The Offer Pt. 01

When I arrived at IBM Tokyo in August 1981, I was not given any list of rules and regulations; only my job description and sales targets. A man's ability to act gentlemanly and remain discreet was an assumption.

But back then, no one was discreet.

The sales floor reminded me of high school in Davenport, Iowa. Every guy either had been, or claimed to have been, in bed with at least one woman in the office: a secretary, a manager in accounting...

The biggest talkers were usually the heaviest guys who'd been on the sales floor the longest. They also pitched the best stories and as improbable as they were, most of us wanted to buy into their tall tales, because if they could get a girl in the office to do that, then they had a chance too.

"What about you, Jerry?" Berkemeyer asked me one day, singling me out, probably because I'd become his biggest competition. He'd been working at IBM Tokyo for five years, and only a year after arriving I was catching up to him on the sales board posted by the office clock.

I made up some wild story about a Japanese woman I'd met at the regional two weeks earlier. Having been the only guy from our office in attendance, no one could call bull shit on me.

That didn't stop Berkemeyer from looking my way and subtly shaking his head.

My real experience was as limited as you might expect of a guy from Iowa and embarrassingly so.

I didn't have a single date in high school and never got anywhere with Diane Crawford, who I dated for nearly 2 years at Washington University in St. Louis. She told me she was saving herself for marriage and I believed her. Then along came Chad Pendleton, the starting quarterback, and she stopped waiting.

Nevertheless, I left college with a notch or two on my belt from girls I'd met at college bars and whose names I couldn't remember by the next morning.

When it came to the other reason for going to college -- getting an education -- I listened to my dad's no-nonsense advice:

"If you're going to waste your money on college, at least learn something that'll get you a job. And for Christ's sake Jerald, put some thought into it."

Majoring in business was an easy call, but to separate myself from the crowd, I got a Japanese minor. By the time I graduated, everyone in big business was reading Japan as Number One.

That's when American companies started looking for businessmen who could make deals with Japanese companies. And any salesman willing to go to Tokyo was worth three salesmen who wanted to stay in Chicago.

And that's how I ended up at IBM's Tokyo branch.

One year after arriving, I was still living like a guy who had just landed.

I had a tiny room in Edogawabashi, which was one of Tokyo's old residential neighborhoods. It was cheap and centrally located at the same time. In a city of 12 million people, it took only thirteen minutes to get to work in the city center.

Everyone in the office wanted my commute, but no one wanted my apartment. Even calling it an apartment was a stretch. It was a six tatami mat room (one hundred square feet), with a shared toilet down the hall. I also had to walk to the neighborhood sento to bathe each evening and mornings after my daily five mile run along the Kanda River, I used the shared washroom before going to work.

I promised myself the first thing I would spend any additional future income on was an apartment that came with its own toilet and shower.

For the time being, I also ate "on the cheap" at open-air food stalls which saved me time cooking and grocery shopping. I lived on rice, eggs, soba, and Ramen noodles.

Living on the cheap like this enabled me to send money home to my parents, while my dad waited on his settlement for taking a metal rod through the back at the Caterpillar plant.

What little I had left I spent on Japanese lessons five nights a week. The classroom was above a bookshop in Takadanobaba. The closest thing I had to a social life was talking to the street vendors, store clerks, and other foreigners who were as focused on learning Japanese as I was.

Like a lot of people fresh out of college, I was in a hurry to make money and be successful. The road to that success led through improving my Japanese and increasing my sales orders. I told myself dating would come later, which couldn't come fast enough, pun intended.

On a Tuesday in mid-August at 6 PM, I came back to the office with the Tanaka order in my briefcase. It was by far my biggest sale in my first year. The sale had taken six weeks of negotiations to agree on pricing and quantities for Selectric III typewriters and IBM Series III Copiers.

Tanaka's company had seven small regional offices. My commission was negligible, but this was Japan and building relationships was more important than profitability to a salesman my age. Back in Iowa it was the salesman who dictated the pricing to his customers. In Japan, it was the young salesman who allowed himself to get fleeced by the customer for the promise of greater rewards down the road.

