox. Despite all that, Barbara has taught herself the skills she needs to upload digital photographs of her grandchildren and email them to her friends and family around the world. She is also, I’m told, an expert at placing last-minute bids in online auctions for a certain kind of collectible porcelain figurine.
“I’m not sure she’s wearing a bra,” says Barbara, looking at me as if she thinks this is my fault. “Everything seems very tight and transparent.”
I pause to contemplate the kind of conversation Barbara would like me to have with Angela Campos, the beautiful high school senior who is interning with us this semester. She’s one of fifty such kids who are scattered throughout the company. It’s an initiative launched by Burke-Hart’s new CEO, Connie Darwin, to provide valuable work experience to gifted but economically disadvantaged public school students. Henry, of course, insisted I sign up. He’s probably the only one in sales and marketing who hasn’t noticed the commotion Angela’s presence has created.
“I thought you had already spoken to her about what’s appropriate for the office,” says Barbara.
“Yes, yes,” I say, not sure what else to add. I haven’t actually spoken to Angela directly, and it seems the telepathic messages I sent didn’t get through.
“Let me have another word with her later,” I tell Barbara. “I just have to finish what I’m doing here. Could you close the door?”
“I’m not the only one who’s noticed,” she says.
“Absolutely. Understood. And thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
I wish one of the women on my staff would deal with this. Maybe I could zap Meg an instant message and ask her to talk to Angela. Scratch that. Take a lesson from Congressman Foley. It’s not a good idea to send IMs about teens and undergarments.
Focus, Russell.
Forget Mark Foley. Remember Peter Drucker. Angela’s clothing is not a priority. Livingston Kidd is your only priority.
Interruption # 2: Martin Hopkins, Creative Director
“How old do you think I am?” says Martin. He’s standing on a patch of carpet that gives him just enough room to twirl. He’s wearing the trendster uniform he adopted at the start of the week: tight black T-shirt tucked into black jeans, ankle boots with a one-inch heel. He thinks this new wardrobe makes him look younger. In reality it draws attention to the fact that he’s a middle-aged straight guy trying just a little too hard and acting a little too gay.
“Wasn’t my door closed?” I ask him.
“This isn’t business. It’s personal. I’m coming to you as a friend.”
I give him my grudging attention, and he twirls again.
“Forty-six,” I say. “Careful. Don’t knock those files over.”
“You think so?”
“You’ve told me a hundred times.”
“OK. But if you didn’t know. Just based on looks. How old would you think I am?”
“Did I tell you how busy I am right now?”
“Russell.”
I stand up, walk around my desk, look at him more closely, noticing the wisps of chest hair curling around the shallow V of his T-shirt. Martin used to dress in a more standard mid-forties-divorcé uniform: badly ironed, open-at-the-neck, button-down shirts, mismatched with pleated slacks or khakis. His hair—previously a shaggy, long-at-the-back, almost-mullet-like disaster—is now buzzed short to reveal the exact topography of his male-pattern baldness. He’s started working out too. But it’s early in the process—too early to give his T-shirt something firm to cling to. His upper body is still lumpy in a way that makes his new clothing choices seem ill advised.
“I don’t know,” I say. “You probably look about…”
I’m playing with him. I know exactly what he wants to hear.
“Tell me,” he says.
“I guess you could pass for thirty-eight.”
“Really?”
“Ab
solutely. No shit. Could you just sit down and stop touching your stomach?”
Martin, smiling now, does what I ask. “I read that article you gave me,” he says. “That guy made some good points.”
“I told you, Finchley’s one of the best thinkers out there. Gladwell and Bing had better watch out.”
“When he says thirty-eight is the new twenty-five, he’s so right. It’s all about experience. We can’t expect twenty-five-year-olds to have all the answers or know how to run a business.”
“I’m glad you liked the article.”
“It really opened my eyes to what I need to be doing for myself. I’ve decided that thirty-eight is not just a number, it’s a state of mind.”
“That’s cool.”
“I’ll tell you, Russell, I’ve got a whole new attitude. I’ve taken my graduation year off my résumé, and I’m only listing jobs that go back fifteen years.”
