Success Is Not An Option

Book summary

Newly appointed CEO Rob Stone faces chaos in his role at Remora Insurance, despite his sharp wit but lack of experience. From employee revolts to absurd workplace incidents, his challenges are anything but ordinary. SUCCESS IS NOT AN OPTION humorously explores the bizarre, often surreal dynamics of corporate life.

Excerpt from Success Is Not An Option

Chapter 1: Sweetened Paper

The Board of Directors shuffled out of the elevator, hesitant that they had reached the correct floor. Rarely did we get a single unannounced visitor, let alone a herd that glistened with importance. Each held my photo in their hand. They headed in various directions. Their eyes darted back and forth between my picture and anyone they encountered. One finally held my likeness next to my head and said, “It’s him. It’s definitely him.”

Without a second opinion, the others ambled over and shook my hand. They congratulated me but with a greater enthusiasm, they congratulated themselves. I was their first new idea in years.

When A. J. Spaulding, CEO and Chairman of Remora Property & Casualty died, the Board wanted to bury his stranglehold on the company alongside him. With their newfound freedom, they now favored a leader who was neither an MBA nor a seasoned insurance professional, not even a conservative. They wanted a creative liberal type who could think outside the box. Why the hell were so many people afraid of this imaginary box? A box with dented cardboard sides and filled with little else other than self-imposed restraints. But let us praise their fear, for it gave me this undeserved opportunity.

They found me on the twenty-third floor, where I have sat for the past twenty-seven years, working as the company’s principal graphic artist. Ironically, just the week before, I helped compose Spaulding’s obituary. I had to choose the best photo of him from various eras, events, and sentiments. He looked ghastly in the latest ones and disinterested in others. I selected an older shot—a practiced pose with his eyes to the side, chin up, and sporting thick black glasses usually worn by middle school principals and pedophiles. I repositioned his head a few times for the official release until he looked dignified. The entire creation was, at once, both a lie and a revelation.

In order to justify my promotion to CEO, the Board had to interview me. I reminded them, with an odd mixture of firmness, humility, honesty, and incredulity, of my obvious lack of skills and inexperience to head up a formidable company. But that only encouraged them. I told them that there should be term limits for CEOs to preclude an 11th decade of rule. They agreed and seemed oddly amused. I half expected one of them to take a fish from his pocket and throw it toward my mouth. They emphasized that they wanted someone who both sounded and thought differently but who could still represent the insurance company proudly. Not only was I to be the new CEO, but a potential alternative to the talking mascots and the Presbyterians of Comedy employed by the other insurance companies for their ads.

Of course, I was leery of their intentions and motives and realized this new position could be a stunt, a progressive as gimmick. They knew there were many difficult, if not unsolvable problems, that I could not change. This way they could say they tried something different, but it failed. On the other hand, I was sure they wanted to avoid public humiliation, depressed staff, and an even more depressed stock price. After an all-night conversation with my wife, Cassia, we decided it was a reasonable risk. It reminded us of us when we were younger and would do things not only because they seemed stupid but the opportunity might never arise again. This was the adult edition. The Board never suspected the main reasons for my daring. We lived in a rent-stabilized apartment in a well-maintained building in the middle of Manhattan. Cassia had an excellent health care plan, and since we did not have children, there were no additional unreasonable expenses for things like food and clothing. No matter what might happen, we had a quiet place to sleep, could summon a plumber at midnight, and stumble to our local ER.

Spaulding’s office was a shrine to mid-to-late 20th century masculinity. Buttoned leather chairs and sofas, a liquor cart cluttered with thick-cut glass bottles adorned with dangling silver necklaces, and an inlaid cigar box littered his suite. A first edition of Moby Dick illustrated by Rockwell Kent sat atop a lectern, opened to the sketch where Ahab is tethered to the great whale by his own harpoon. I did not touch or move a thing; it was still his office. Books bound with Moroccan leather stood shoulder to shoulder on the shelves. As only a few had a cracked spine, I wondered if the books had words at all. I still had not opened any drawer for fear I might find the trophies of a serial killer. Among the most loyal employees I inherited from Spaulding was Gladys Pierson, his 86-year-old Admin. She watched me gawking at the trappings of his success.

“A.J. was particularly fond of the Dalbergia latifolia paneling. And the rug was handmade at the Royal Tapestry Factory in Madrid where Goya once worked.”

I had no clue what Dalbergia latifolia paneling might be but edged away from the rug. I did not want my worn heels to touch anything that Goya blessed.

My personal docent continued, “As for that Moby Dick thing, he wouldn’t admit it, but some days, A.J. thought he was the whale, and other days he was the guy with the peg leg.” As Gladys represented the old guard, I did not mention that Rockwell Kent was a raging socialist.

I lifted the lid to an ice pitcher behind the desk only to find it freshly filled. I tilted it toward Gladys. “Flown in this morning by puffins?”

“Just another Spaulding touch,” she said.

“Do you know the word in Yiddish, ungapatchka?” I asked. When she did not respond, I did not explain that it meant a blinding garishness of which you should be ashamed.

“You need to meet somebody,” said Gladys. With that, a man with raptor eyes materialized from nowhere.

“This is Sladka. Sladka, this is Rob Stone.”

“Hello, Sladka.”

Sladka said nothing in return, just nodded.

“Sladka was A.J.’s bodyguard for years. He almost quit after A.J. died but thought he’d better stay, at least until you’re comfortable. You being an artist and all, you probably don’t know how to defend yourself.”

