5 - Chapter Five "The Thirty Percent Solution"

 
"The Thirty Percent Solution"

Chapter Five - Mike Stein 

     At this moment, how could I not love Manhattan? It was a different city, early morning, close to empty, close to silent, peaceful.  There was the occasional rumble of a garbage truck, and the click of a woman’s heels on the sidewalk echoing in the glass canyons. The air was still, clean and fresh, and the sidewalks were reserved for the early risers. 

      I was one of the early risers on that Friday morning, as I made my way down Fifth Avenue, past the purveyors of fine jewelry and high fashion, past the facades of glass that housed one center of corporate power after another. Then, from a jumble of cardboard boxes and dirty blankets in a doorway, a homeless man reached toward me with a blackened hand. In the instant his hand was extended, I was able to get a glance at a large ring on one finger. The image of that ring stuck with me and made me think. What was his life before he ended up on the street? What could have occurred that made him camp out in this doorway? In a choked voice, he asked if I had any spare change. 

      Suddenly, Fifth Avenue’s glitz was gone. The homeless man had a thin face, and his intelligent eyes were red; I was sure he had spent the night in that doorway. Automatically, I reached into my pocket, found two one-dollar bills and handed them to him. 

      As I walked away, I told myself I should have done something to help him. I felt a tinge of guilt, but I walked away. And then I thought all of the things I should be thankful for: A wonderful family, a life of relative plenty and security, close friends, success in my career, and no threats or dangers. Sure, I was confused by the Winshire organization. It was as if someone handed me a Rubik’s cube with no differentiating colors and told me I had thirty seconds to solve it. But I had confidence I would get through it all.   

       I arrived at Winshire on 53rd Street just as Bernadette showed up at her post. 

      She smiled at me and said, “Mr. Stein, can I tell you something?”

      “On one condition, that you call me Mike, not Mr. Stein.”

      “Agreed, I won’t call you Mr. Stein in private.” And she smiled again. “I like your beard.”

       “Thank you,” I answered, and almost ran for my office. After I unlocked my office door and plopped down on my seat at my desk, I looked out my window and greeted Rockefeller Plaza and Radio City and the Intrepid. 

       I thought about Bernadette’s comment. I’m a very regular-looking guy. In fact, the island of Manhattan contains maybe hundreds of my doubles. Of average height, about five foot ten, I had black hair that was starting to flee my scalp, horn-rimmed glasses and very standard features. My beard was also jet black, but with two dabs of white on my chin. I concluded that Bernadette wanted to be sweet, but her compliment did raise my spirits. 

      My reason for arriving at Winshire early was to write Bill Voldman’s column on the Electronic Clearing House. 

      To do that, the ideas and the words had to come to me, and I had to punch the keys on my computer and to form the phrases and present the sentences that would keep the readers interested, so they would understand the ideas and concepts that might apply to their enterprises, so that they might hire the brilliant consultants of Winshire Associates and be happy paying their fees. Writing has been my love and my profession for years, so I knew I was up to the task. But every new article or column was a new challenge. 

      I began with Bill’s example of the hardware store, because I believed he would be pleased to see his idea used and it was an excellent attention grabber. Then I shifted gear and turned the discussion from aisle space in a store to bandwidth on a website. Then in concrete terms, I explained the two kinds of data that retail enterprises could gather, and how the new type of data could let them focus on the easy buyers and get rid of the troublemakers, allowing them to use their websites better and increase sales. Then, to sharpen the Winshire sales pitch, I gave an idea on how enterprises could apply the methods to their market and adapt them to their organizations. As a conclusion, I looked to the future and gave a few examples of what the future might bring. 

      The column was exactly nine paragraphs long, the exact length of a column on The Wall Street Journal’s op-ed pages.    

      Around mid-morning, I e-mailed the text to Bill, and he sent me his comments twenty minutes later; he made a few changes and added information that truly strengthened the text. Since Bill was still at our New York headquarters, around 11:30, he burst into my office and slapped me on the back - so hard I thought he would knock me to the ground. 

      All the while, he was shouting, “Mike, you’re a genius. You came through, it’s great.” 

      I decided to be humble. “Bill, thanks, just doing my job.” 

      “And you even came up with the idea of starting out with an old-fashioned hardware store,” and he shot me a wicked smile. “That was brilliant.” 

      “Bill, I know you’re testing me. I know you remember, that was your idea.”

      “Oh, really! Anyway, give me a call when you hear from the Journal, and we can start on the longer versions.”

       A young secretary slipped into my office. She said nothing. She just stood in the doorway, holding a thick file folder to her chest. 

       Finally, Bill noticed her and nodded to her. 

