As the title suggests, this series on Dubsism is about how we all have songs inextricably linked in our minds to certain memories. Among advanced-theory psychologists, molecular neurobiologists, and other extreme brainiacs, the prevailing opinion has been the nose is the most common trigger of memories.  But what do they know? 

I may only have a lowly master’s degree in systems engineering…which by no means constitutes any level of expertise on what makes your brain juices flow.  But it does mean I excel at understanding practicality.  In other words, I know I have a skull full of memoires tied to music, which means assuming we all are within at least two standard deviations of the median value of “normal,” it’s logical to assume you also do.  If it takes cribbing a bad line from a Barbra Streisand ear-worm to make that point, so be it. After all, don’t even try to lie.  We all have those memories; the difference is I’m willing to share mine.

Just so we understand each other completely, if you leave a comment about how my standard deviation comment is likely to have an unfavorable skew, I’m going to know you’re one of those aforementioned brain-juice brainiacs. As such, I will only say this: no matter what you’re academic background may be, even if you have more degrees than a thermometer…never try to out-number geek an engineer.

Never.

The somewhat rambling nature of clarifying that point is necessary since today’s tale shares a similarly meandering path, meaning it does require a few explanations along the way. But despite it’s not being a straight-line story-wise, it doesn’t require a “July air conditioning” power-consumption demand on Mr. Peabody’s “Wayback Machine” since this tale is of rather recent vintage.

However, that recency exacerbates a necessary component in all these yarns…anonymity. Sometimes, it is simply necessary like in the classic cop show Dragnet; “the names have been changed to protect the innocent.” Other times, there’s cases like this where anonymity is less a double-edged sword and more a giant bulging bicep; a muscle which as it flexes wrings truth from a tale while offering the strength to protect all from the cardinal sin of offense.

Now that I have a high degree of confidence any misunderstanding of what is coming is solely the responsibility of those who didn’t read carefully to this point, let’s get back to the importance of anonymity. The identity being protected in this case belongs to a former co-worker who will only be referred to as “C.” Obviously, unless she were a James Bond character, that’s not her real name.

But the “Bond” theme still works because “C” possessed “Bond Girl”-level good looks, even if the single-letter character names were reserved for grizzled old engineering geeks (like me) who would have been much more adept at making a flamethrower out of a wristwatch than being “eye-candy.” Trust me, this woman (at least as of the last time I saw her) still put the “C” in “eye-candy.” For the classic film fan segment of the Dubsism audience, use your mind’s eye to envision a combination of Julie Christie and Veronica Lake in their respective primes.

Having said that, there hasn’t been enough time passed to have me believe that’s changed. Frankly, she could gain two-thirds of a sumo wrestler and be disfigured in a chainsaw accident..my view of her isn’t malleable. Trust me…by the end you’ll see why.

To that end, let me get to the guts of this story. The tides of corporate America drifted the paths of “C” and I into the same company and eventually put us together in a newly-created group. At first, I didn’t have much to do with her. By this point in my career (and certainly in this company), everybody in my “up-chain” knew I had 25 years of management experience in more than one “Fortune 500” company, and that for all intents and purposes, I was “retired” from leadership roles. That meant I was usually given “special” projects to complete, and I was largely left alone to do so. In other words, I was a “lone wolf.”

By definition, such a status meant those inhabitants of my “up-chain” would usually leave me to my onw devices. That’s because also by definition, “special” projects can be “hot potatoes” which anybody who had upward ambitions would avoid. After all, any successful company-ladder-climbers will steer clear of anything necessitating calling the bosses’ “baby” ugly. And again by definition, that makes me perfect guy for just such tasks because I don’t give a fuck…and I have a well-developed folder for filing all those sorts of things. That all gets knocked off-kilter one day when my boss at the time decides to use “C” as a messenger; the whole reason for this approach was to avoid any email-trail connections to just such a poison project.

As such, this poor woman approaches my desk. Don’t forget, she’s simply doing what she was asked. As she begins her delivery, and as I turn to acknowledge her and my eyes are immediately flooded.