“Shit. You’re looking?”
“Not looking. Just opening myself up to new possibilities.”
I peer a little closer at Martin’s wrinkled features. “How long do you think you can keep this thirty-eight thing up?”
“I told you, it’s a state of mind. And it’s working. I bumped into Barney Barnes yesterday. He told me to call him.”
“Shit. Don’t tell Henry you’re talking to Barney.”
“Cross-divisional dialogue, baby,” says Martin, getting back up. “Isn’t that what Connie wants to see more of?”
“OK,” I say. “I’m just looking out for your thirty-eight-year-old ass.”
Martin floats out of my office. I’m glad that the Christopher Finchley article I gave him had such a big effect. But still, knowing how important loyalty is to Henry, I’m worried that Martin’s even talking to Barney Barnes.
Or I could be worried. But I don’t have brain space to worry about Martin. Martin is not my problem. Livingston Kidd is my only problem.
Interruption #3: Cindy Lang, Sales Development Manager
“So Roger is going out on medical leave,” says Cindy. She’s the last person I want to see right now. But she knows something I don’t.
“I didn’t realize he had announced it yet.”
A couple of months ago, Roger Jones told me he had finally topped four hundred pounds and was thinking of getting his stomach stapled. But he didn’t mention it again. I assumed he had backed away from the plan.
“He’s telling people he’ll be out for up to six weeks. I’m a little concerned.”
I don’t like being blindsided by internal news, especially from within my own department. But I try not to let it show.
“I’m sure he’ll be OK,” I say. “It’s quite a common procedure these days.”
“I’m concerned we don’t have a plan. Roger and I were working together on a few projects.” Cindy is standing on the other side of my desk, arms folded. She’s that kind of skinny, gym-toned person whose head looks too big for her body. When she tilts it to the side, it puts an alarming strain on her neck muscles.
“Really?” I say. “I thought I asked you and Roger to work on completely separate assignments. Sit down. Let’s take a look.”
Cindy sits and, referring to her leather-bound notebook, reels off a list of projects she and Roger are “collaborating” on. She’s wearing a crisp white blouse with a pearl choker around her neck. I jot down the client names she mentions. Each one falls squarely within the categories Cindy is supposed to be covering by herself. She should have had no need to get Roger involved.
As far as my department goes, I made a big mistake when I hired Cindy four months ago. Right from her first day, I realized she was something less than the hardworking, quick-thinking, creative-yet-analytical, perpetual-motion productivity machine she had claimed to be when I interviewed her.
As the weeks have turned into months, she has done little more than repackage the work produced by my other managers or joined teams that allow her to skate by without making any kind of visible contribution to a project. Cindy’s corporate skill set doesn’t get activated until after a project is completed. That’s when she displays her special talent for presenting herself as the mastermind behind the finished work. While her other team members don’t have the luxury to pause between projects, let alone reflect on their successes, Cindy invests most of her time in making sure management—Henry in particular—is aware of what’s being accomplished. In just a few months, her relentless self-marketing has convinced Henry that she’s the only one on my team who knows how to get anything done. Within the pressure cooker of my department, Cindy has created the kind of simmering resentment that usually takes years to blow the lid off. My whole team hates her. They’re practically begging me to fire her before the end of her six-month probation period. But as long as Henry loves her, my hands are tied.
“OK,” I say. “Anything else you’re working on?”
Cindy starts running through a second list of projects. These are assignments I know are being handled by either Meg Wilson or Pete Hughes. Clearly, Cindy is preparing to attach her name to as many projects as possible over the next couple of months. There’s an impressive amount of work going on. I remind myself that I—as the boss to Cindy, Meg, Pete and Roger—should be receiving more credit for it all.
“Wow,” I say. “You’ve taken on a hell of a lot. Tell you what, though. While Roger’s out, why don’t you just devote yourself a hundred percent to that first list? I’ll crack the whip with Meg and Pete on the rest. Clearly, I need to do a better job supervising everyone’s workload. Make sure everyone’s doing their fair share.”
I notice a flash of fear in Cindy’s eyes. But then she steadies herself. “OK,” she says, then nods, clenches her jaw, and gets up to leave.
