You Don't Know Dick. (By trover)
Ever have a Dick for a boss?
No, not a body part… well…
Dick was a blue collar guy, born and raised in hard scrabble Green Bay to parents of meager stock, good people who believed in hard work, self-sacrifice and the deification of their only son – Richard the Great. Think I’m kidding? His middle name is Merlin. Despite no trappings of wealth or privilege, it was ingrained early within Dick that he would be giant among men, if not in physicality – he was of normal size with a tendency to carry about twenty extra pounds – then in the minds of men. He never forgot his upbringing, and throughout his life, he’s made every effort to bury his red neck under a gold collar.
And Dick has the tools to do so, well… sorta.
Possessed with a powerful brain, one which would attract scholarships to UW and Harvard Law, where Dick excelled with Phi Beta Kappa and law journal honors, his gene pool hit the jackpot… mostly. As so often is the case when normal or below normal parents produce a prodigy through an aberration in genetic composition, something is left out of the stew. In Dick’s case, the social graces were left in the drain. The guy has no social clue.
Dick likes to intimidate, to dominate and watch people squirm. Not because he’s cruel, although that was the impression many people formed, but because deep down he never feels worthy – what he sees in the mirror is a blue collar kid from Green Bay. I think he lives in fear somebody will unmask him, yell out, “Hey, there’s a kid from Green Bay here. Let’s get him!”
I first met Dick when I interviewed for an attorney job at his company, a giant aerospace and industrial complex headquartered in Rockford, Illinois. Dick spent most of the interview telling me how great he was, all while he picked lint off his $2000 Italian wool suit and stretched his handpainted silk tie so I wouldn’t miss it. And of course, he made sure I saw his Gucci boots, made sure I knew they were Gucci. At one point, he rocked back in his luxury chair, plopped his Gucci’s on his wide mahogany desk, and considered the sheen of his fingernails. I don’t think he listened to a word I said, the interview was really about him. When he took me to meet the next interviewer, the VP of HR, he even forgot my name.
Now, all of you have participated in job interviews, so you know how they go. You’re looking to impress, to find cache. The interview with Dick left me puzzled. He was the General Counsel, a VP and Secretary too, and he’d had no interest in me. Couldn’t even remember my name. Surely that didn’t bode well for my job prospects.
But every interview I had at this company — after Dick’s, went well. But each interview was dominated with comments about Dick. Seems people were surprised he hadn’t screamed at me; he screams at everybody, they said. His slightest whisper is a full-throated bellow. They were surprised he hadn’t insulted me, called me stupid or something. He did this to everybody else.
Uh oh. How badly did I want this job?
Well, they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, weird interview with Dick notwithstanding, and a month later I was there. I didn’t see Dick much at first, although his office was just across the hall. He spent most of the week golfing, practically every afternoon. But I heard his bellow in the mornings before his daily racquetball game. Seems the comments I’d heard about him yelling and screaming were right. I learned quickly that most of the other VPs kept their doors closed, not because they didn’t want interruptions, but because of Dick’s noise. There was a high pitched killer tone to his bluster, one which caused even the most hardy to cringe.
What had I gotten my self into?
After my first week, Dick asked me to play racquetball with him. The company had to attract aerospace engineers from the west coast, so we had outstanding health club facilities and gardens right on premises, and as one of their middle management dopes, I was privileged to use them all day long. Dick played everyday, seven days a week. He needed the release and was so high strung, only the endorphins from hard exercise would placate him. Racquetball for Dick was a contact sport, where he practiced his bellow, where he used deceit and bullying tactics to win.
Just like in the office, huh?
You’d have thought that with all this exercise, Dick would be sinewy and quick. Not so. His enormous appetites dictated that he would always be fat and dumpy, always fidgety. The guy just couldn’t relax, and he fed his fuel needs with sweets. He was famous for arriving at a destination, finding its best restaurant and ordering three desserts, nothing else. Both of his parents died of diabetes. Surely, he will too.
Oh, did I mention he’s an alcoholic? That, in itself, is another story. But I’ll leave that one for another day.
