Russell Wiley Is Out to Lunch (2 page)

I cross the street and walk across the mini-plaza that creates a public space in front of my building. This plaza is swept and hosed each morning to erase all traces of the tourists, skateboarders, lovers and bums who congregate here at different times during the day and night.

I pass through the revolving doors and walk toward my elevator bank. Two workmen on ladders are adjusting the four-foot-tall letters suspended on barely visible wires behind the main reception desk. These letters are new. They spell out G-H-O-S-H in the eye-popping purple and yellow logotype that serves as a reminder that our company name—and the name of the Ghosh Corporation’s founder and CEO—should always be pronounced “gauche,” never “gosh.” This hanging logo is just one part of the worldwide corporate rebranding being executed at all of the old Burke-Hart offices.

I like the new logo and the change it signifies. I’m not one of those old-timers who grumble about the fact that our heritage is being subsumed by a ten-year-old company known for its arrogant business dealings, aggressive outsourcing and love of bright, childish colors. These old-timers recall how the company used to be like family. People in senior management would walk around the floors. They would stop and chat. They would even remember your name. At meetings, speakers would routinely stir up corporate pride by saying, “We bleed green blood,” in reference to our original corporate color and their pride in a heritage dating back to 1923.

Now our green logo is gone from the lobby. We read in our own and other newspapers how Larry Ghosh intends to return Burke-Hart Publishing and its flagship publication, the
Daily Business Chronicle
, to a new era of profitability. We read in management memos that we are looking to change the DNA of our division. We witness the influx of new managers, consultants and free-floating strategists—people who seem to speak a different language than we are used to and who measure success by different metrics.

There’s no fighting change. And it’s not just our logo. The heart of our company has been transplanted. We aren’t supposed to bleed green blood anymore. People who do are out of touch.

CHAPTER TWO

My personal base camp is a two-windowed, north-facing office on the twenty-fifth floor. At first glance it’s a total mess. Every conceivable surface is covered with stacks of file folders, bound presentations, newspapers, magazines and assorted papers. The overall effect is chaotic, random-looking. But appearances can be deceptive. In reality, despite its dumping-ground appearance, my office is the visual manifestation of a highly alert, productive, creative and well-organized business mind.

Lucky Cat waves at me from the windowsill. I walk over to him between the piles of work that rise from my floor. At the start of each day, I rub Lucky Cat’s paw and make a wish. Lucky was a gift from our Japanese design intern, Kiko Soseki. On her first day in the office, Kiko presented me with a gift-wrapped box and a note that read, “Dear Mr. Wiley, Please enjoy traditional Lucky Cat and special rice crackers from Japan, bringing happiness and good fortune.” The wrapping paper looked more expensive than the plastic object inside. I pulled the cat’s head off and tipped the crackers out of its stomach. They were dry and stale and I threw them away immediately. But there was something that drew me to the black shell of the cat itself. I played with it for a while, removing and replacing its detachable head, studying how the glued paper aligned when its face and colorful belly were put back together. I imagined that Lucky Cat possessed special powers. At the very least, I thought perhaps I could absorb something good from his hollow, manufactured cheerfulness. I found a spot for him on the windowsill, among my commemorative lucites and discarded promotional items. And that’s where he stays, opposite the door to my office, smiling at everyone who crosses my threshold, his paw permanently raised in welcome.

“Please, no more than three interruptions before lunchtime,” I whisper today.

I’ve found it’s best to manage my expectations in regard to Lucky Cat’s powers.

I sit at my desk and scan my emails to confirm there’s nothing super-urgent to deal with. I launch my web browser and log on to the Ghosh Corporation intranet. Before starting the day’s climb, I like to make sure the mountains haven’t moved—that no one important has been fired and none of our business units has been sold overnight. Everything seems in order. So I swivel around to my actual desktop and try to reacquaint myself with the logic behind the mass of overlapping papers in front of me: mail, documents, file folders, sticky notes and paper scraps.

The top layer of the pile relates to the Livingston Kidd account. It’s the biggest project I’m working on. Livingston Kidd is our largest financial advertiser. The partners who run the firm are the kind of old-school clients we like: people who actually read the
Chronicle
. For years they’ve renewed their advertising schedule with scarcely a question. But Livingston’s going through a transition of its own. They recently hired a slick, super-confident marketing team from Citigroup. And their new guys are looking to do things differently from the people they’ve come in to replace. According to their media agency, they intend to “bring the Livingston Kidd brand into the twenty-first century.” Which means moving more money online and limiting newspaper advertising to just one title. The Livingston team has invited a
Chronicle
delegation to their New Jersey headquarters next month to present a “partnership review.” It will be our one and only chance to save the business. My boss, Henry Moss, the vice president of sales and marketing, will be making the presentation himself.

The
Chronicle
can’t afford to lose Livingston Kidd. Financial advertising is the category we rely on most. Over the past several years, as most of our clients have shifted large chunks of their budgets to the internet, it’s the one area that’s held up best. Losing the Livingston Kidd business would be a huge psychological blow. In business terms, it would transform a year of moderate decline into a complete disaster.

“Hey, pal,” says Henry. “What are you doing at lunchtime?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I was hoping to make some headway on this Livingston Kidd proposal. I don’t have anything to show you just yet.”

“That’s good. That’s good.” Henry sounds far away, distracted. He has me on speakerphone. I wait a couple of seconds.

“Did you need me to do something at lunchtime?” I ask.

“Yeah,” says Henry. “Let’s have lunch. I’ll see if Ellen can get us into Fabrice.”

“OK. Do I need to bring anything?”

“No. No,” he says. “Don’t bring anything.”

“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.