A year ago, I would never have given Tanaka-san such a great price. He knew that and I knew that. If I hadn't been able to speak Japanese or understand Japanese culture, I would never have been able to make that deal work.

There were only five people still in the office, including two secretaries who always left last. I filled out the necessary paperwork then handed it to one of the secretaries and sat down and typed up the notes for my own desk files.

Walt Hendricks was packing up at the desk across from me. He'd been with IBM for twenty-two years, having spent the last eighteen in sales. He had the looks and shape of someone who'd spent twenty-two years eating business lunches and dinners. He looked across the desk at me and said, "Is that the deal you've been working on for six weeks?"

"Yep, six weeks of negotiations. It's my most important close since starting here a year ago. And Walt, it wouldn't have happened without your advice on saving the client money by cutting down on my commission. So, thanks for your advice!"

"Don't mention it, Ramish. Here's some more free advice. Sales in Japan -- anywhere actually -- is a marathon, not a sprint. So, unless you want to end up in an early grave, slow down and enjoy life along the way."

He said it like my father would've, without talking down to me but giving me something to work with.

"Thanks, Mr. Hendricks. I'll slow down once I start earning more."

"Ramish, did you ever watch the TV series Kung Fu?"

"Of course, after Star Trek it was my favorite TV show growing up."

"Patience, grasshopper," he said, adding, "Incidentally, people are already noticing you upstairs."

Then without another word he turned and left for the night. I looked up again and saw I was the last salesman in the office, so I cleared my desk as quickly as I could, picked up my briefcase and said good night to the two secretaries so they could finally leave as well.

* * *

The next afternoon, Wednesday, my desk phone rang. She introduced herself as Arlene Whitmire's assistant.

"Whitmire-san would like to see you."

Arlene Whitmire had been the executive VP of Sales and Marketing at IBM Japan for six years. She'd come up from a 1950s-style typing pool in NYC, or so the legend went. Nobody knew exactly how, but she had broken the glass ceiling and got into sales in the mid-60s. After an untold number of promotions in a couple of reorganizations, she ended up with her present title in Tokyo. Every major decision ran through her: hires, fires, promotions, and, more importantly, account assignments.

I frequently saw her commanding the floor during quarterly sales presentations. She had the presence and command of a man, but the unapologetic femininity of a woman. She was heavier set, and in her mid-40s, I figured. I didn't think she was much above average-looking, but she didn't need to be. She had something else that I couldn't put my finger on. Whatever that unexplained quality was, I was drawn to it during that first presentation.

A little over six months later after I'd gotten the requisite number of sales under my belt, my manager invited me to attend the fifteen minute daily sales briefings in the conference room. Two dozen of us salesman crammed into the room and got a pep talk from our manager every morning. Every two weeks, on a Monday, Arlene Whitmire ended the meetings, and I saw her up close for the first time. She had that certain quality that made her hard to avoid wanting to look at. Even when addressing the entire room, if her eyes fell on you, she made you feel like you were the only person that mattered. If she commented on your sales by name, it was game over.

And it had happened to me two weeks earlier at the quarterly sales meeting. She emphasized that most deals in Japan required a nuanced understanding of Japanese culture and relationship building. She followed that statement up with the words, "That's something that individuals like Mr. Ramish seem to understand well."

So, when the phone call came in, it didn't catch me completely off guard. On the way up in the elevator, I replayed her comment in my head.

"That's something individuals like Mr. Ramish seem to understand."

What could she possibly want to see me about?

Does she want me to give a presentation or something?

Her assistant, a young Japanese woman stood up from behind the reception counter when I entered the room and greeted me politely. She walked me the five steps to Arlene Whitmire's sixth floor office which overlooked Chuo-Dori, Ginza's main street.

She was reading something when I came in, so I stood there and quietly waited for her to finish.

Not that it mattered, but I figured the pause was deliberate.

Then she spoke. "Before you sit, Mr. Ramish, hang up your jacket on the rack in the corner."

I crossed the room, turned my back to her, took off my suit coat, and hung it up.

"You run, don't you?" she said as I walked back and sat down in the chair she pointed at, directly in front of her desk.