Anyway, after the game, as Dick was checking me out in the showers, I had my first conversation with him since I’d been hired. Even when we stepped onto the court, he’d just grunted and looked me up and down. But here in the shower, we were more relaxed. “I’m hearing good things about you, Small,” he quipped. “Good thing. Otherwise, I’d fire your ass.”
I soon learned that Dick’s favorite word was “fire”. Trump should pay him royalties.
I mumbled something, heard him say something that sounded like, “Keep up the good work,” then he was gone. It was time for his golf game.
I worked for Dick for twenty-three years, and believe it or not, loved every minute of it. For all Dick’s hollering, his hollow threats, his total lack of any social grace, his penchant for saying the wrong thing, the insults, the bullying, what was hidden was that this was all a bluff: Dick carries a heart as big as Nebraska, his motions, sounds and actions to the contrary, are just a mask.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Dick could still be infuriating, could make one stamp and yell. He’s selfish, occasionally deceitful, one who takes credit for other’s accomplishments, and he’s occasionally nasty. But he doesn’t mean any of it. And if you stand your ground, he will listen and often change his mind. He likes to test people, bluster them, see how they react. But if you pass, you are in his inner circle, and you see the real Dick, a guy who cares, who demands excellence and who is one of the funniest people alive.
But many people never saw this side of Dick. The people who worked for him, those who stayed, those who saw behind the façade, they loved him.
Besides, the anecdotes are priceless. I’ll share some with you.
Dick is a wild man at golf. He has an uncontrolled swing, one that is just as likely to cause a whiff as a two hundred yard drive. And of course, there is his non-stop chatter, often sexual, like, “Hey, Small, see that one. Wouldn’t you like to… you know… umpa, umpa, umpa?” Or he’ll say, “Hey, Small, look at that guy’s pants. Mine are better than his. I can buy and sell that guy ten times over.”
Well, one day we were playing at Lake Geneva. Some Seattle execs were in town, one of whom was likely to be the next CEO, so we took them out golfing. It was early spring and the ground was saturated. Our golf shoes were clumped with mud and footing was a problem, not to mention that we were tearing the hell out of the course.
Now, I can’t control my woods, so I don’t use them. I tee off with a two-iron and often out-drive my foursome. Being 6’6” and 250 has occasional advantages. Well, my out-driving Dick with my iron was driving him crazy. “God Damnit, Small,” he bellowed at me, after I led off one hole with a towering drive. “I’m gonna use my two iron and I’m gonna kick your ass.”
I bent over and made a be my guest motion. Then I watched as Dick, splendorous in his bright yellow pants and neon green golf shirt, leaned over his ball, two iron in hand. With a mighty swing, the club head hit the ground a foot in front of the ball. It broke off, the stick nudged the ball off the tee, and the clubhead flew off down the fairway. And as Dick swung, he lost his balance and splayed out in the mud, sending up a spray, followed of course, by a stream of curses.
And it was all my fault.
Another time, we were golfing with a bunch of friends down on Hilton Head, and we both drove off into the high grass. As I was bending over to look at my lie, I saw a small dead snake lying on the ground. Dick, who was supervising, watching me closely to ensure I didn’t improve my lie — like he often did — said, “Hey, let’s play a joke on those @$$holes behind us.” He picked up the snake and stuck it on the back of our cart. At the next hole, he curled it on the tee marker, so anybody who bent over to place their ball, would see it lying close by. He thought that was pretty funny.
Over drinks at the nineteenth hole, one of our buddies said, “Hey, which one of you @$$holes put the coral snake on the tee block?”
I thought Dick was having a heart attack.
Again, it was all my fault.
* * *
For ten years, Dick and I went skiing in Vail, where he had a nice condo. Often, we would take a side trip for a training session to justify borrowing one of the company jets. Sometimes our wives went with us, sometimes it was just a bunch of guys. But always, it was Dick and me.
The first time, I had never skied before. So Dick insisted I take a morning of lessons before we tackled the black and double black slopes. Despite having to listen to him haranguing me for falling over every bump, for skiing backwards not on purpose, I survived. And finally, on the last day of that first trip, I actually made it down one of these slopes without falling. But Dick, who’d been ahead of me and had looked up to critique my technique and form, wasn’t watching where he was going. He took a header off a bump, broke his sunglasses, and of course, blamed me.
