7 - Chapter Seven "The Thirty Percent Solution"

 

"The Thirty Percent Solution" 

Chapter Seven - Mike Stein 

      It was a cloudy, drizzly morning, and the air felt chilly in Hastings. According to the calendar, it was supposed to be spring, but Mother Nature had a different opinion. I hoped the lousy weather was not a harbinger of trouble in my life. So many things were positive, but Winshire Associates kept niggling at the edges of my mind. Sure, it was a tough, competitive place, just like New York itself, and the place had some tough, competitive people. At the same time, there were some smart and decent guys there. But what about that celebration at the Huntington place? Maybe it was just some super wacko project by a small group of consultants, and no one told them: “Hey, hold your horses.” And somehow Ermira got caught up in it with a bunch of women that looked like professional escorts.  

      I was waiting on the Metro-North platform for the 8:17. I was out of breath because I was afraid I might miss the train, so I walked faster than I needed to. On the platform, I was standing next to Bob Goldberg, a neighbor and friend, and a lawyer with one of the big, prestigious firms in Manhattan. We were having one of those Monday morning conversations that usually started out with “How was your weekend?” when I came out with it: 

      “Bob, I got a question, and maybe you have an answer.” 

      “Go ahead,” he said. “Maybe I have an answer.” From a distance, Bob and I looked cut from the same cloth: Suit, Burberry trench coat, briefcase, high forehead, glasses, but then Bob didn’t have a beard. You know a lot about someone you commute with, and I knew Bob was a very smart, good guy. 

       I said, “All I need is the name of a good immigration lawyer.”

       Bob didn’t hesitate. “Got it. He’s Avi Lipschitz. He’s very smart, and very creative, finding solutions, that sort of thing. And he’s independent. The only problem might be he’s a bit expensive.” Bob took out his phone and reeled off Lipschitz’s address and phone number, which I then wrote in my old-fashioned notebook with a ballpoint. 

       Then, Bob turned to me with a smile. “Mike, my pleasure. And now I got a question, and maybe you have an answer.”

        The Metro-North train was pulling into the station, and once the doors slid open, we climbed aboard and then got settled in our seats, Bob looked up at me and said, ”Yes?” as though he wouldn’t let me escape hearing his question. 

        “Bob, it’s only fair. What’s your question?”

        “Just curious,” he said as he started pulling files out of his briefcase. “I know you don’t have a citizenship problem. I just want to make sure that Lipschitz is the right choice. So, what’s going on?”

       “Not much, really,” I started. “It’s just this woman at work, and she asked me if I could find her a lawyer. I don’t really know much, but she told me she wants to return home, somewhere in Eastern Europe. I don’t really want to know too much, but I thought at least I could get her a name.” 

      Bob started looking through one of his office files that he usually worked on at home. “It’s hard to tell,” he said. “All I can say maybe it’s good that you don’t know much, and it’s good to keep your distance.” 

      “Anyway, Bob. Thanks.” I pulled out my copies of The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal, and we both followed our usual routine on the train – reading. 

-0-

        At the office, the day started out fine. I sent Scott Li the column I’d written with Bill Voldman, and Scott said he liked it and approved it. I glanced through The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal, and put some articles I clipped out in a folder for possible ideas to pursue here at Winshire in the future. Then, I started reading the industry magazines Scott had left me, so I’d be more familiar about what their needs for articles might be. Toward noon, Scott sent me a note telling me that our President and CEO, Ted Merritt, wanted to meet with me around two in the afternoon, and I answered I’d be at his office at the designated time. 

      Between eleven in the morning and two in the afternoon, I wondered a lot what the big boss might want and what kind of a person he was. As strange as it was, meeting him was not part of the hiring process for me. 

      His secretary reminded me of some teachers I had when I was a kid in elementary school – gray hair with the kind of bob from the 40s or 50s, no makeup except for bright red lipstick, smart business suit, and a sweet smile. She told me her name was Dorothy, and she asked me to go right in without knocking. 

      The office was almost big enough for a football team and had blue-tinted glass expanses on two sides.  The southern view was magnificent, with a ballet of bridges across the East River to the left, and to the south every landmark – like Ground Zero, the Stock Exchange, the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island – was crystal clear. Of course, the office had an intimate corner with puffy chairs and a sofa, and a variety of tables, some of them with stacked with publications and file folders. 

