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.