Well, one time we went with Jim, his general contractor, and Jim’s wife, Faith, a homely blonde with a boyish figure who despite her youth — somewhere in her twenties — always wore granny clothes, even on the ski slopes. Jim and Faith were religious nutcases, both deacons in some holy roller church, yet they had an abnormal interest in “fisting”, if you can believe it. They professed to be so pure they had only held hands before their marriage, and they’d met at church camp. But they loved to talk about deviancy, especially fisting. Go figure. Something wasn’t right. But I was under strict orders not to swear, not to even hint at anything sexual, or Dick and his wife might be thrown out of their church. I was muzzled. These two holy rollers could talk all night about “fisting”, yet I couldn’t say “darn”.
So, here we were, standing in front of an old whore house in downtown Aspen, a neat bar where the original red velvet décor had been retained, where oil paintings of naked nymphs still adorned the walls, and we were waiting for Dick’s daughter. Dick sidled over to me and whispered. “Damnit Small, don’t let on to Faith and Jim that we know anything about that place. You understand? They’ll throw us out of our church.” Of course, I pledged my silence.
Goldie Hawn walked by and waved when we called out to her. And about then, Dick’s daughter finally arrived. Her first words, “Hey, Dad, are you gonna take us to the old whore house again?”
Now I had brought my video camera that week. And one morning, I took it up on the first lift. As Dick and I were slowly gliding uphill and the early morning sun was shimmering across fresh powder, I began shooting the scene. Meanwhile, Dick kept up a steady banter in my ear. “Jeez, Small, do you believe that Faith. How would you like to screw that? My god, that’d be the lousiest lay in the land. She’d just lie there, don’cha think? I wonder if Jim even knows where to put it.”
I tried to shush him, but he just kept on. “Bet he’s never gotten any oral sex, poor guy. I bet he’s never even seen her equipment. My god, I’d go gay if I had to screw that every night. How often do you think they do it? I bet they leave the lights off. Probably even do it in their clothes, huh?”
I shushed him some more and kept on shooting.
Now, years go by, and one weekend, Dick and his wife were up at my lake cottage. We’d been boating all day, and were just finishing a nice dinner. Dick noticed all these Beta tapes in a bookcase and asked me about them. “Yeah,” I said. “I chose wrong, so I keep those tapes up here where I’ve still got a Beta player. Hey, I’ve still got that one I shot of your father that time in Vail.”
Dick’s father had passed away, so he insisted on seeing the tape. And truth be told, I’d forgotten what else was on it. You shoulda seen Dick’s face — and especially his wife’s expression — when that conversation on the chair lift came up. I couldn’t get to the TV fast enough. Then his wife made me leave the volume up. Sitting there, a frosty glare on her face, she insisted on hearing it all.
They left soon afterwards. And I know who didn’t get any that night…
You can imagine what happened to me the next workday...
One time, on one of these Vail trips, we had taken our wives and the jet, planning to justify the trip on a tour of a new plant. We landed and went to the plant, only to learn that it hadn’t been built yet. One guy, a black HR rep, was present. For an hour or so, he walked us over the grounds pointing out which hole would be machine tools, which hole would be offices, and which hole would be the reception area. As we climbed back on the plane, Dick said, “That’s what I like about this company: The way we give coloreds a chance.”
Horrified, Dick’s wife jumped on him. “Dick! That’s a racial slur.”
He looked puzzled. “No, it isn’t. They are colored.”
“You can’t say that, Dick. That’s a racial slur. Negroes want to be called ‘black’”. [Editor’s note. This was in the eighties, before the term African-American became PC, even if it is inaccurate. After all, Gary Player is an African-American.]
I was shrinking into my seat, figuring it was only a matter of time before this too was my fault.
“What do you think, Small? Is ‘colored’ a racial slur?”
I assured him that it was.
“Well, damnit, Small, when I say something stupid, just say ‘Shutup, Dick.’”