      I stood and waited. Ted Merritt was on the phone, and he had his back to me. He wore a suit coat and had a highly polished bald head. I could tell he was not a big man, and seated behind the the expanse of his V-shaped desk made him look even smaller. 

      Then, suddenly, he swiveled around to face me, kind of tossed his phone onto his desk, and looked me up and down. 

      “So here’s our genius writer,” he said, and he spoke as if he wanted to show he wasn’t in a hurry. “You know, I heard a lot about you. You already got some followers around here, some people really think you’re something. Let’s see what you can do for me.” Merritt kind of turned his hand to show me his palm, which I took as a signal for me to take the seat across from him, which I did. 

      Then, I could see he was waiting for me to open my mouth; it was my turn. “Sir, I just want to tell you I’m happy to be here, I enjoy what I’m doing, dealing with ideas and writing, and I’ll try hard to live up to all that praise.”  

      “Mike, you don’t have to tell me anything about yourself,” he started. “I read a lot about you, and some of the things you wrote, and I heard from some of the people you already worked with. Like Bill Voldman.”

      “Sir, how can I help you?”

      “One way, don’t call me sir.” He smiled in kind of a mechanical way. “Ted is fine. Just Ted.” Then he pushed his chair back, rose and started pacing back and forth. “Lemme tell you. We’re gonna have a firm meeting. A big affair, people from all our offices. Maybe up in Westchester somewhere. Before, I was thinking Florida, to impress our guys, but they do a lot of traveling, and they don’t impress easy. I need a speech, a killer speech. It has to be motivational, and inspirational. And you’re gonna write it. It’ll be to see what you can do.”  

      Now it was my turn. “What do you want to say?” 

      “Jesus, if I knew what I want to say, I’d write it myself.” Something told me Ted Merritt had a sense of humor, and he was kind of teasing me a bit. “I wouldn’t need you. And I wouldn’t need to pay you all those dollars. They all tell me you can write anything. You gotta earn it.” He stopped, and I waited.  

      Then, he looked over his desk at me. “Look,” he said. “You just keep trying, and I’ll tell you when I like the speech. Okay?” 

      I thought that over. I’ve been there before, and it’s a trap. Here I was, brand new in this place, and I didn’t know anything about the firm, its people, its identity, its strategy, nothing. I could spend a lot of time spinning my wheels, and I could keep hearing. ‘No, that’s not it yet, but keep coming back.’   

      I looked right at my new friend, Ted. “Ted, can I confess something to you? Yeah, I can throw around words, and I’m not bad at it. But I’m not any kind of a genius. Could we try another approach? Let’s just throw around a few ideas, and I’ll bet we can make a lot of progress, in not much time. I promise you, together we can do more than we could just alone. We could do something great.”   

      He took his seat at his desk and looked relaxed. “Okay, I’ll give it a try.”

      I started out by asking why the CEOs of big companies need consultants, and the vague, short answers moved from one subject to the next. But when I’d spent maybe an hour with him, I realized that Ted Merritt hadn’t really thought over what he wanted to say. And getting something that would accomplish his high hopes would take a lot of work and a lot of time. 

      Then he started telling me about his Research Department, a group he called a “bunch of number wonks.” Some of his consultants, including Bill Voldman, said the firm needed data, info about their markets.  Ted said he didn’t see the point, but he went along with it, to the point that the new department took half the 17th floor, and it was costing a lot of money, with “long haired PhD’s” from places like NYU and Berkeley and Stanford. And during the last budget review, Ted said he was shocked, and he wanted to get rid of the whole crew.

      When I asked what “these number wonks” were producing, at first Ted said he didn’t know, but then he started mentioning things like future growth of the population and immigration, and industry growth by sector, and changing consumer needs. I noted as much as I could, but he told me to go ahead and meet with “the number wonks” myself. 

      There were three raps on the door, and then it opened a bit, and a head stuck through. It was Gordy, Gordon Hope. 

      “Hey, Ted. This’ll just take a second, I want to bounce some ideas off you. I might be getting close to maybe fifty percent, fifty percent more.” 

      Merritt looked just a bit annoyed. “Gordy, that sounds great, but write it down, write it down.” 

      I watched as Merritt raised his two hands, and made a strange gesture, wiggling his fingers. I was sure, he was saying type it out. “Got it? This isn’t a group effort, it’s you. The best you can do.” 

      “Okay, sure,” Gordy said.

