Sitting hunched over in the dark cubicle with its broken metal file drawers and plastic stackers, I wondered if leaving the reliable Easy Listening station had been the wrong decision. Was the move to WQFM, the iconic rock station, really a better opportunity for me? A move up on the rungs of radio? At that time in my career, I had a two year old daughter who I was raising on my own. There was no room for career hiccup or mistake. Certainly not for an “only” parent.
I flipped through my box of index cards, looking for someone whom I might have missed…someone who might enthusiastically invite me to come on in and talk rock radio with them. It was supposed to be that easy. These cards were, after all, my history. They reflected my best and most important relationships, the advertisers who were loyal to me and respected my marketing advice. But I was quickly discovering that, as iconic as WQFM might have been, their ratings were as thin as the worn carpet on the floors and weaker than the hollow-core doors. Along the way, competitive forces had trampled them stolen their audience. It wasn’t that I was oblivious to their slow demise, but I believed in a comeback, and I was sure it was right around the corner. As a commissioned person, I just couldn’t wait. It was time to cold call. Dig up new prospects. I wasn’t looking forward to it. Only a masochist would enjoy being humiliated and belittled, but I had no choice.
After an hour of brutal abuse, I pushed my index cards aside and began rifling through old files…someone else’s failures. They call them dead accounts and, most often, it would take an act of God to resurrect them.
The Exclusive Company, a file read. It had a note on the front in scribbly handwriting. Beware. Interesting, I thought. At that point, I had enough bruises to the ego that one more didn’t much matter.
I dialed.
A young man answered the phone, his voice wary. With many years in sales, it was easy to identify him as the gatekeeper. The front person. The blocker. The security guard. But if you can get through them, the rest is typically a game of patience and approach. The wary young man informed me that Mr. G. was busy and to send a business card. It was like he’d said it a thousand times.
But this isn’t a story about sales or how I ultimately got through—which I did. It is a story about a man who I came to know over several weeks, months and years. It’s about a man who I immediately sensed would have much more of an impact on my heart than my paycheck. His full name was Mr. James Giombetti.
Our first call was more than unusual, and he was directing it. He barraged me with questions about me, who I was, where I came from. He also showed quite a bit of interest in my daughter, Ali, wanting to know why I was raising her on my own. It had become clear that business was about trust…and loyalty. He cared about the who than the what. It’s why he continued to live in a rundown motel. Decades earlier, the owner had given him a break on rent when he was struggling financially. This is how business was done…and life.
Months into our relationship where he’d have his person call me to see if I was in, then he’d call back–a routine that was never broken, he told me he was opening a new location in Brookfield, WI. It was going to be bigger and better than anything in the market. Mr. G. loved adjectives and consumed superlatives like he did multivitamins. He was bigger than life and more driven than anyone I’d ever encountered. The Richard Simmons of marketing, advertising and records, he’d pump up employees. And me.
“With the Brookfield grand opening, it’s got to be about a show, Annmarie. Dogs and ponies. Tricks and treats. Make it happen. Now, say it with me…this is going to be the event of the year,” he shouted.
The pressure was on. I felt it. I worried about it. And I prepared for it. But what I couldn’t prepare for was the snowstorm. It came thundering down late that afternoon. I still needed to pick up Ali at her daycare, then pick up two large cakes at the bakery that I’d had frosted with his logo.
I loaded up the boxes of prizes, signage and a few extra prayers and headed west through the white-out.
The show must go on, Annmarie. The show must go on.
Two hours later, I carried two cakes into the store with Ali toddling behind me. The new store manager, Mary, was there to greet me, looking relieved that I’d made it. She was as likable as I had imagined, and as loyal. A Mr. G devotee.
“Where is he?” I whispered. “I can’t wait to meet him.”
“Oh, he doesn’t come to these things,” Mary said. “His driver drove by with him earlier, I hear. But…oh…no…he doesn’t come to these things.”
“Why?”
“Oh, well…Mr. G. prefers not to be seen.”
I was surprised. Curious. Perplexed. And disappointed. I’d been longing to meet this uniquely special man—the guy who made me want to stand taller, yell louder, work faster. He was magic. The Wizard of Records. The great and powerful Mr. G.
“Does anyone ever get to meet him?” I asked.
“Rarely,” she said.
A few weeks later, Christmas Eve arrived, as did a sick child with a raging fever. The fa-la-la of the holidays had turned into a night of worry. As her temperature spiked, I was close to packing up and taking her to the ER. Then minutes before midnight, her fever miraculously broke. She sat straight up in bed and asked me where the crow was.
“Crow?” I asked. “What crow?”
“The one that landed on my head.”
“Oh, honey, you were dreaming,” I laughed.
Early the next morning, the phone rang. A friend was probably calling to wish me and Ali a Merry Christmas.
“Hello.”
“Annmarie,” he said, “how is our Ali?”
“Ali?”
“She was so hot. I had closed up the store late last night. I always stay late on Christmas Eve. That’s when I felt it. When I got home, I prayed for an angel to visit and to take her fever away.”
“Oh my God, “ I said. “How did you know?”
“I take it she’s better.”
“Well, yes. She is.”
“Excellent. And…Merry Christmas.”
After hanging up, I cried full on tears. I could feel his presence, not just through the phone but in the air. While I’d grown up entrenched in the metaphysical world with a mother who conjured up spirits, my skepticism has served me well, protecting and guiding me. While I maintain an open mind, there’s a combination to get in. And buy-in doesn’t come quickly.
As I moved up and on in my career, and as Mr. G. sold stores, we talked less but remained close. He’d occasionally call and regale me with wild stories, still having his people call first, then call back. And even after his advertising was less prominent in the market, he continued to include me in his radio ads with the well-branded slogan and crackling audio–ads he recorded himself. He thought they sounded vintage.
Say it with me Annmarie and Ali, The Exclusive Company.
A few years ago, a former radio friend texted informing me that Mr. G had died. I had talked to him months earlier, and he seemed fine. It couldn’t. be. He was invincible. The great and powerful. This was a man like no other. A man who’d had remarkable success yet never texted, owned a computer, used an ATM or had a charge card. This was a man who knew when my kid was sick…and who had promised that we would always be friends though we’d never met in person. He couldn’t be gone.
As days passed and I felt his presence, I realized he wasn’t. He never would be gone. And now, I can talk to him without his people calling first. I can send my wishes and worries up to him, and I know he’s listening.
My husband and I planted a crabtree in the garden in his memory. Underneath it is a beautiful rock that I had engraved…Say It with Me.
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