“Hey, Cindy,” I say. “Thanks so much for bringing this to my attention. Could you pull the door closed behind you till you hear it click?”
It’s only ten fifteen. But it’s already been a three-interruption morning. I look over at Lucky Cat. He’s smiling inscrutably at the closed door, challenging me to put him to the test.
I stare at the papers spread out on my desk.
Focus, Russell.
But what if Lucky Cat lets me down again? If I lose faith in him, what will I have left to believe in?
At 10:17, I gather up my files and head to the small conference room. It’s a quiet spot where I can hide out undisturbed till lunchtime.
CHAPTER THREE
Fabrice is Henry’s favorite hangout. It’s the signature restaurant of New York chef du jour Fabrice de Monbrison, the gathering place for the power people in the media industry. Along with its food, Fabrice offers an appropriately sumptuous setting in which relationships can be nurtured, alliances formed and deals struck.
Henry surveys the room as we’re led through. Connie Darwin, the CEO of Burke-Hart Publishing, is at a window table with her boss—the boss of us all—Larry Ghosh.
Ghosh looks several years older than the pointillized version of his face that still appears frequently in the Wall Street Journal. The drawing dates back to the days when he made his first billion in the grocery cart business, with the infamous Ghosh Guarantee. The plan was simple. Its execution inspired shock and awe. Under cover of night, a network of sales reps dispersed. At first light they descended on the purchasing departments of major retailers to promote Ghosh Carts with an unprecedented lifetime wheel-alignment warranty. The orders flooded in. Ghosh’s competitors never knew what hit them.
Larry Ghosh was hailed as a business genius. And he didn’t stop there. After winning the grocery cart wars, he really went shopping. Within twelve months, Ghosh Corporation established a significant presence in media and entertainment, acquiring a host of second-tier radio, film, TV and music assets. Another year later, drowning in debt, he sold the original Ghosh Cart business.
Just in time. Ghosh got out of grocery carts right before his cheap wheels began seizing up and his old customers started hurling lawsuits.
Ghosh was con
demned as a charlatan and a con artist. But luckily for him, the general public was less outraged by unsteerable grocery carts than they were by the Enron, World-com and Martha Stewart scandals.
By the time it was all over and settlements had been reached, Ghosh was ready for his next big act. Murdoch beat him to MySpace. The Google guys beat him to YouTube. So Ghosh did something different. Instead of paying a premium price for a company with a big future, he looked back in time and bought a business that was priced to sell: Burke-Hart Publishing.
Not the most exciting acquisition, perhaps. It didn’t even make our own front page. But it signaled Ghosh’s quest for legitimacy as well as profits. And it made the Daily Business Chronicle the jewel in his media crown.
Henry tips his head as we pass Ghosh’s table, but he and Connie are engrossed in conversation. Neither gives any sign they’ve noticed us. I can’t quite understand why, after all the company’s recent belt-tightening, Henry thinks it’s a good idea to be seen in the same restaurant as Connie Darwin, let alone Larry Ghosh.
We’re seated at an inconspicuous table against the back wall. I take a slice of rosemary-infused sourdough from the selection of breads I’m offered. Henry waves the bread away. He’s still freaked out by carbs. He tries to limit them in solid form in order to justify a more unrestricted approach to consuming them via beer and wine. Henry’s rules regarding liquid carbs: When alone, personal consumption is allowed only after five o’clock. When in the company of clients, liquid carbs may be taken at any time the client deems appropriate.
“You see that?” says Henry. “Larry Ghosh wants people to see him with Connie. It’s a clear signal.”
“Right.”
“A public acknowledgement of the trust he has in her.”
“Or maybe he wants to show how hands-on he’s being,” I say. “That it’s really him who’s calling the shots.”
Henry looks disturbed. But the waiter appears before he can speak again. He orders mineral water for the table and asks for “the usual.” The waiter nods and makes a note. I ask for the hamburger with fries. It’s the restaurant’s signature dish. A sixty-dollar concoction perfected by Fabrice de Monbrison himself using imported beef and specially grown organic herbs. It has been taste tested on national TV and photographed exotically in several magazines.