Last winter, in a move that caught most of the financial world by surprise, I was absorbed by the Werstogfrauzzenschein Group, a multinational concern whose
Last winter, in a move that caught most of the financial world by surprise, I was absorbed by the Werstogfrauzzenschein Group, a multinational concern whose prior acquisition history had centered on publishing houses and automotive-parts franchises.
The buyout was generally praised by analysts as bold and proactive, but there were still concerns that the Werstogfrauzzenschein Group had overextended itself. One has to remember that, back in early 2002, the acquisition of individuals by large corporations was still considered an untested business strategy.
Personally speaking, I had some hard questions to ask about the transaction, and I voiced these concerns at a meeting with the Board of Directors in Bonn in early March. In measured tones, I said that the ham-handed manner in which this merger was achieved was hardly a hopeful beginning. I hadn't even known that I was on the auction block and learned about it only afterwards, in the trades. I also voiced doubts that the Werstogfrauzzenschein Group had any idea about what to do with me. I reminded them that I had essentially been running the show since the late '60s, and I wasn't sure that a mega-corporation based in Germany was capable of giving my life the kind of hands-on attention that it required. I ended with this passage from Emerson's Self-Reliance: "The great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude."
In the silence that filled the room afterwards, a woman seated at the far end of the table — white-blond hair, glasses, business suit — spoke up.
You look very nice in that blue shirt," she said, smiling.
"Thank you," I replied. "I'm told that navy sets off my eyes." Embarrassed, I looked down at my notes.
"It does," she said. "It really does."
"Mr. Boler" — this from a bald man on the other side of the table — "you can rest assured that we are not planning any changes, presently."
"Well, whew," I said. "That takes a load off."
"We plan to explore ... "
"Although," I said, "I'm not saying that I would be adverse to some, you know, tweaking."
The bald man leaned forward in his chair. "I can assure you, Mr. Boler, we're not in the least bit interested in running your life." He blinked hard twice. "We just decided to own you."
"Well," I concluded, "OK then."
***
I had no further contact with the suits after that. In fact, I didn't hear anything at all for the first few months, save for a congratulatory telegram from Bonn after my legendary "Death by Bufu" joke drew audible and sustained laughter during a Kentucky Derby party in late April.
Then in June, Hors, from Marketing, showed up at my front door carrying a large box.
"I'm presently just here to observe," Hors said, handing me the box. The words "From Bonn" were scrawled across the top. Inside were an array of men's tops — sweaters, casual and dress shirts, active wear — all hued a rich navy blue.
"Navy sets off your eyes nicely," Hors said without a hint of accent.
"Does it really?" I said, blushing.
"Yes. It really does. We're suggesting with this gift that you need to play more to your strengths."
I mumbled my thanks and said that I'd happily wear the ones that worked for me.
"I owe you a deep apology, Mr. Boler," Hors replied. "I'm afraid that I conveyed the wrong impression when I said that we were suggesting you wear these." Hors was still smiling — he had a swell smile — but it looked as if the shades had been pulled down behind his eyes. "For that miscommunication, I am deeply sorry."
He reached into the box and flung a shirt at me.
"Let's turn this day around with a Bugle Boy, shall we?"
***
Hors more or less moved in with me at that point. True to his word, he was mostly there to observe, as were a team of efficiency experts who filmed me on two consecutive weekends in June.
In early July, however, this laissez-faire attitude began to change. Hors began making suggestions, usually in memo form stuck to the refrigerator.
"Tilt head wisely when listening to others," one read.
"Why not buy pretzels in bulk???," read another.
These forays into hands-on management met with mixed results. Most successful were the directives involving money matters. God knows, I needed the help. Answers to the most basic economic questions — What income/expense ratio do I need to remain solvent? Did I just give that barmaid a five or a twenty? — have always eluded me. So, frankly, I was grateful for the guidance — although I did grow a tad rebellious when Hors first "suggested" that I give up playing the ponies three times a week. I insisted that my betting system was financially lucrative, but Hors showed me a spreadsheet, worked up by the boys over in Accounting, that proved that I was actually losing money.
"Well, I'll be damned," I said, studying the spreadsheet.
So I quit. Sure enough, I soon had more coin in my pocket. I was then able to turn around and invest this capital in shoes and whatnot. This, in turn, stimulated the economy, which helps the poor people somehow. So things worked out great that way.
Less successful, I felt, were the Werstogfrauzzenschein Group's management skills in other areas. The insistence that I wear navy blue exclusively was making me feel monochromatic, and I deeply resented a September memo that directed me to "Re-discover Catholicism!!"
Later that same month, Hors told me that, in order to enhance likability, I was being given a target goal of telling my "Death by Bufu" joke twice daily.
An unease settled over me.
***
In September, the Werstogfrauzzenschein Group directed me to become whimsical by nature.
"What does that mean exactly, Hors?" I asked. We were seated at my kitchen table, snacking on pretzels and sugared tap water.
Hors leaned back in his chair and eyed me serenely. "You have lost your way," he said. "Just like Sears. Somehow, you have drifted off-message. A new attitude here, a novel emotion there ... who knows how these things happen? In any case, you have forgotten who you are. Or, more aptly, who you were ... these Sam's Club pretzels are quite good, aren't they?"
I took a sip of water before I spoke.
"So, whimsy is my riding mower?"
Hors slapped the table. "Exactly! Whimsy is what works best for you. Our analysis proves that. Time and time again, people respond to you positively when you're expressing that particular gestalt. When you stray from the whimsy — when you, say, go on and on about the devastating impact of technology upon the human environment ... "
"I love that phrase," I interrupted. "'The human environment'."
"We know," Hors said wearily. "But trust us, earnestness is a non-starter for you. We want you to concentrate on your strong suit, what makes you you."
"I don't know, Hors," I said. "I'm just not certain that an all-whimsical demeanor is enough to contain the many complexities of me."
Hors smiled. "See? You just saying that, I'm bored."
"How about irony?" I persisted. "I do irony well, I think. Can't I be ironic at times?"
"Why give them irony when they're crying for whimsy? It's redundant!"
"Or redundundant," I said whimsically.
"Zat's the spirit!" Hors cried.
***
There's a serious argument to be made that America has lost something basic — that it's become, in the deep center of itself, small-minded and corrupt. The corporate mantra of the bottom line has done more than strip away any honor and civility that existed in commerce; it has seeped into our art, medicine, and politics, and has infected every crevice of American life. Genuine passion is hyped, absorbed, and trivialized by marketing. We pinball around the Republic with outsourced souls — always seeking the blinking light that will distract us from our true nature for the next few seconds, and we're left jittery-legged and disconnected, celebrating ourselves, standing at the deli counter and talking on the cell phone.
That argument, of course, would have to be made by somebody else, due to its non-whimsical undertones.
WG's strategy with me had become clear. What Hors defined as "a clearing of the deadwood" of my personality was nothing more than corporate reductionism. By shrinking my spirit to its lowest common denominator, I was being positioned to succeed.
The pathetic thing was, it worked. Besides having more money, I could sense that people had begun to regard me in a different light. Friends and family greeted me more heartily. In public, among strangers, there was a subtle but unmistakable boost in respect. Women spoke to me in throatier, come-hither voices. Upon my entering a room, children would shout "Huzzah!" and beg for magic tricks, despite the fact that I don't know any. I guess that, in this crazy, mixed-up world, people are just looking for a little consistency. I could feel the love.
But frankly, I was miserable. This strategy had taken its toll, and that bile backed up on itself. In an endless, self-destructive loop that played inside my head, my self-loathing blossomed. With perverse glee, I began referring to myself as a "navy-hued, Bufu-joking, whimsy-spouting freak."
And then the rumors started. The Werstogfrauzzenschein Group, it was said, was in trouble.
I flat-out asked Hors if we were having problems.
"Zere is no need for concern, presently," he said. (Ominously, Hors' Teutonic accent had begun to re-emerge.)
"Hors, could I ask you something?" I continued. "When you guys say 'presently' ... "
"We mean at this precise moment in zis current block of time," Hors replied coldly. "If you're asking me what's going to happen down the road — say, two minutes from now — well, I'm just not going to do that."
"That would be reckless speculation," I said helpfully.
"Exactly right!" Hors said. "Und ve don't play zat game."
***
The demise of the Werstogfrauzzenschein Group happened mere weeks after I was relocated.
Hors showed up at my house in the middle of the night, clearly whacked on methamphetamines, and told me to pack a few essentials. They would send for the rest of my things later. He was sweating through his suit jacket and smelled of European cigarettes. When I asked him why I was being moved, he would only say it was regrettable, unavoidable, and an incredible growth opportunity.
I never saw Hors again.
According to the only English-speaking newspaper I've found, WG's collapse was swift and righteous — and, in the end, not unpredictable. It was a sad tale of greed and larceny, arrogance and deceit. Highly illegal maneuvers were executed, involving sleight-of-hand and bold lies. Once the dust settled, it seems that the only assets the Werstogfrauzzenschein Group owned were myself, a New Mexico Auto Zone, and some guy named Floyd from Canada. And although that's not chump change in the sandbox I play in, it apparently wasn't enough to compete in today's highly competitive global whatever.
I suppose I could go back home now, but I don't know ...
Indonesia is actually very nice — an inherently whimsical land with a temperate climate and world-class dog tracks. There's even a growing colony of expatriate Americans, retooling for the 21st century by swapping their union cards for a mud hut and the adventure of a lifetime.