"Yes, I start mornings with a five-mile run along the Kanda River."

"Well, it shows." Her eyes dropped lower before rising back up to meet mine. Embarrassed, I looked down. When I looked up, she was looking at me. A smile started forming at the corner of her mouth.

Did she think I was looking down at her breasts?

Was I?

"I've been reviewing your Shibuya numbers, Mr. Ramish. The Tanaka account stood out. Was that your close from start to finish?"

"Yes, Mrs. Whitmire," I said, noticing the diamond and wedding band on her ring finger.

"Ms."

"Yes, Ms. Whitmire."

"The report says it took six weeks; is that accurate?"

"Yes, because it required three presentations before the topic of placing an order was even broached by the client. Only then did the negotiations begin."

She gets it; stop over explaining.

She nodded her head without saying a word. As I sat waiting for her to speak, I heard the afternoon traffic on the street below.

"Good work, Mr. Ramish. I called you up here today to tell you something that isn't common knowledge yet. Once I've finished, I'll ask you a single question. I'd like a yes or no answer."

"I understand, Ms. Whitmire."

"I assume you're familiar with the word discretion, Jerry," she said.

'Jerry?' Was that a slip?

The silence was uncomfortable and I nervously looked down again.

Oh shit, this time I am looking...

Trying to camouflage my momentary lapse of attention, I cleared my throat when I looked her in the eye again.

"As you know last year IBM launched the IBM personal computer. Early next year IBM will introduce its first Japanese language personal computer. It's going to change IBM Japan, as well as the Japanese market." She paused before continuing.

"The banks and the big manufacturers know something is coming. Some of them already want pre-sale agreements. What IBM needs is a salesman who speaks their language and understands Japanese culture and is also capable of making each company feel like they are our most important customer. Finally, he must have a proven track record."

She paused and watched me with her penetrating eyes.

Am I supposed to say something?

No, better not. She said she'd ask one question.

"I believe that man is sitting right in front of me, Mr. Ramish."

"The transition would normally take a year. It'll be hard work for you to be ready by launch in March. First, we've got a lot of details to go over." She folded her hands on her desk before delivering a line that sounded like it came straight out of a movie. "I can make you rich, Mr. Ramish. That's not hyperbole, that's elementary math. Salaries are capped -- commissions aren't."

She looked across the room at my jacket, and I quickly sneaked another peek.

I know I shouldn't look, but I can't help it.

When I looked up, her eyes had already returned to me. We both knew where I'd been looking, but neither of us said a thing. I simply straightened my tie and sat up taller.

"Do the math on Sumitomo, Mitsubishi, and Dai-Ichi Kangyo alone. I'll cherry pick accounts for you after that, provided your performance reviews are exemplary."

I held my breath. The room was quiet enough to hear her assistant typing through the office wall, despite the drone of the traffic outside.

That's the pitch. Now, I can feel the close coming...

"I'll also want to brief you personally on a regular basis. You can think of it as private coaching, over drinks if you're lucky."

"Over drinks, if I'm lucky."

Lucky as in 'getting lucky?'

Does she know how inexperienced I am? And "private coaching" is something I could seriously use.

"And one other thing, Mr. Ramish, I'll be writing your performance reviews personally."

Although this statement pointed in one direction it still could be interpreted in two different ways.

All I have to do is please her personally -- likely in bed -- and I've got it made.

Judging from the look on her face, she apparently knew exactly which way I was reading it.

"Does this interest you in any way, Mr. Ramish?"

"Absolutely, Ms. Whitmire," I answered, my voice cracked, and I felt my face get hot. I wanted to cover the look on my face at that moment so she couldn't see it.

"Good." She said, closing the file on her desk.

"Some details are best discussed outside the office, I'm sure you'd agree. How about coffee Saturday at the Okura, Mr. Ramish? Let's say 10 AM."

"Yes, of course. I look forward to further discussions on Saturday, Ms. Whitmire."

In the year I'd been in Tokyo, no female manager had ever asked me for anything other than a business report. Sure, I drank with the guys in my section and our managers a couple of times a month, but that was expected. Now here the executive VP herself was flipping the script, and she wasn't simply asking me to tea at a traditional Japanese Tea house either.