My wife leaned forward. “Shut up, Dick.”
* * *
Dick has handwriting that was so illegible that nobody — including him — can decipher it. I can’t tell you how many times a bunch of us, Dick included, would be assembled around a table, trying to decode some important note he’d written. The best code-breaker was Suzanne, his extremely tolerant and long suffering secretary. Suzanne could even duplicate his unique signature, which looked like Islamic text.
One time I went into his office with one of his memos that didn’t make any sense. Usually, Dick was an outstanding writer, but this memo didn’t meet his standards, it was ambiguous. He read it and looked at the signature. He’d authorized Suzanne to duplicate his scrawl, and she was pretty good at it. Instead of buzzing her in, his voice boomed out the door. “Suzanne! Suzanne! Is this your Dick or my Dick?”
You could hear doors slam all around the office.
* * *
One time, we were in Beverly Hills, staying on Rodeo Drive. Dick wanted to commune with the stars. We’d attended some meetings, then went back to our hotel. Dick decided he wanted a haircut. “Dick,” I said. “You’ll spend a fortune here. Can’t you wait?”
“No. I want one like the stars get. Let’s go get one.”
I went with him, lest he get mugged by somebody he offended. I mean, the guy didn’t have a social clue. He’d hike his leg and fart in a meeting, even when women were present, and if it was a good one, he’d comment about it. I swear, there were times I wanted to crawl under a desk and hide, pretend I didn’t know him.
He found Jose Eber’s shop, although he didn’t have a clue who Jose was. I mentioned that Jose was Liz Taylor’s hairdresser, so that’s where he wanted to go. But he didn’t have an appointment. No problem, they said, if he’d be willing to wait a while, they could take him. He pointed to Jose, said, “Can I get that guy with the pony tail?”
I wanted to die.
When it came Dick’s time, he was handed a smock, told to go into a changing room and put it on. Ignoring the difference between closed curtains and open ones, he pulled one curtain aside and stood in front of a topless Farrah Fawcett. As Farrah struggled to cover herself, Dick just stood there, his mouth open, his eyes wide. He stammered something unintelligible but didn’t move. After a moment, Farrah just dropped her smock and smiled at him. “Well, it’s obvious you’re much more upset about this than I am. Might as well get your money’s worth.”
As I scrunched into the back of my chair, I made sure my vision was unobstructed. Right after she put her top on, I slipped back to the hotel. I didn’t want anybody to know that I knew him.
* * *
One time, my wife’s twin sister, a powerhouse lawyer in her own right, was attending a General Counsels’ conference at Northwestern. As she told me later, all through the morning, she’d been sitting in the audience listening to some buffoon behind her burping and farting, smelling the digestive products of the fiber he’d had for breakfast, and thinking that the disruption caused by changing seats might well be worth the embarrassment. Then the man asked what she thought was a really stupid question. She said, “So, I turned around to see just who this nutcase was, and Ben, it was your boss!”
Another proud moment, huh?
* * *
Despite being extremely wealthy – Dick had been General Counsel of a Fortune 500 Company for over twenty years – he’s a cheapskate of the first order. He once cost me $800 by changing a date for a Pacific Northwest trip because he wanted to play in a charity golf pro-am. You see, not being stupid, I’d arranged for a business trip, a training session, so the company would pay my transportation on my honeymoon. By changing the date, I had to pay for the transportation myself. And Dick knew this. He just didn’t care. The pro-am came first.
When he and I would take business trips, especially training sessions where I would do all the work and he would pontificate and threaten, we would often schedule it so we could take neat side trips and have the company pay for them. Like to the Pacific Northwest, with meetings on Thursday and Tuesday, leaving four days for fun. But on these trips, Dick would pick up all the meals, which were reimbursable; I was responsible for the entertainment, which was not.
On one such trip, I made reservations at Paradise Lodge, high on Mt. Rainier. I was a little worried about this trip, because Paradise Lodge is rustic, and Dick doesn’t do rustic. But if you can get past the mice in your room, the incredible views, the large paneled lobby, the huge walk-in fireplaces, the gourmet food and the magnificent dining room and cool mahogany bar — where FDR once drank and where famed mountaineers go for a beer — all make the place very special indeed.
We arrived early in the morning and immediately went out climbing. All along the way, up about five miles of the eighteen mile summit trip, Dick was complaining. “What the hell do you think I am, Small? A mountain goat? This is the last time I put you in charge of entertainment. I shoulda fired you years ago.”
Standard stuff…
We kept climbing. I’d been there before, many times in fact. We wouldn’t go up to glacier level; we weren’t equipped, but I wanted Dick to see the view from Panorama Point, at about the seventy-five hundred foot level.
If you’ve never been to the Pacific Northwest, let me just hint at the splendor there. Rainier has about eight climate zones, from rain forest to arctic. You’ll see just about every kind of fern, moss, wild mountain flower, and tree imaginable, from Douglas Fir to Indian Paintbrush, and animals to boot. Mule deer, brown bear, mountain lion, mountain goat, marmots and pika abound. The Cascades make the Rockies look like foothills. Die-hard Rocky fans will dispute this, but truth be told, while the Rockies top out at fourteen thousand feet, the base of their big ones is usually around ten or eleven thousand feet, making the mountains about two or three thousand feet tall. Hell, even flat Denver is a mile high!
The Cascades start at sea level and rise to fourteen thousand feet.
Nuff said.
I was beginning to think my job could be in jeopardy. Dick wasn’t enjoying the climb at all. He was sweating heavily in his business-casual clothes — he didn’t own any jeans — and he didn’t own any mountain boots. His racquetball shoes just weren’t appropriate for what we were doing, in fact, they were flat-out dangerous. I knew I’d have to watch out for him. A couple of times, we had to cross a snow field, one which sloped steeply downward. One slip and you’re gone. I chopped out foot holes for Dick, and made him hold sharp rocks, so if he slipped he could perform a self-arrest.
Dick wasn’t seeing the humor or beauty in any of this.
And then we reached Panorama Point, and everything changed. As I turned him around and sat him on a rock, he was able to see beyond the Tatooshes, which surround the south side of Rainier, to Mt. Adams on the left, the blown out hole of St. Helen’s straight ahead, and beyond that, Mt. Hood, just outside Portland. To Dick’s right was the mighty Nisqually Glacier, many miles long and over a mile deep, Puget Sound beyond it and the Olympics even further out. Dick’s breathlessness was now due to awe.
But now he wanted to go higher, and as I said we weren’t equipped. I suggested instead a lateral traverse over to the ice caves. We’d be off-trail, so we’d have to be careful, but it was the only practical way around to the east side of the mountain.
And that’s how I came to save Dick’s life, for the first time.
It wasn’t really a big deal, but his screaming and howling made it one. We were traversing a gravelly chute, when Dick began sliding. Twenty feet ahead of him were two rocks, standing like horns, which guarded a thousand foot drop like entry doors. I had already crossed the chute, so as Dick began sliding and panicking, I just leaned over and grabbed his hand, pulling him across. I am certain Dick would have caught himself at the horns, but he didn’t think so. He called me his savior, this despite my putting him in harm’s way in the first place.
Two hours later, we’d made it over to the ice caves, which were these deep, ice shrouded water passages, covered over by centuries of snow. The ice caves were beautiful; sunlight radiated through the translucent snow and ice, casting a bluish glow to the surroundings, shaded in different hues depending upon how much ice and/or snow was on top. They are an eerie place, very other-worldly. Dick had never seen anything like them.
But danger lurks there also. Just after we turned to head back to Paradise, we heard a loud thump and turned back to see that a block of snow the size of a boxcar had fallen right at the entrance to a cave, where we’d stood just minutes before. Trust me, something like that will get your attention.
That night at Paradise Lodge, sitting in the bar, me sipping beers, Dick hitting the mineral water, he was telling anybody who’d listen of our adventures. Never mind that the people in this bar were legendary mountaineers. Both Whitaker brothers were there; Jim was the first American to scale Everest, his twin Lou ran the Guide Service and has led any number of Everest expeditions.
Again, I wanted to climb under a table.
