Life at IBM in the 1970’s

Francis X. O’Malley

Our sales team leader was six-foot leprechaun

with blue eyes, white hair and a red nose,

whose idea of customer entertainment

leaned to scotch and stag movies,

but observed certain fixed principles.

His jacket was never unbuttoned

and he never left the office without his hat.

However, FX was rarely away from his desk.

He did the planning and we did the work,

his name never attached to any assigned duty.

Wagging a piece of chalk like a baton,

he directed the weekly review meeting,

bemoaning the fate of his excellent strategies

in the hands of such a clumsy bunch.

In good years, befitting his rank,

he was equipped with an acolyte or two,

and fist wrapped around the receiver,

he would repeat the answers out loud

while one of us took detailed notes.

In leaner times, dignity had to be shelved,

and he would reluctantly search for a pencil.

Francis hated efficiency and measurements,

an excuse to hire accountants,

those parasites on the body corporate,

and counseled us that management and clients

had little (if any) need to know.

He believed in the founding gospel of Watson,

the magic combination of sales and man,

and never wavered, a proud fossil to the end.

Working in an IBM branch office in IBM’s glory days was quite an experience, with equal opportunities for glory and opprobrium.  We lived and died on a quota system, a system that had become so complicated and convoluted that every branch office dedicated some senior administrative pro to the task of “managing the numbers,” as it was said.  Another phrase in common currency was “sales plan lawyer,” which referred to the annual document that spelled out the commission plan for the year.  The title referred to someone who had mastered the fine print in the sales plan in such a way as to reap maximum benefit with minimal effort—in short, someone who knew how to substitute fiddling the system for the hard work that was supposed to go into achieving the sales target.   There was supposed to be some relationship between the company’s financial and marketing goals for the year and the sales plan, but over time, trying to correlate the two became more and more difficult.  It was entirely possible that the sales force could experience a banner year while the company missed its targets or conversely, the company could have a bang-up year while its field crew went begging.

There were all sorts of reasons for this muddle that don’t need inclusion here.  Suffice it to say that it was a system that had all sorts of unintended consequences.  It encouraged chiseling, conniving and sometimes downright cheating. Managers could manipulate the system to reward their pets or punish the troublemakers. Like income tax laws it often encouraged more energy to be spent looking for the angles than actually doing productive work.

Whatever its flaws, we were all subject to its vagaries.  The marketing representatives typically

were paid only 65% of their stated salary and were expected to earn the rest from monthly commission payments, with the possibility, of course, of exceeding their base pay.  Systems engineers (my crew) were paid at 95%, and received a bonus check twice a year which was based on our branch office’s attainment.  The administrative staff, which handled housekeeping and sales accounting, did not participate but got the privilege of attempting to make everything work out as best they could.

The marketing reps had a very clear set of roles and responsibilities.  Their job was to sell the product line and attain their annual quota.  Systems engineers (SE’s) had a somewhat more varied set of duties and these occasionally put us at odds with the reps.  We were supposed to assist in sales by providing the customer with a detailed technical explanation of the product and its features.  If the customer signed on the dotted line, we provided planning guidance for the product, informal training of customer staff, and problem resolution during the installation process.  We were also expected to evaluate any proposal to make sure that the products being offered were suitable for the customer’s needs and capabilities.  Lastly, we also played the role of quality inspectors.  IBM occasionally released a clinker, and there was nothing worse than watching your customer (and yourself) struggle with a lemon.

The last two roles could create conflict.  Salesmen were optimists by nature and assumed that anything they sold would do the job eventually, even if it burned up a few unlucky SE’s.  The sales plan often seemed to offer additional incentives to sell products which the systems engineering community was leery of.  And no salesman would ever turn down the opportunity to sell the customer two widgets when one was more than sufficient.  Of course, marketing always won these arguments because they were at the top of the hierarchy.  The branch manager was always a former sales rep. 

Systems engineers also differed greatly in the professional skill set they brought to the job.  Some were computer technicians with a deep understanding of the details right down to the wires and chips.  Others were not too well-versed in the underpinnings but had a thorough command of what were called the “externals,” that is to say the instructions, procedures and other tools used to make the product function.  There were some who could put together plans for a complex installation requiring a team of twenty and others who struggled to manage their own schedule.  Finally, there were people who were as persuasive as any salesmen, but also the geeks who balked at sales presentations. 

As an SE, I was definitely not a technician but learned how to install, use, and demonstrate the products I was responsible for.  I was a reasonably good project manager and learned how to gain customer loyalty by delivering on all of my to-do’s.  Paying attention to the details and providing reliable service earns your customer’s trust.  I also became painfully aware that you are never quite so sure of the value of customer trust than when you have made some gaffe and must work to get it back.  However, even as a sales rep for the final third of my career,  I was rarely ever comfortable playing the huckster. 

We were organized into teams of ten or so people and assigned to specific accounts, usually in partnership with a sales rep.   My first unit, under the tutelage of the illustrious Dave Dreiske, was responsible for covering a number of smaller manufacturing accounts on the west side of Chicago.  All of these accounts used the IBM intermediate operating system, called DOS/VS.  Over time I covered some illustrious names including Schwinn Bicycle, Helene Curtis and Mars Candy.  The place that occupied most of my attention, though, was Binks Manufacturing, which styled itself the leader in paint spray equipment.     