I was not expecting the sheer radiance now in my presence. Here was one of the most stunning creatures I had ever seen, resplendent in a little red sun dress and a smile that could have lit the Black Hole of Calcutta. 99.99999% of non-homosexual males on the planet would have been overjoyed at the sight of her…and likely would have done anything she asked, which I know is precisely the reason she was picked for this mission.

Allow me to introduce myself…Mr 000001%. Her look combined with what she’s saying immediately twirled me into “Nuclear-Powered Pissed-Off” territory, because I can’t stand being manipulated, especially if the theory of operation is I can be led into the pits of Hell by perfectly-tanned legs. “C” has no clue of any of this; in her mind she is only conveying a message.

However, the bosses’ “I won’t kill a gorgeous messenger” approach had a seismic “back-fire” effect. Because I knew what was happening, my temperature gauge immediately red-lined directly into the heart of “kill the messenger” territory, and words I should have saved for that boss spewed from my face like volcano lave. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but being a salty, old Marine with distinctly limited social graces, I’m sure it included the “usual suspects,” such as…

1. A “death” stare
2. A derogatory, personally-aimed insult
3. Liberal use of the “Frigative”
4. All of the above

Remember that smile I mentioned? It disappeared faster then the entire face of the melting Nazi in Raiders of the Lost Ark. The difference is nobody feels sorry for Nazis. But the look on “C’s” face that replace that smile made feel like I just drop-kicked a defenseless puppy. Did you ever have one of those moments where you let your temper shove you across a line that would prove to be a problem for a long time?

Well…this was sure as shit one for me because it was one hell of a long time before I would see that smile again.

At this point, my volcano-temper heads right where it belongs…right down my own throat. It was obvious I hurt this poor woman for no other reason than my own inaccurate perceptions having a head-on collision with my talent for misdirected assholery.

Now, the problem became how can I fix this? I knew I had to try to make this right. I struggled with how actually to do it, but all I really know is the “direct” approach…which failed miserably.

The next day as I attempted to apologize, I couldn’t help but feel like a bomber pilot on the ingress to the target. I’m waiting for the anti-aircraft guns to announce their presence, and I know I have it coming. When it does come, I also know I have no choice but to take it. After all, I deserved it.

But the downing fire never came.  That would have been easier; I know how to handle that.  Instead, as I reached “acknowledgement distance,” I got something worse…a complete and deliberate avoidance of eye-contact and the uncomfortable walk-away at “active shooter drill” pace.

By this time, there’s no mistaking this how rough this is going to be. I let about a week go by, and I tried again. Clearly, the approach I know best has no chance.

Next time, I waited until “C” was talking to my cube-farm neighbor when I stood and peered over the cube wall. I told “C” right to her face that I had completely misread her as being vapid bimbo, and that I was 100% in the wrong for speaking to her in the way I had.

In a matter of about half-a-second, the look on her face went from one of shock that I said that, then a fleeting glimpse of appreciation, then it morphed into something I really couldn’t recognize of it’s own nature. Based on that, my best guess was she wanted to…

1. Scream
2. Barf
3. Kick my cojoñes up to the roof my mouth
4. All of the the above

In any event, there’s no longer any doubt. This woman would rather clean every toilet in Dodger Stadium with her tongue than deal with me in even the slightest capacity.  Normally, this wouldn’t bother me; I have a rule about people who don’t like me; usually that’s a “you” problem, not a “me” problem because there’s a world of people of think I’m a great guy…and at least seven of them read this blog.

Even if you aren’t one those seven, this begs a serious question….so “C” now hates me; what the fuck do I care? It’s a fair inquiry; I asked it of myself more than once. To answer that, I need to go full “Ron White.” No…I’m not naked in a beanbag eating Cheetos, nor am I drunk in public (yet).  But I do need to tell you a story in order to tell you a story.

It all has to do with the day I had my epiphany about “C.” Laying at the heart of my mistake concerning “C” was my initial dismissal of her as little more than an aesthetically-exceptional vapor-brain. Not only was the “stupid” part diametrically opposed from the truth, I suddenly noticed she radiated charisma. I never saw that before, but now once I got my own bullshit out of my eyes, I could see she had clearly earned the respect of many of her compatriots.

That begs the “Why didn’t I see it? question. But it does the same for the matter of my inflexible nature of my view of “C.” Granted, that’s two tough questions, but there’s one surprisingly simple answer. However, to get there, please indulge me for a moment…this is the “story in a story part.”

Just for a moment, suppose “C” is not my pseudonym for this tale’s protagonist; for the next few paragraphs let’s say it stands for “command.”

In a recent post, I touched on a personal story regarding U.S. Air Force Brigadier General Gerald G. Fall, Jr. The long story made short is General Fall was my father’s commanding officer in the USAF, and became his lifelong friend and mentor. That made the General my honorary “Uncle Jerry.”

The picture doesn’t deceive. When it came to his profession, “Uncle Jerry” was the epitome of a “no non-sense” kind of guy. No wonder…he had the bad-ass resumé befitting such a figure. Early in his career, Fall was a 21-year old B24-Liberator pilot flying bombing missions over Germany during WWII. Late, he was the commander of the 4^th Strategic Missile Division; 26,000 men spread across several missile and bomber wings deployed across America’s northern plains.

Most importantly for purposes of the story, “Uncle Jerry” was one of the first officers selected to be part of the U.S. Air Force’s Strategic Air Command (SAC). Eventually he became the Chief of the Combat Crew Branch in the Directorate of Personnel. In this role, his primary responsibility was the selection, training, and promotion of all SAC combat crews. Fall was selected for this role due to his experience accrued in over 10,000 flight hours, his ratings as a command pilot and instructor on B-29s, and as aircraft commander on B-29s, B-50s, and B-47s.

Boil that all down, and what you’re left with is Brigadier General “Uncle Jerry” knew better than most the role of the Air Force in modern strategic warfare, and he knew how to identify the people capable of doing the job. In other words, he knew how to spot leaders. He always said you could spot true leaders because they “have a light around them.”

At first, I really only understood that in it’s broadest context. It wasn’t until I earned a commission of my own in the U.S. Marine Corps when I could put a point on “Uncle Jerry’s” message. After separating from the Marines and entering the civilian world, I ended up in management. This is where I saw first-hand the struggle of identifying, recruiting, and establishing leadership is common to many organizations both military and civilian.

My first real-world exposure to the issues involved in developing leaders came in a series of characteristics the USMC expects from it’s officers called the “11 Principles of Leadership.” But I never found anything similar that applied specifically to the civilian world. That was before I discovered a program devised by Fred Smith, the founder of FedEx (and former U.S. Marine).

Smith was a big believer in “promotion from within;” there should be a reward for being a top-flight performer. But he also found that model to be a double-edged sword. Advancing good “worker bees” always meant losing a front-line performer…not to mention, if that promoted worker proved to be an ineffectual leader, the problems doubled. Not only did you lose a good worker, you had a bad leader…who could do a lot of damage before you eventually had to replace them.

As a result, Smith developed a tool for identifying potential leaders. Known as the “9 Faces of Leadership,” Smith sought out the characteristics of effective leaders rather than basing promotion on labor performance. Of all the traits Smith and his team identified, the one he had at the top of the list was charisma.

That was the moment I realized that “charisma” represented the “light” General Fall said surrounded leaders.

Now that I’ve told that story, I can get on with the rest of the story.

As long as I’ve followed Smith’s “9 Faces,” I’ve rarely been wrong.  But the problem with charisma is you can’t teach it; people either have it or they don’t. Sadly, that’s the easy part. Smart people don’t bother with the things they know they can’t change; no great coach ever tried to teach a basketball player to be seven feet tall. However, the dirty little secret about charisma is it can lie dormant in somebody until they find the catalyst which activates it. In my defense, that’s how I missed so badly with “C.” I never noticed charisma in her, but I will never forget the first time I did.

One day, I’m walking past “C’s” desk when I noticed almost an entire wall of her cube is upholstered with “selfies” of her and some guy. