3 - Chapter Three "The Thirty Percent Solution"

 

"The Thirty Percent Solution" 

Chapter Three  - Mike Stein 

     Just a shred of paper, it looked like it had been torn from a glossy magazine, and on it was written a number, just a phone number starting with 917 – a New York exchange, maybe a mobile phone. And I’ve been wondering and worrying about it ever since I discovered it in the right-side jacket pocket of my suit, ever since I came home around almost two in the morning after the reception to find Wendy fast asleep, and I didn’t want to talk about the previous night because I didn’t know what to tell her. 

     Without making any noise, I undressed and hung up my suit, pitched my laundry into the hamper, and slipped on my pajamas. I didn’t want to wake her. Why was I acting like some kind of a criminal who had just broken into my own home? Why didn’t I just come home earlier and tell her the truth? Why? 

     Because I was starting to realize the simple truth, and it was so important that I didn’t even want to express it in words, even to myself. I was no longer a journalist. I had jumped over the typewriter, and I was now a hired gun. I was no longer searching for the truth and devoted to revealing it. Now I was a PR hack trying to sell ideas that I probably didn’t even believe in. Now I had to sell Winshire Associates. And they were starting to look like they weren’t sweethearts. And now I could never go back. Once you jump over the typewriter, you can’t jump back. 

     Lying in bed, next to my wife, I thought of the dreams I had and what I wanted to do in my life. Before falling asleep, I thought about what I accomplished, and how I had gotten to this point.   

     Wendy and I met when I was the “police reporter” for The Humboldt Times, a local morning newspaper in Eureka, California. Wendy worked in the Society section. The newsroom was small, and the two of us bumped into each other a lot. One bump led to another, and soon we discovered that there was a rare chemistry between us – a natural ease and pleasure in being together along with a strong attraction – and I guess this is what’s called love. When I was offered the opportunity of my life, the chance to become an Associated Press newsman, in Reno, we married in a tiny white chapel in America’s former divorce capital. 

     Over the next four years, two important things occurred. The most important was that we were blessed with two sons, first Joshua when we were in Reno and then Isaac when we lived in Los Angeles. The other was that I realized my growing skill and my natural affinity for writing. I loved the process. I learned that good, clear, simple writing is not just putting words on paper; fundamentally, good writing is mostly clear thinking. The result was that I was awarded more and more by-lines for feature stories, and a few of them showed up in The New York Times. When I was offered the position of management editor of Chemical Week in New York, I didn’t want to give up everything I’d worked for in LA, but Wendy convinced me that, since New York is the communications and literature capital of at least America, we’d be crazy not to gamble.       

-0-

     Wendy was already at the kitchen table with Josh and Isaac when I arrived for breakfast. The morning sun’s warmth streamed into the kitchen of our simple Cape Cod home in Hastings. It was a warm and pleasant home. It was actually larger than it looked from the street, with four bedrooms, a finished basement, and off the living room was a tiny office. It was there I went to be alone to work on feature stories for Chemical Week, write in my journal, and make notes for what I hoped some day would be the world’s next great American novel. 

     Wendy stood up to greet me, and we kissed good morning. For just an instant, I looked at the three of them. My family, my God, I’m a lucky guy! Wendy looked wonderful, fresh as the new day; the touch of her lips was a buzz of electricity that lingered on my mouth for far too few seconds. Already, the boys were almost finished with their breakfasts. Josh, who at four would be driven to day care just a few minutes away by car, was finishing his two Eggos. On his own, he had cut his two waffles ’s into bite-sized pieces with his kiddie plastic knife, and he was using his fork to feed himself. At two, Isaac was another story. He had a lot of spirit but less skill.  The platter of his high chair was scattered with Cherios, which he was eating with his tiny, chubby fingers.  

     I moved toward the back door, and then stood there with my briefcase in hand. 

     Wendy looked up at me. “Ready to do battle in the Manhattan corporate jungle? How you feel? You got home a little late.” 

     “It was late, but I think I’ll be okay. I’m a strong guy.” 

      “How did your big, important reception go?” Wendy was smiling, and there was a touch of pride in her voice. “Did they ask you to stand up so they could all applaud you?”

      I laughed. “Not exactly. It was really kind of boring. I might have been the youngest guy there. A lot of them are just kind of old fogies. I’m sure they’re geniuses in their fields, but I can’t say I got to know many of them . . . not very well, anyway. I tried to leave as soon as I could, but you’re right, I still got home late.”  

      I stood there for a few seconds. “I better rush and catch the 8:17, so I’m not too late.”

      “Won’t you be hungry? You ought to eat something.”

      “I’ll grab a muffin and coffee at the Starbucks in our building,” I said. “In my new building.”

       I pronounced those last words so naturally, without thinking. But just as I pronounced the words “my new building,” it hit me. Again. What kind of a place is Winshire Associates, and what am I getting involved in? 

      One of the advantages of our little Cape Cod in Hastings was that I could walk to the Metro-North train station. I did make the 8:17, and I was lucky that I found a seat, which allowed me to study some client reports for my 9:30 meeting with the head of the Technology Practice of Winshire, Bill Voldman. 

      Study I did, until the Metro-North train conductor announced “Grand Central Turmoil,” which he did just about every morning when my train pulled into Midtown to start my day.

      After I grabbed a coffee and muffin at the Starbucks in my new building, I took the elevator up to the Winshire headquarters on the thirteenth floor. After stepping out into the black marble and glass reception area, I noticed that a few of the consultants I had already worked with were chatting with Bernadette, our hot receptionist, the red head with a British accent, at her desk right in front of the entrance. As I passed them, I was greeted by a chorus of “Hey, Mike, how’s it going?” Of course, I answered with my “Great, great.” But I found it strange; these happened to be among the consultants who didn’t recognize me, in fact, looked right through me, the night before at our reception. I wondered if their change in behavior was a question of embarrassment or - more likely – of boundaries; people just did not mention fun and games when all members of the firm didn’t participate. 

     My new office was relatively small, with just enough room for a desk, a few bookcases and chairs and a small sofa, maybe for times when I needed a power nap to increase my productivity. But the office had the advantage of a stunning view – the skyline with Rockefeller Center and Radio City and the Intrepid moored on the Hudson River. Taking in the scene while I reviewed the material for my 9:30 meeting, a thought entered my mind: Maybe my job at Winshire might work out, you never know.  

     When I arrived right on time at one of the conference rooms, Bill Voldman was already seated at the table, with printouts spread out in rows in front of him. He was a tall, powerful-looking guy with a full head of longish gray hair and a tanned complexion. He was the head of our Technology Practice, and he worked out of the San Jose office. He explained that he had flown in the night before, and – with his jet lag – he was never able to get a good night’s sleep when he spent a few days at the headquarters. 

       I got the feeling that he was trying to break the ice, when he started telling me that, no matter how luxurious the hotel and how many slugs of Scotch he gulped down, he just couldn’t sleep in a strange bed. Finally, he started telling me how he saw my job. 

      “So, you’re the new guy. I liked the piece of yours, the one that made it into The Wall Street Journal,” he started. “It was good and direct, and the right people are reading the Journal, mainly potential clients, and such. I kinda get the feeling people here think you’re just some kinda a writing machine, and I’m sure they don’t know how tough it is to write readable, engaging stuff.” 

      Then he stopped, glanced over at the rows of printouts on the table between us, and he started explaining to me what he saw as important in the rows and titles and numbers every sheet contained. The columns showed the data vacuumed up by a group of five clients on the various factors that influenced consumers to make on-line purchases. The lists reported the standard data gathered by all the big retailers – like Amazon, LL Bean and Apple – things like credit score, income, hobbies, classes of recent purchases. But they also listed other factors you don’t see, things like time on-line for each purchase, numbers of comparisons between different choices, product reviews accessed, the number of return visits to the website for each purchase and the importance of price. Bill thought that additional data was important, but he couldn’t come up with a concise reason for that conclusion.

     When I reviewed the material on my own, I had some vague ideas, but I didn’t see that light bulb light up with any clear answer. Then, I started asking him some questions, just to see if we could shake loose some ideas either of us hadn’t thought of. I asked, “Who’re the five clients?”

     “I don’t think you wanna know that now,” he kind of snapped. “Sounds like a side issue. Let’s just say it’s kinda a consortium.”      

     “How’d you decide on these other factors? Just thought of them?”

      He feigned shock. “Oh, no. We’re real pros. That could be a starting point, but we used focus groups, and paid a pretty penny for them, in fact.” 

      I started to feel closer to an idea, like I was starting to synthesize some general concepts. I asked, “And if you wanna manipulate all that data, how you do that? There could be so much data, I just see how . . . “

      Bill was ready for me, almost as if he wanted to prove he was on top of the concept. “Whadda you think? We’re the Technology Practice, aren’t we? We’re the masters of algorithms, of course.”

      “And who did it?”

      “Like I say, my guys, the Technology Practice.”  

      I felt ideas start to heat up in my mind. Even now, I have to admit it’s a boost, a lot of fun, maybe even a kind of high, when concepts start to form and you’re getting close to useful ideas. 

