MARCH 11, 2024 – (Cont.) That evening I went for a long run—a very long run. As I circled Lake Como in St. Paul, a mile from our neighborhood, I resolved to see my firing as a positive event. Just as a Politburo member’s “catching a cold” had been laughable code for “falling from power,” so had “[John Doe] will be pursuing other opportunities” become a worn-out euphemism for “[John Doe’s] been axed.” But as I cranked up my pace, I realized I’d been handed a gift.
For years I’d approached the back door of our house after work and thought, Another day squandered. Now was my chance to re-examine and reconsider my vocational life; take stock of my C.V., likes, dislikes, aptitudes and shortcomings, and bust out of the only job molds I’d known: big law and big biz. I’d been kicked off the crew of the cruise ship—poor me—but maybe it was time to sail my own boat; take the skills and experiences I’d learned on the big steamship and apply them to my own vessel.
But first things first. The next morning I’d have to address my group and let them know the ax had fallen. Over the previous seven years my division had grown exponentially, both organically and via reorganizations of the department. Ninety percent of the division had been retained since I’d been hired, and they were a superb outfit. What I enjoyed most about my bank job were the people in my group—sharp as tacks, dynamic personalities, innovative problem-solvers, solid characters, loyal to the cause, and hugely successful in our business. All of them were bright shining lights, as employees/emissaries of the bank and as people. I would miss them terribly.
The last thing I wanted was for them to despair over my departure. Life would go on—for them, as well as for me—and I wanted to leave them with words of great encouragement.
After a late supper, I sat down at my laptop and began typing. For a title I put, My Valedictory. Until midnight I poured out my heart, mind and soul, then with a thousand memories, crawled into bed. Sleep evaded me, however, as I thought more about what I wanted to say to my extraordinary crew. Until I fell fast asleep a couple of hours before the alarm went off, I slipped out of bed half a dozen times to rework my farewell.
Lon had sealed his lips, and when my assistant rounded everyone up for an impromptu division meeting at nine the next morning, no one except Lon knew what was up. My announcement was met by a collective gasp. To head off all grousing at the pass, I immediately told them that this was hardly the end of the world. In fact, I viewed it as just the opposite: the start of something good and full of promise for all of us. I then expressed how much I admired them—individually and collectively—and that I’d prepared a special farewell that I wanted to read to them. It was the best way I could convey my heartfelt appreciation for all their efforts; my sincere faith in their abilities and promising futures; and above all, for being really good people who made the world a much better place simply by the way they lived their lives.
Two weeks later Lon and several other leaders assembled us again, this time for a formal dinner at the Minneapolis Club. After a few speeches over dessert, my former compatriots presented me with a beautiful music stand made of wood with a brass plate on which a personalized inscription had been etched[1]. It reduced me to tears—not of despair for what had been lost but of happiness for what had been gained by my association with the finest bunch of people in corporate America. (Cont.)
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
[1] The instigator of the inscription was one of the salesmen we’d hired to sell high-yield bond indenture trusteeships, mostly among Wall Street investment bankers and law firms. The high-yield group leader and I had struggled for a quite a while over hiring for the arcane position. We had only two main competitors nationwide, and an option we’d originally chosen was to hire away one of the premiere salesmen, based in Connecticut. In the end, things didn’t work out. Our choices then were to hire someone fresh out of B-school at a lower starting salary plus commission. However, our target market was a tough one to break into, especially for a young person fresh out of school. We finally decided to search for a seasoned salesperson but not necessarily in the financial world. Applicants circled through, but then appeared for an interview one day was the guy who would later devise the inscription on the music stand at my farewell dinner. I was intrigued by his resume: he sold cardboard boxes. Exceptionally bright and amiable, he made a positive first impression. I then said, “I’m curious about your sales background—selling cardboard boxes—which is very different from selling high-yield bond indenture trusteeships. So, go ahead, tell me how a person sells a cardboard box.” What followed was nothing short of a grand piece of artistic theater. He convinced me that when all was said and done, there wasn’t a whole lot of difference between selling something as banal as cardboard and something as arcane as what my group was trying to peddle. “You just have to know your audience,” he said. “Give me a month, and I’ll know my target audience better than they know themselves.” We hired him, and in short order he proved his point and then some.