But the Whitakers humored Dick well. In fact, that’s one of the most amazing things: Somehow, Dick always gets away with these things. Something I could ever do…
The Whitakers had him stand center stage, telling everybody in the room his adventures. Dick never realized he was the butt of the joke, but then he never did. And I certainly didn’t have the heart to tell him. Hell, he wouldn’t have believed me anyway…
* * *
Now, from all this, you may think Dick is a buffoon, an incompetent, someone who just masquerades as a business exec. But let me warn you, you should never sell Dick short. He has one of the finest business minds ever constructed, can simplify complex matters instinctively, getting right to the nub, and he can negotiate better than anybody I’ve ever met. Put Dick in a business meeting, and his ingenuity and brilliance shine. Put him in a social context, and he’s a fart in a space suit.
One time, we were negotiating a joint venture with a Chinese company. Dick made a speal, giving them our overview of what we wanted to accomplish, then he took off his shoes, kicked back and planted his socks right under the nose of the Chinese leader, as everybody’s mouths dropped. You see, to an Asian, especially the Chinese, showing someone the bottom of your feet is a tremendous insult, something degrading and very personal. I had to reach over and scoop Dick’s feet off the table all the while protesting his ignorance, lest the Chinese call Security. We were in their friggin’ country. No telling where we would have ended up if I hadn’t fixed things.
But Dick had no idea what he’d done. He was mad at me for making him look foolish.
One time, he was attending an Investigative Hearing the FTC was conducting on a divestiture we wanted to make. I was handling the hearing, was outgunned eight to two (if you counted Dick), and I knew he didn’t have the slightest idea how these proceedings were conducted. He was there to urge the FTC to act quickly because while the deal was pending, we were losing good employees, people who’d decided to look elsewhere rather than accept a transfer to the new employer. So, I finished with the hearing, hoping beyond hope, that Dick would keep his mouth shut, when Dick suddenly said, “You know, I hope you will hurry up with your investigation. We’re losing a lot of good people and have over two hundred of them working on satisfying your requests. This weekend, they’re busy purging documents.”
Okay, so everybody in the room knew Dick meant “gathering” instead of “purging”, which of course would be a felony. But these agency types don’t usually have a sense of humor; they enjoy their power, and the FTC especially enjoys frustrating business leaders every chance it gets. But Dick got away with it. Even the top official, the Director of the Bureau of Competition, guffawed. If I’d a said that, I’d probably still be breaking rocks.
* * *
Dick once went to Florida for a week of business meetings, the good kind, the ones with sessions only in the mornings. Dick had forgotten his specially made golf clubs, so he spent his free time at the pool working on his tan. Trouble is, at the end of the week, he called his wife, and she told him she’d found his swimming suit. What on earth was he wearing at the pool? Turns out, Dick had a pair of underwear that looked like his swimming suit. He’d never noticed his suit had a fly…
* * *
The day Dick told me he’d been fired – he’d tried to bully the new CEO, a man not used to subordinates with strongly held opinions – was the worst day of my business life. You see, for all his faults, working for Dick was a joy. The guy really believed in developing his troops; he empowered them and while he might steal the credit for a job well done, the one who did the work would be rewarded privately. Dick would tell you your value, make you feel good — or bad — depending on what you deserved. And since he’s lazy, he delegated almost everything. Dick believes in loyalty and he repaid it in spades. He was fun to work for, and if you saw through his bellowing, ignored it or called his bluff, he’d always back down. He was one of those rare executives who actually keep an open mind. Even though he’d say his mind was made up on a course of action, he’d encourage you to make your pitch and often he’d change his view.
The people who worked for Dick, those who stayed and who knew him behind the mask, all loved him. As did the former CEO, who while he understood that Dick could be a buffalo in a china shop in a social setting, also knew there was no finer mind.
Besides, the guy was just so much fun.
I’ve got a book of stories about Dick, which I may tell sometime, but I thought I’d give you just a taste.
So maybe you’d know a little about Dick…
To be continued…
This post was edited on 9/20 11:54 AM by Arussif(GetAdminCookie() != 0) {document.write(' (Revisions[/URL])');}