I stood up waiting for some final comment from her.

She picked up her phone and nodded toward the rack. I took my jacket from the rack and left her office.

In the elevator I looked at my reflection in the stainless steel doors.

She hadn't offered it to Berkemeyer. She offered it to me. And I think I have a pretty good idea why.

Coffee at the Hotel Okura may just be an audition.

An image of her flashed in my mind.

Would I or wouldn't I with a woman her age? Ms. Whitmire might be middle-aged and average looking but she's offering me the world. Of course I would.

I'd better learn my lines inside out. And be ready to improvise for any scenario on Saturday.

It was a humid rainy Saturday morning when I walked into Okura. I left my umbrella in a stand by the door and checked my watch. My Timex read 9:47.

Good. I'm early.

I crossed the lobby and asked for a table for two facing the entrance.

Once I was seated, I straightened my tie and ran a hand over my hair.

My hair isn't going to be a deal breaker today. Being indecisive or timid will be.

So I've gotta be decisive and take the initiative.

I checked my watch every few minutes. The hostess brought two menus, handed me one, and set the other across from me on the narrow black table. She came in at 10:08 by the lobby clock, carrying an umbrella. I raised my hand. A slight tilt of her head told me she'd seen me.

I stood as she reached the table and watched as a young male host took her umbrella.

"Good morning, Ms. Whitmire."

"Good morning, Jerry. If you'll excuse me, I need to freshen up. I'll be back in a moment."

She came back fifteen minutes later, brown hair pinned up in a bun, makeup and lipstick fresh. Apart from the dark red blouse under her blazer, she was dressed as she would have been for any business meeting.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting," she said as she took a seat across from me.

"No, not at all. I'd just sat down myself." I placed one hand flat on the tabletop so I wouldn't fidget.

"You're a terrible liar, Jerry."

"Yes, I guess so. My dad called it a weakness, but my mom called it one of my greatest strengths."

"And how is that a strength?"

As my mom always said, "An honest man never has to remember what he's said."

"Your mother was a wise woman."

"Shall we order coffee?" I said, skipping the small talk. The look on her face told me I said the wrong thing.

"I'm fine, thank you, Jerry. And how are you?" Making it clear that skipping the pleasantries was not only rude, but that she controlled the conversation.

That's strike one.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Whitmire. How has your morning been?"

I saw an almost imperceptible look of disappointment on her face. It had lasted no longer than a split second, but I'd seen it.

Maybe she's not as strong as everyone thinks.

She recovered immediately and after signaling the waiter said, "Yes, let's order coffee." before removing a file from her briefcase and opening it on the small table in front of her.

She was wearing her navy-blue business suit as always, but instead of a white or cream white blouse underneath, she wore a red blouse today with the first two buttons undone. Whether she'd worn it to attract my eyes to her chest or simply because it was a Saturday, I wasn't sure, but I wanted her to know I'd noticed, so I said,

"If it's not inappropriate, Ms. Whitmire, your red blouse is beautiful."

"No, it isn't inappropriate. Thank you." she said. Then, after a brief pause and a conspicuous glance back my way, she added, "But for future reference, 'nice' is more professional and neutral."

A male waiter arrived. We ordered coffee and scones.

From across the small café table, I saw her eyes up close for the first time. They were piercing gray green, the kind of color that changed with her surroundings or the direction she looked in. At the office I'd never been close enough to notice. Their color was unique and almost beautiful.

"What is it?" She'd caught me gazing at them.

"Nothing, Ms. Whitmire."

She knows I'm lying. She just told me I'm terrible at it.

"Now, to the order of the day." Referring to the file in front of her, she pointed to three accounts: Sumitomo, Dai-Ichi Kangyo, Mitsubishi. Beneath the group of three was listed the dates of a narrow pre-sale window. The column beside that were staggered commission figures that made my jaw drop.

"The company will start you off with a small promotion. Initially it will marginally affect your paycheck. But it'll be enough to give you a taste of the trajectory your accounts and income could go in. And since results, growth, and trajectory are what the board responds to, the greater your performance, the greater the response from the board."