      “Right now, I’m working with your new hire, and we’re trying to see what kind of magic he can spin. Yeah, spin. Get it? Spin gold from straw.”

      Gordy withdrew and clicked the door closed. 

      My attention wasn’t on Gordy. Words started forming in my head. “What’s tomorrow going to bring? What’s the world going to look like? What’s your marketplace going to look like? Do you want to be ahead of the change, or rush and scramble to catch up with your competition? We gotta welcome the change, ‘cause it’s gonna come. Lead in the future, tell the future. Get ahead of the change.  Don’t follow change, lead it. And us, we gotta do the hardest thing: Giving and then taking our own advice.” The words were scattered, but they were there. They were the beginnings of the ideas I thought I could use. 

      It was already late, and I knew I wasn’t going to get home at a decent time. I told Ted, “Look, we did a lot, really. I’ll go ahead and meet with your wonder wonks, some other folks. And if it’s okay with you, I’ll ask Dorothy for a lot of your printed material . . . about the firm.” 

      Ted gave me a nod, that I took for his approval. I headed back to my office. 

      Surprise. 

      Gordy pulled the same trick, the one he pulled in Ted Merritt’s office. He was waiting for me in my office, only this time he was seated behind my desk. 

      Then bang, Gordy came to the point: “What ya doing with Ted?”

      Of course, I was open. “It’s a speech. He wants help with a speech, for a big meeting or something. He’s gonna present it to the whole firm. I don’t think that’s a secret, anyway I hope it isn’t” 

      Gordy looked different, not his usual, confident self. “Mike, look. I’m sorry. You got a minute? I know it’s late. I’m sure you wanna get home. But listen, just a second, I need a little help. I’m kinda in a tight situation. I gotta come up with something, and I’m drawing a blank.  And I gotta do it.”

      “I’m sorry,” I told him. I didn’t have a choice. “Sure I’ll help you.” 

      “Okay, I’ll tell ya. You spent a lotta time in with him.” Gordy was rushing out his words. “What you got, anyway? It might help me. You must have a lotta stuff.” 

      I didn’t think. My words just started coming. “Not much. Really, not much. I tried to get more out of him, I tried to get real ideas, real facts, but he wants me to do all the work. He wants me to make it all up. Me? I don’t know what I’m gonna do.” 

      I looked at Gordy. I didn’t know what to say. And then I saw it, the change in his complexion, just the slightest pinkness, and I could see his big fists opening and closing. “Just remember. Mike, you just remember, you owe me. You’re here ‘cause of me. I stuck my neck out. Just let me know, maybe I can help you . . . . again. Now, you gotta help me, you better. Just sayin’.” 

      “But what about what you were saying? What about that fifty percent? What’s that about?”

      Gordy said, “What about my fifty percent? My fifty percent, it’s bullshit.”

      I couldn’t stop myself. I knew I shouldn’t ask. But – again – the words came out. “So, what’s going on around here? What’s going on around here, anyway?” 

      “Even more bullshit, that’s what. So much, you don’t wanna know.” He turned, almost bumped into the door, and left my office.   

-0-

      It hit me. 

      I was afraid, confused and afraid. Looking back now, thinking about it while I’m writing this account, I’m certainly not feeling what I felt when I listened to Gordy’s outburst, when I watched the tint of his skin change in front of me, saw him grip and then release his big hands. Before that moment in my office, when he came to me and asked for help, me – a newcomer who had no idea what was going on – and then left me hanging, not knowing what to believe. Before those mere five minutes with him in my office, I had tried to explain things away. 

      But now, this place, this respected consulting firm, Winshire Associates, scared me.       

      I don’t know when it happened. I wasn’t thinking straight. I don’t remember exactly where I was, most likely on the sidewalk on 53rd Street, right after I escaped the office. But I do remember shouting, shouting to myself: What? What the devil’s going on? I thought about the frat boys’ celebration, I thought about Gordy, but then I thought about Bill Voldman and Scott Li, and about Dorothy. What’s going on? 

      And I couldn’t explain it away. Not now. There was something going on. 

      So, what did I do? Of course, I took the Metro-North train home to my family. But at some moment, probably that night when I was lying in bed, not able to fall asleep, I kind of crawled into a cocoon and narrowed my vision, and told myself I would – live or die – write a really superior speech, and then take stock again. I realized it was cowardice and procrastination.