Harry’s son-in-law, Stanley Blair, the accountant, was made vice-president, second in command, which dropped Fat Jack down a notch even though he was still manager – but now with almost no chance of taking over the business. Call it FAMILY. Call it POLITICS. That’s the way it was, and I felt bad for Fat Jack, who was actually more family to Harry Himself than this stiff-necked, antiseptic, nose-to-the-figures, bottom-line-loving Stanley Blair. Fat Jack ran the place with a kind of bravado and flair and improvisation that was as out of style as the corner grocer. Harry Himself was now completely removed from store operations. He only came in so he wouldn’t have to be home. Fat Jack had to get everything okayed by Stanley Blair.
Which he did, about one out of ten times. Nobody but nobody intimidated Fat Jack. This got him in hot water, as when he ran an Anniversary Sale and Stanley Blair, downstairs in the showroom, in front of everybody, asked him whose anniversary it was and Fat Jack said he didn’t know, what’s the difference?
“What’s the DIFFERENCE?”
“All right. It’s my wedding anniversary.”
“Things are going to change around here.”
That’s where I came in after a week’s absence, and it always seemed to be like that when you were gone and came back…things changed. Fat Jack whispered: “Better hurry on upstairs before he starts on you.” Fat Jack wasn’t the whispering kind, and not only that, but he seemed to be losing weight. Or maybe it was just his diminished status that made him appear thinner and less robust. Slim Jack? Skinny Jack? It just didn’t go. Fat Jack or nothing.
Stanley Blair did start on me. Got himself an efficiency expert from Connecticut, very friendly jokey kind of guy, to take a look around the place, see where some chopping could be done, asking questions, only asking, no decisions being made, don’t worry, nobody’s getting fired, we’re only doing this to promote efficiency and corporate EXCELLENCE, result being that half the salesmen were fired, first to go was Morris Silver, and Mona was not for long either, terrific person that she was, HEIRLOOM of the company that she was – but she wasn’t CARRYING HER WEIGHT.
I handed in my resignation to Fat Jack. He refused to accept it – “Hang in,” he said.
But he quit before I did.
“Who needs this bullshit?” he said. “I got money. Even if I didn’t, who NEEDS THIS BULLSHIT?”
I asked to see Harry Himself and was given an audience. His office was the same as before. So was he. Only in addition to the feebleness I had detected earlier, this time he was also gloomy. He was a handsome man. Beautiful silver hair. Full face, dramatically lined. You expected him to roar – especially by reputation. But he spoke softly.
“Do you know what’s going on?” I asked him.
“What’s going on?”
“That guy is tearing this place apart.”
He shrugged. “He’s the boss.”
“He is?”
“Yes he is, and he knows what he’s doing.”
“He does?”
“I’m sorry if you’re unhappy.”
“Everybody’s unhappy. Fat Jack just QUIT!!”
“Stanley’s my son-in-law.”
“Fat Jack was your son, wasn’t he?”
“Business is business.”
Life goes on.
There was a part of him – I could see it in his eyes – that agreed with me. He had simply been swept away by the tide of everything that was TODAY. Automation. Bottom-line. Even the ethics had changed. The small larcenies, the little white lies, the wheeling and dealing, the handshake that was as good as a contract, the loyalties to the people who had come up with you that were the bedrock of the American retailer were things of the past. Harry Himself was a thing of the past. You couldn’t feel sorry for him, of course. He had those millions stashed away. But maybe you felt sorry for the loss of the impromptu vigor that had created the Harry Monocles. There were no more entrepreneurs. There were no more pioneers.
What we had now were the Stanley Blairs.
Stanley was astonished to learn that we were still operating out of a Criss-Cross Directory.
We were not using an updated DATABASE that more accurately PROFILED our prospects.
I had told him that zip codes were all we needed. Give me the zip code and I give you the person. As every direct marketing man knew, the zip code itself WAS the profile, told you not only where the person lived but how he lived, how much money he made, his religion, his hobbies, where he spent his money, on what he spent his money, and even his thoughts. As peripatetic as this nation was, people still lived among their own and if this was stereotyping, well then, yes, that’s what it was. That’s what it had to be if you didn’t want to start selling refrigerators to the Eskimos or Oriental Rugs in Price Hill.
Stanley brought in a guy to computerize the boiler room, and by the way, no more boiler room. Stanley warned against using that term. This was TELEMARKETING. The room was refurbished, very attractively. New desks were brought in, a new air-conditioning unit was installed. Drapes were hung, the floors were carpeted.
All that for the computers. The people? Gone. The computers would now do the dialing and the soliciting.
No salesmen were allowed upstairs.
I was gone way before then.
Lou Emmett had died just in time.