      Bill jumped in. “I know it’s the focus on decision making. It’s those factors, but how . . . “

      Before I realized it, we were throwing phrases back and forth, interrupting each other but with a movement toward something that wasn’t yet fully formed. I usually work with a yellow legal pad, and I noted the important ideas as fast as I could. 

      Bill started to make the discussion more understandable, more concrete. “It’s like I got a hardware store, and this one guy, a pain-in-the-ass, comes in all the time, and he keeps asking me questions, and I can’t pay attention to my other customers, and when he leaves, I missed out, and he probably went to Home Depot anyway.” 

      That’s what I needed. The idea exploded. I couldn’t stop myself. “Okay, just think for a second: What good is that other data? What could any merchant do with it? I think it tells companies how to evaluate their potential customers. It tells them how much time and money to invest in potential purchasers. It’s kind of a clearing house. I don’t know how someone could apply it, but it sure could avoid going down a rabbit hole with someone who’s never going to buy something anyway. You got the real customers on this side, and the pains-in-the-neck on that side.” 

      I swear, Bill Voldman was changing before my eyes, his mouth formed into a smile that he couldn’t control. “We got it, guy! No shit. That’s our Clearing House Program. That’s what we’ll call it.” 

      We looked at each other. We both felt smiles breaking out on our faces. It was almost as if we felt a form of camaraderie. 

     Bill was raising his voice. “Shit, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, but finding this stuff, defining this stuff, coming up with something new, my God, it’s almost as good as sex.”  

       We talked for maybe another half hour, mainly how the potential customers, pains in the neck, could be cut off and stopped from using up bandwidth. But Bill seemed to know exactly how to accomplish that. And then we talked about where we would aim the completed articles, and it seemed we decided to try for a column in The Wall Street Journal, and then longer articles with more complete explanations in electronics and retailer publications and websites.  

           I had one more question: “Just one thing. Should we work with the Marketing guys?”

     “I wanna tell you something about the Marketing guys,” he answered. “The Marketing guys, our Marketing guys, they haven’t come up with anything creative, anything for a long, long time. And, really, this is Technology. It’s all based on the algorithms. Programing, computers, you know the drill. And, like I’m saying, this is a tough place.”   

       At that point, I could tell that both of us were exhausted, plain burned out. We accomplished a lot, and I felt good about it. But then Bill Voldman seemed as though he wanted say something important. I stopped and listened. 

      “Mike, I see how you work,” he began. “You’re not just a ghost, a ghost writer. You make a real contribution; you move the idea along. But you gotta think: What’s all this gonna do for you, for your career? Where you wanna go.”. 

      Voldman didn’t break his stride. “Let me tell you, here you gotta make the right alliances, and show folks you can bring more to the table. It’s always the same in the corporate world: You gotta be ready to do more and more, but show you got an inner strength, that you can’t be taken advantage of. But it’s not gonna be easy here. This is a tough place. You’ll see. And, for you, it doesn’t have to stop with Winshire.”  

   I felt I had to show him I appreciated his advice. Voldman was the first person at Winshire Associates who was a straight-talker and seemed as though he wanted to help me. “Bill, I’m not just saying this. I really mean it. I appreciate what you’re saying, I appreciate your honesty.” 

      We shook hands. 

      “Just one thing,” he said. “If you get into a jam, give me a call. You never know what could come up.”

       Back in my office, I was still on a high. One phrase kept going through my mind: It might all work out. This place might work out. I might really fit in here. I looked out my window, Manhattan at my feet. I looked at my view, the skyline and the river and the Intrepid. Not bad, maybe it’s not a bad place. 

      But then, there was another thought that snuck into my mind from the side somewhere. It was planted there, and I knew it would come up some time. It was like an itch, some kind of an itch that I had to scratch, and scratch soon, or I’d keep wondering about it, and the image keep bothering me. That image was a face, a face with red lips and green eyes and soft blond hair, and a frightened expression. 

      I pulled out my wallet, opened it and pulled out the scrap of paper with the phone number. 

      I told myself to stop. I told myself to stop, and I dialed the number. 

      I heard the ringing, and then there was a female voice. “Hello.” The voice was weak, but it was her. Her image jumped back into mind. Red lips, green eyes, soft blond hair, and a tiny pearl that was right there, right there to stare at. 

       The words came on their own. “I’m from Winshire. I met you last night. We danced, I was the . . .” 

       “Can we meet at the Grand Hyatt, in the lounge? At five o’clock tomorrow night?”