      “Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Merritt is waiting for you.” 

       I was left alone in my office to catch my breath. Frankly, I was pleased. 

       After a quick sandwich at my desk, I held a meeting with four of our younger consultants from several practices in one of the conference rooms. Basically, my goal was to start planting seeds for future articles and columns. A few of the associates seemed to believe that they would get assignments to write articles or columns, which then would be almost automatically published or posted. 

       A dose of reality is what they needed. I explained that every consulting firm tried to use publications and websites to promote their practices and expand their client list. Therefore, we had to make sure that we had something original to say, something that presents the readers of any publication or website with new ideas and new methods. 

      I saw that all but one of the associates took notes, and they promised to be on the lookout for subjects. In turn, I told them that I was anxious to help them in any way I could, and that getting our ideas and methods before more and more companies was important for Winshire Associates. 

      During the afternoon, I thought more and more about my coming meeting with the mystery blonde, Gordy’s girlfriend. I decided that I would leave my office early so I’d have the luxury of a different environment to think about Winshire. I was starting to gain confidence in my ability to succeed at Winshire. But I still felt troubled, and I was thrown contradictory signals, I thought a new perspective might clarify my thoughts.  

      During the afternoon, I was thrown a surprise. A youngish Asian guy, maybe around forty years old, stuck his head into my office and politely introduced himself. He told me his name was Scott Li, a managing partner, a vice-president, and Winshire’s Media Director. 

       He pointed to the chair across from my desk, and asked, “May I?” 

       He sat down and began speaking. “I want to welcome you to the firm. Officially. Welcome. And I want to tell you, your hiring was kind of rushed. You were kind of sponsored by Gordy, and some basic decisions weren’t clear. First of all, I’ve heard some very good things about you, and I agree fully with your joining the firm.”

        He waited. I said, ”Thank you. I’m happy to be here, and I like my role.” 

         “Second, I wanna officially welcome you as a member of the Media Department, my responsibility.”

        I didn’t move, but I felt like I was hit in the gut. I just sat there. I was silent.

        My new boss kept talking. “Gordy showed me your work from Chemical Week, he showed me that book they published, it had all your management pieces. Good work. Gordy’s been following you, and he moved to hire you. That’s fine.”

       Li seemed tall, even sitting down. He had a full head of short, black hair, and he wore wire-frame glasses that he pushed back up on his nose from time to time. “I wanna tell you, I’m not gonna get in your way. I want you to keep doing what you’re doing. Like I said, you made a strong start. We can succeed together. We can help each other. There’ll be some minor procedural stuff, but nothing much.” 

       Scott Li wore a light blue dress shirt and a dark blue tie. He chose this moment to roll up his sleeves. “So, Mike. I’m being sincere with you. And I understand I’m kinda dropping something on you. It doesn’t have to be a problem. So, tell me what you think.” 

       I waited, maybe a few seconds. I knew I had to say something. Words came out of my mouth. “I wanna keep doing what I’m doing.”

       “Mike, that’s what I want, too. And I wanna help you do it. I wanna show you the pubs we’re working with, I wanna put you in touch with the editors we’ve been working with. Like I say, I want you to succeed. I want both of us to succeed.”

       I don’t know why I said it, but I did, “Have you ever been a journalist, a reporter? Or do you have a lot of experience in dealing with the media?” 

       He looked straight at me. “No, none of the above. I admit it. Those are skills I lack. That’s experience I don’t have. I don’t have your experience or your background at all. Frankly, that’s why I . . . That’s why we need you. I’m a consultant, that’s my background. Media relations, that’s one of the things we need from you.”  

       My mind started racing. I started to think about what all of this meant, about the implications of being part of a department, and I knew there were elements I couldn’t think of now, but one I did – money.  

      Finally, Scott Li stood up. He was taller than I realized when I first saw him. Again, he looked me straight in the eye. “Mike, I’m being sincere with you. I want both of us to succeed. I wanna help you. What do you think? Is this gonna work? We gonna give it a try?” 

      He extended his hand. 

       I reached out and shook it.  

-0-

      When I was able to escape, it was already 4:40. I grabbed my jacket and my briefcase, rushed through the office and ran to the elevator. I kept looking at my watch. Once down on 53rd Street, I walked as fast as I could. I cut over to Park Avenue, and then headed south toward the MetLife Building. The sidewalks were jammed, and I just couldn’t build up any speed. At one point, a crowd gathered on the west side of the street just in front of me, and I felt blocked. As I moved forward slowly, I could hear a voice. A tall man in a business suit was repeating over and over, ”Can anyone help me? Can anyone help me?” I didn’t have time for him, and I pushed forward, delayed. 