Dave was a big believer in learning on the job and turned me loose on my first big project (managing the installation of a small mainframe) before I was ready to do the job, but I had some good things going for me— several experienced SE’s who jumped in to help when I got lost, a supportive marketing rep partner (Bob Ryan), a friendly and appreciative customer (Binks), and more than enough adrenaline to keep me digging through the installation manuals when I needed to get something resolved. When the big day came and the new gear arrived, we were ready and got things up and running with only a few glitches.  I was very proud when the branch manager awarded me a $250 bonus for my efforts.     

After eighteen months in intermediate systems, I was transferred to the International Harvester team.  Harvester was the largest account in the branch and had its own dedicated team of a dozen sales reps and systems engineers to cover all of its locations and divisions in the Chicago area.  The SE’s reported to an SE manager (Bill Roman) who in turn was under our fearless leader (Rich Herbst), the account executive.  I was thrilled to be working for Bill since he was a former professional baseball player who had actually played a few games for the Tigers, but I was apprehensive about learning how to work with large systems and how to navigate the large account environment.

At first, while I was attending a whole new set of training classes, I did an apprenticeship at the corporate computer center under the helpful tutelage of our senior SE, Ray Z.  It was soon determined that I would be a specialist in applications, not operating systems, which was just fine with me.  Over time I learned the ins and outs of purchasing, service parts distribution, manufacturing routing and bills of material, and last and best, computer-aided design.  It was CAD that proved to be my ticket to better things in the next two chapters of my IBM career.

The Harvester team was quite a bunch.  Our day to day sales leader was the gent who is profiled in the poem, a thirty-year veteran of the IBM wars, and a true throwback to the stereotypical salesman of stage and screen.  Frank’s belief in IBM as a way of life rivaled his allegiance to the Holy Mother Church, and he was never convinced that SE’s were real IBMers—we dared to criticize the product line occasionally, we might (horrors) wear a blue shirt, and we were coddled with a salary that was largely guaranteed.  However, he never hesitated to recruit one of us to do his staff work or to present a new product briefing to his pal John Novack, the IH executive in charge of the corporate computing center.

One fine day Frank came to me with a new project: to do an in-depth presentation on IBM’s first laser printer for his pal Novack.  I pointed out that IH was using an old release of the operating system that did not support the IBM 3800 printer.  “No matter,” said Frank.  “He’ll be so excited that it will get him to bring his system up to date.”  So off I went to do the research, and after a few rehearsals with Frank, it was determined we were ready.  I was a bit nervous, but practice had certainly helped.  The pitch went smoothly and at the end Novack smiled and said to me, “Thank you, Mike.  That was a very nice job.”  Then he turned to Frank and snarled,” O’Malley, why the hell did you waste my time?  I told you I wasn’t interested in your damned printer!”     

Working at Harvester produced a number of other memorable experiences.  On one occasion, when pulling an all-nighter to help a customer get a system up in time to meet a deadline, I napped in the women’s restroom (it had a couch) for an hour or so, thanks to a sympathetic security guard who told me he’d make sure I was up before anybody showed up for work. While working at corporate headquarters, I was involved in a demonstration of some new software to Brooks McCormick, the CEO (and descendant of IH founder Cyrus McCormick).  Mr. McCormick was a bit of a wag.  “Boy, there’ll be egg on your face if this doesn’t work in front of me,” he said—but turned out to be a gracious and attentive listener— and asked excellent questions. 

My opposite number from IH on that project was an energetic Canadian from Toronto named Norm, on a two-year loan from IH Canada.  Norm subjected to me to the only ethnic slight I have ever experienced in my long and very privileged life.  One day, out of the blue, he started grousing about French Canadians with the usual charges that bias launches: dirty, lazy, ignorant, etc., and then suddenly he stopped and asked, “Bourgo? Would that be…French?”  Whereupon I duly responded, “Oui, monsieur, français-canadien” and Norm turned several shades of pink.         

Over time my IBM colleagues included deep technicians, thoughtful eccentrics, ambitious scramblers, and a religious fanatic who sometimes tried a little too hard to convert us to his views.  It so happened, though, that we were all participants in the last chapter of International Harvester.  The company had been limping along on mediocre results for a number of years and was heavily leveraged.  In 1979 a new and brash CEO provoked a strike that dragged on for the better part of a year.  Before long, the losses incurred during the strike, high-interest rates and the collapse of the agricultural market doomed IH.  The company was sold off piecemeal in the early 1980s.  What survived the melt-down was renamed Navistar and consisted of just the truck and the engine divisions. 

I ended up spending almost six years on the Harvester team and worked on projects at most of the major locations in the Chicago area.  I spent most of my time at customer locations and was rarely in the branch office.  My pals at work were accordingly more likely to be from IH than IBM and I have many fond memories of those friends.  By the time IH started to fall apart, I had left the branch and moved on to a new career in CAD marketing.  I always hoped that all those good people at IH managed to survive the turmoil in good style.  After going through a similar experience at IBM in the early 1990s, I learned first-hand the stress of watching your job and career go up in smoke.