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POLITICS 101 1/8/2011 6:38:41 AM
It was about twenty-five years ago, after I had left broadcasting and sold my interest in Bob Mills Travel Bureau, Inc., that I went to work for a fellow I’ll call Frank Wilson (not his real name, but it’s always best to protect the innocent, even if you aren’t sure they are.)
Wilson was a young man in his 30s at that time, tall and dapper in his tailored suits and polished brogues, and he operated a curious empire of ‘correspondence schools that taught people a professional retail discipline with neither a store front, staff, governmental accreditation, or much education — all they needed was a telephone, a credit card, several hundred dollars line-of-credit, and a desire to attain the American dream of self-sufficiency (a national phenomenon in the ‘80s.)
I was taken on as executive vice president at an exorbitant salary and expense account, and although I had nothing whatever to do with the correspondence school side of the business, my job, as it was outlined to me, was to generate subsidiary involvement for the company with “people of influence” who could enhance the business through endorsements and services we claimed could be obtained at less cost than traditional outlets.
How I was to accomplish this even today remains something of a mystery.
But Wilson (who relentlessly chased after me until I agreed to work for him) took me on with all the bells and whistles and set me up in a gorgeous office within his lavish complex. My primary function was to attend meetings and talk up the merits of the company with certain “captains of industry” who apparently needed our services. Occasionally, I was called upon to speak with ‘Tony Robbins-like’ motivation to his boiler room staff of twenty salespeople; these well-paid hustlers manned telephones and computers from noon till nine daily in order to convince retail wannabees that they “could be in business for themselves and make humongous incomes without years of training, seed money and governmental recognition.”
The rest of Wilson’s staff consisted of a dozen or more astute office people and assorted well-meaning entrepreneurs who ran what seemed to be an empire of remarkable substance and success. The company had pockets so deep there was no room for lint.
One day Wilson came into my office and said we were “going to Washington tomorrow to meet with a former senator and former congressman at the ex-senator’s suite of offices.” The next morning we flew (first class, of course) to D.C. We were met at National by a chauffeured stretch-limo that whisked us to former Senator Morris Nussbaum’s midtown offices. There, I was introduced to former Representative Geoffrey Tryon (both Nussbaum and Tryon are made-up names, again to hopefully protect the innocent, if in fact they were.)
These were, it seemed to a county bumpkin such as I from Western New York, powerful and important men. After a lengthy meeting, we were taken to lunch at what must have been Washington’s most elegant restaurant. The senator and the congressman were literally fawned over by the maitre d’, and by the time we made it to our table, at least a dozen Big Names had stopped us and shaken our hands. Had President Reagan been there, we might have been obligated to join him.
It turned out, this was only our first meeting with the former senator and congressman. Despite talk about bureaucracies, offshore voucher accounts, complicity with bona fide New England retailers and other areas that caused growling rumbles in my bowels, we were quietly summoned to the Capitol on other occasions.
On day Wilson phoned me from his office (eight yards away) to ask, “You like boats? I got this yacht I keep in Miami, and we gotta meet with John Kramer at C_______ C_____ Lines tomorrow. We can stay the weekend on my yacht. Tell your secretary to get us seats on an early morning flight and rent a limo for us.”
I had had no idea Wilson owned a yacht, but he did — complete with a captain and cook/housekeeper. The next day, after a brief and unproductive meeting with C_______’s John Kramer (another phony name) — Kramer was suspicious of us because our business cards were printed, not embossed — we boarded Wilson’s yacht and set sail for Fort Lauderdale.
“If you insist on calling the anchor a ‘parking hook’,” Wilson snarled, “you can sleep in the aft guest quarters. I’ll be in the master suite. Bon voyage.”
“Ahoy,” was the only nautical jargon I knew.
That night we dined lavishly at Pier 24. After many cocktails, we headed back to Miami in the dark. Somewhere, in front of what Wilson insisted was Liz Taylor’s estate, we ventured too close to shore and ran aground. The captain (it was later learned he did not possess proper credentials) joined us on the foredeck - we were enjoying après-dinner libations - with unhappy news.
“We’re on a sandbar,” he said. “Can’t go backwards or forward. We’re stuck.”
“Rats! What do you recommend?” Wilson inquired.
“I dunno. I guess we can call the Coast Guard.”
From the ship’s bridge a ‘May Day’ was radioed, and within minutes a Coast Guard cutter appeared alongside. “Ahoy!” Wilson greeted, apparently impressed with my earlier rejoinder. “Worst luck — we’ve run aground!”
“No shit,” agreed Chief Petty Officer Truman Grimes, who immediately put his crew to work. In less than an hour he had us keel-loose-and-fancy-free and on our way — at .9 knots and limping somewhat to starboard.
The next day, after Wilson ceremoniously fired the bogus captain, he had the yacht’s underside inspected by the marina’s chief engineer. “One of the shafts is bent and the prop’s shot nine ways to Davey Jones’s Locker,” the engineer confided, dripping wet and covered with seaweed.
“How much?”
“I dunno. Maybe ‘bout three grand.”
“Rats! Fix it.”
For me, the whole adventure with Wilson and his curious company came to an end about six months later. The money notwithstanding, I was very uncomfortable working for him; I told my wife I really had no idea what was going on with the people in Washington, or where the stream of money was flowing from, or how long it would be before there would be a knock on our door some night and six burly officers from the CIA or someplace would slap handcuffs on me and lead me away.
“But, officers,” I would plead, “I had no idea what was going on!”
“Yeah, that’s what they all say. Let’s go.”
Of course, it never came to that. Sometime around Christmas I decided to ‘pursue other interests,’ as they say; I tendered my resignation and began enjoying the happiest period of my life. A while later, I was offered a position at Richland Industries, provided I would agree to move to Atlanta, an opportunity to which I readily acquiesced.
I’m glad I did. My wife got her degree from the American University; our baby daughter grew up in the South, graduated from the University of Georgia and married her campus sweetheart, Phillip Faucette (soon to have his DDS and new baby son.)
A couple days after I resigned from Frank Wilson’s corporation, however, I called Wilson’s comptroller, Tom Jenkins, a fellow I’d befriended, and asked him if he’d collect the clock-ashtray I’d left in my old office.
“Forget it,” Jenkins said. “The night you quit, somebody broke in and trashed the whole place. Wilson is gone, disappeared. The office is wrecked. Place is all boarded up, under lock and key.”
