President Franklin D. Roosevelt. December 8, 1941,
Referring to the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.
"Miss "Yes, sir, Mr. Perry, congratulations," Sylvia Stembach said with just the right amount of respect in her voice. Her eyes were wide behind the glasses. She was a little afraid of him, he was sure. That was okay. People in the plant universally referred to him as "Sweet Old Bob," or sometimes just the initials.
He didn't mind. He was proud of his reputation as one of the toughest managers in the company - dogged, relentless, never give up. That's the way he was. And it worked for him, didn't it? All the way from hauling his aircraft commander- Major Weintraub, out of their ditched bomber in the Pacific right up to now as production chief of one of the biggest car assembly plants in the country knocking down a big salary.
After the war, Weintraub had been so grateful that he gave Bob a job in the auto plant where he was personnel manager. Bob made foreman in a year and built a reputation as the guy who could nail production quotas no matter what it took. Promotions came regularly.
But times were changing. Savvy people were saying that the U.S. auto industry better face up to the growing competition from Japan. Bob agreed.
"You know, the brass is finally listening to me," he said to Miss Sternbach. "They're sending some senior people over to negotiate joint production for the new line of trucks."
"Yes, sir," she said deferentially.
"Yeah, and I'm included. They better have someone along who knows production. Let's see, I'll need traveler's checks, airline tickets ... you know the drill. Check with Betty for the travel arrangements." It was a tremendous career opportunity for Bob, and he knew it. Just going along for the ride would give him visibility at the top with the management, money and law people, and he intended to do more than just ride along. Yes sir, he thought, if I don't come out of this with a VP after my name, I'll eat the biggest sedan we make!
The corporation chartered a jet, and all the way over the group reviewed negotiating strategy, legal considerations, exchange rates and currency hedges, local country content, tariffs, letters of credit and other dull things. Bob sat and listened, irritated that he could add nothing to the discussion. The more they talked, the more aggravated he got.
That's not running a car company, he thought grumpily. Running a car company means time on the floor, sleeves rolled up, dirt under your nails, telling the union rep you'll break his nose if he doesn't stop screwing up your production schedule.
By the time they arrived at Tokyo International, Bob was tired and crabby. A shower at the hotel perked him up a little. He would've liked a nap, but there was no chance for that. The Japanese had a dinner planned in honor of their American visitors.
"Say, Bob," said one of the executives at his dinner table. "You're not eating much."
"I don't much like Japanese food," he said, trying to squeeze a bamboo shoot between his chopsticks. "Too many vegetables." He gave up and sipped at his sake. "This stuff isn't much good, either. Tastes musty." The executive laughed. "Better take it easy on the sake," he said. "It sneaks up on you."
The evening dragged on. The Japanese CEO, a small, slim man who could have been any age between 40 and 60, visited each American guest, bowing formally and presenting a small gift in the traditional Japanese custom. Everyone seemed to make a speech back to him. Bob just sat at his table without talking, sipping sake and trying to keep his eyes open. Can' even get a decent cup a coffee in this crummy country, he groused to himself.
Finally the CEO stopped at his table and offered a beautifully framed decorative map of Japan. "Mr. Perry," he said, "may this small token assist you as you...."
Bob focused on the gift. "Zat a map?" He laughed. "Hey, Hashimoto- san, I don' need no map!"
The room went silent.
"No sir, no map. Know 'zacly where ev'thin' is in Japan, ev'r city. Dropped bombs on 'em! Mos' of 'em, anyway. Hey, speak'n a bombed, got 'ny more a this sake? I'm startin' to like it!"
By breakfast. Bob was dazed but sober...and on a plane back to Detroit.