      Pushing through the crowds as fast as I could, I crossed MetLife’s lobby, and then across the main concourse of Grand Central, out onto the sidewalk of 42nd Street and up the escalator. 

      Finally, out of breath, I stood in the Grand Hyatt’s Zen lobby. It was a huge space; the two-story high ceiling had spotlights that streamed down onto a marble floor. The space was covered with sections of beige carpeting and couches, made of pillows on top of marble blocks, and only a sprinkling of people. Calm reigned, except with me. I was already fifteen minutes late. 

       I walked through the lounge, but I couldn’t find her. I felt stupid; I didn’t even know her name. But I certainly knew her looks. I knew she had to be there, and I would find her. 

      The Grand Hyatt was a place for corporate types and fairly prosperous tourists. In general, they speak in subdued tones, close to whispers. But now I saw some of these supposedly sophisticated types, in suits with briefcases, cutting turns and changing their paths through the lobby, just so they could approach one young woman – a blonde – in a navy blue suit sitting by herself, with her legs politely crossed. 

      I ignored the other gentlemen, approached her and stood in front of her. She raised her delicate face and looked at me with her green eyes. When she pushed over a bit on the couch, I assumed it was to make room for me, so I sat next to her. 

      For the longest time, neither of us spoke. Then I said: “Well, I came.”

      She said simply, “Thank you. Thank you.” She was not at ease. 

      “You know? I don’t even know your name.”

      “I’m sorry. It’s Ermira. Ermira Bajrami.” 

      “It’s a beautiful name,” I said, and I meant it. “What kind of name is it?” 

       “It’s Albanian. I’m Albanian. From Tirana. You must hear it, in my accent.”

        I looked at her face again, and I saw something from my past. It was not in her features, not in her fine nose and her small chin, but in her expression. I could see that she was nervous, but besides that, there was an element of desperation, something that was weighing on her, something she couldn’t hide.

      “No, I don’t hear anything. You have a perfect accent in English. Really.” 

      I was running through my memory, the epochs of my life, trying to remember who she reminded me of, what woman I must have known, who came to me in need of help. I drew a blank.       

     “You are very kind. Really.” Her voice was very soft, and I had to lean forward to hear. “And your name? I know nothing about you, except that you work at Winshire.” 

      “You’re right about that, and my name’s Mike, Mike Stein. My accent is from California.”  

       She smiled, but I had to wait a while for her to speak. Then the words came out in a rush. “I want to ask you for your help. I want to go home. I want to return home. Please help me go home.”  

       I said, “I don’t understand. It should be simple, really simple.”

      Ermira looked at me, directly in my eyes, and there was a new strength there. “I promise you, it is not really simple. Please try, please try to help me.”

      “Yes, I’ll try. I’ll try to help you.” 

       She stood and looked down at me, and every man’s eyes within twenty feet or more were on her. 

       “Can you telephone me next week? Perhaps early in the week? I have to go now.” 

      “I’ll call you, yes, I’ll call you.” 

      Every man followed her progress, as she rushed to the bank of escalators leading down to 42nd Street, and I racked my brain for the moment I couldn’t remember.   

-0-

      My evening in Hastings belonged to my family. Sitting on our black and white checkered couch in the living room, I read three books with Josh and Isaac until I noticed their eyelids were starting to get heavy. I made up a special game for them: Which one could climb the stairs and get into bed first. Then, cradling each perfect head in my hand, I kissed each son goodnight on the cheek. 

      The evening was quiet and warm. Wendy and I had a calm dinner out on our deck, which looked out over our small garden. She had made a wonderful pasta dish, and we drank a good part of a bottle of Côte du Rhône. I felt just a bit light-headed. I looked at Wendy’s face, the sincerity in her hazel eyes, the brush of freckles across her upturned nose, her chestnut hair cut short for more freedom but also so I could admire the nape of her neck. Our marriage has grown, and we’ve grown into true soul mates. We promised to share everything. When I told her that I thought my job at Winshire would work out fine, I believed it.  

-0-

      I slept like a baby until exactly 3:23 am, according to the alarm clock on the nightstand next to our bed. Maybe I had the wine to thank for the sleep, but I also had it to blame for the fact that I couldn’t go back to sleep after waking up. I lay there, going back to the same question, running through the different periods in my life, wondering who – what woman? – could have asked me for help. Finally, it all came back to me. I felt stupid for not thinking of it immediately. Sure, but in fact it was twenty years earlier.  

      The answer started with a few words, and I could hear a voice.  And words came to me, just a few words. “ . . . kept saying no . . . touching me there . . . It felt so good . . . something really bad.”  And the face, it was the face of my older sister, Elise. She was the one who begged for my help one night when she returned home from a date. 

      How could I have forgotten this? More than stupid, I felt shame. I’d gotten so involved in my own life, I’d forgotten something really important.  

      We lived in San Francisco, Pacific Heights, the Stein family – Mom and Dad, Elise, me, and our two younger sisters. Both Elise and I attended Abraham Lincoln High School, she was a senior and I was only a sophomore. She was always a true beauty, but she wanted to be more popular, be part of the in crowd. Eddie Hawkins was a big guy, a star defensive back on the football team. Elise said he was a real gentleman at first. But one night they parked with a view of the Golden Gate, and that was the first time it happened. “I said no, I kept saying no. . . .  It felt so good. I was so afraid I would let him do something really bad” And then the same thing two more times. 

      That night, the night she woke me from my sleep, now I remembered, she said: “Mikey, you have to help me. I don’t know what to do. Should I talk with Dad?” We talked almost to the break of day. We decided that Dad was so protective but – at the same time – so involved in his business, he’d be unpredictable. But I still didn’t know what to do, if I could do anything at all. 

      I had a good life in San Francisco; I used to call it my “golden youth.” I had a group of buddies, my own car and just about complete freedom. My friends and I were all kind of nerdy, except for one; he was a nerd, too, but also on the football team. But like most kids, we were out to experience life. We drove around in my car and got into our share of trouble and had a few real close escapes. 

   One day – I think the following Monday - in the school cafeteria, I walked up to Eddie Hawkins just as he was carrying his tray to the table where just about the entire football team was eating, laughing and starting to throw rolled-up pieces of bread at each other. Eddie and I were in between two tables, and he couldn’t get past me. I blocked his path, and I said: “I want you to leave my sister alone. She doesn’t like you. Just leave her alone.”

     “That’s between me and Elise. Who’re you? You got no say.”

      “I’m her brother, and I’m telling you to leave her alone. She doesn’t like you.” My buddies were walking up behind me; we numbered about five or six, and we did not look threatening. 

      Eddie gave out a kind of fake laugh. “I could throw you all the fuckin’ way across this whole cafeteria, all the way to the wall over there. You know that?  You’re a little shit, get outta my way.” 

      “Just leave my sister alone. That’s all.”

      Eddie shouted to his teammates still seated at the table behind me. “Hey guys, Elise Stein’s little brother wants me to lay off his sister. Hear that? This little shit, and these other twerps, they’re givin’ me orders. Whadda you guys think?”

       I turned around. The football table was almost silent. Not one of the team members turned toward us, and all I could hear was silverware on plates, glasses clinking, and some grunts.

       Eddie started looking around. “Hey guys, whadda ya think? I could shove this tray up his ass and . . . “

       The cafeteria must have had maybe more than a hundred kids eating their lunches right then, and no one said a word. Everyone had stopped eating. I could see a teacher, a monitor, over by the food line. I think he was the Latin teacher. He was watching and waiting. 

     The words came out of my mouth. “Just leave Elise alone, that’s all I want.”

      I remember that a lot of time passed, or it just seemed that way.

      Eddie looked down at me. I could see his eyes, he was trying to decide what to say. He looked confused. Then he said, “Shit, okay. I don’t give a shit. Elise Stein? She’s not that hot anyway.” He stayed there, frozen. “And I’m hungry. Get outta my way.” 

      I stepped aside, and Eddie squeezed by. 

      At first, it was just my buddies who clapped, but then more and more kids applauded, until the cafeteria seemed to rock. 

       One of my buddies looked at me. “Jesus, Mike. How’d you do that?”

       “I don’t know, I didn’t think of anything. It just happened.” 

      That moment had a big impact on me. It started me thinking. 

      It turned out that Elise and I became closer, and we were much more open with each other. My little sisters had issues, too, nothing that compared with Elise and Eddie Hawkins. But it so happened that my eyes were opened. I was no big hero, but I started to see a lot of things from their point of view. 

      At the same time, I loved girls. I loved pretty girls from the time I was a little kid. I put them on a pedestal and admired them. Still today, I have images of all of the cute girls in my class at Abe Lincoln and the girls at the University of Oregon in my mind.  

       So, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I can admire women for their beauty and softness, and – at the same time – respect them for their minds, for their sensitivity and intelligence and knowledge. I don’t want to sound naïve, but I decided that the important things are respect and honesty. That’s why, when I found myself in the middle of that reception put on by Gordy and the power structure at Winshire Associates at the Huntington Residences, I just had to get out of there. Frankly, I didn’t know what was going on at Winshire, and I was still troubled. And I felt I had to help Ermira Bajrami.