“Against what?”

Sladka and Gladys exchanged that he-has-a-lot-to-learn look.

“A.J. was a beloved figure, but even beloved figures have enemies,” said Gladys. “And I’m not including all the people who wanted your job but didn’t get it.”

“I’m sure. But for that I need a bodyguard?”

“Spaulding used to get death threats from time to time,” said Gladys.

“Death threats? What kind of death threats?”

“Mostly from people who were denied claims,” said Gladys, as if that was reassuring.

“Maybe we should change our claims procedures?” I asked.

“Not necessary. Sladka will protect you,” said Gladys.

Until this dramatic introduction, I did not know Sladka even had a name. He was as familiar as the Remora logo, prowling the halls with his menacing wiry mien, stiff back, shaved head, and icepick smile, when he smiled. No matter the weather or temperature, he wore a windbreaker zippered to the neck, which concealed his latest assignment. He also toted a bulging blue duffel bag. Everyone in the company speculated what lurked inside, dying to escape. Guns and knives went unquestioned, explosives and nunchakus were real possibilities, while devotees of esoteric weapons, such as falchions, throwing stars, broadswords, and poisons, hoped they filled his rucksack. One underwriter, who thought Sladka carried a small nuclear device, said, “It’s my job to think of the worst-case scenario.”

“Don’t make a big deal about Sladka. We just don’t want the stakeholders to get nervous about these threats. And remember,” said Gladys, as if she was wagging her finger, “Sladka has no tongue. It was cut off when he was a boy in Bulgaria.”

“Cut off?”

“Relax. You just have first-day jitters,” said Gladys.

Sladka sent me a text. “I will take care of you.”

How did Sladka know how to text me? Who would want to harm me? And why weren’t these two worried about death threats? Missing tongues? What sort of job is this?

“What kind of name is Sladka?” I asked.

“My mother call me Sladka, which mean sweet in Bulgarian. I do not want to change my mother’s name.” He wrote with an accent. Sladka wriggled his eyebrows and added, “I know things.”

“Don’t be concerned. Sladka will protect you,” said Gladys.

Sladka shook his head once up and down in firm agreement. When the phone rang, I naturally picked it up.

“I’m supposed to answer your phone,” said Gladys.

I handed it to her.

“Mr. Stone’s office. OK. One minute.”

Gladys handed the phone back to me. “It’s for you.”

“No, I’m no longer doing photos and lay-outs. …No, I got a promotion. …Speak to Lindsay Ackerman. She’s very smart. …OK, thanks. Bye. Can I hang up the phone myself?”

Meanwhile, Sladka had vanished as quickly as a magician’s scantily clad assistant. In his stead appeared Sir Reginald Pigot-Smythe, the head of HR.

“Welcome, Guv. Would you like a salt beef sandwich?” Which he produced from his suit pocket.

Everyone in the company was aware that Sir Reginald Pigot-Smythe was not his real name. Although born somewhere in the United States, few knew his real name, a secret he kept closely guarded. After he had been posted to London and converted to Anglophilia, he thought he needed a title and name to complete his rebirth.

“What’s salt beef?” I asked.

“Salt beef is the Brit version of corned beef. Pickel fleish in Paris.”

As Sir Reginald was well-versed in the various laws that governed equal opportunity and discrimination, pickel fleish surely seemed like code for Jewish.

“Thank you. It’s only 9:45. I never have mustard before noon.”

“Why don’t you just taste it and see if it’s to your liking?”

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

“You’re an artist, right?”

“A graphic artist.”

“What do you think of the art hanging around the company?”

“Innocuous. But that’s the intention.”

Sir Reginald pulled out some forms from his portfolio with gold embossed initials and mentioned the store where it was purchased as he tried to impress me.

“Posh is lost on me, but if you knew which urologist held the King in esteem, I’d be impressed,” I said.

“Because of your change of position, could you please fill in these forms and sign them?” requested Sir Reginald.

“Name: Robert Stone. That’s G-R-E-G-O-R-space-S-A-M-S-A.”

“Maybe we can finish these later,” said Sir Reginald. “What do you think about the inspirational business posters around the company? They were my idea.”

“And what inspired you to do that, Reg?”

He insisted that everyone call him by his full name, Sir Reginald, and did not respond to my question.

“Holy shit,” I said. “I think that’s a genuine Léger over your shoulder. Gladys, is that a genuine Léger over there?”

“Well, it ain’t a copy.”

“Sorry, Reggie. I was distracted.”

“That’s hunky-dory. But, if you’ll excuse me, Guv, you should only curse in front of the prole. Should we change the art?”

“No. That would be expensive and I’m not sure how many people would appreciate it.”

“Brilliant. I never thought of that. We currently have 40,129 employees in 87 jurisdictions.”

“87 jurisdictions? I thought we were in 30-something countries.”

“We’re in 35 countries.”

“So, how do you get 87 jurisdictions?”

“50 states plus DC and Puerto Rico.”

“Does the 87 also include the ceremonial counties of England and the old gulags of the Soviet Union?”

“Very good, Guv. The ceremonial counties of England. But no, just the states, DC, and Puerto Rico.”

“How is morale?”

“Down. After all, we just lost our leader of many decades.”

“But how do you know it’s down?”

“Because it should be.”

“What should we do to improve it?”

“I think an inspirational message from you would help. I would be chuffed if you let me help you write it.”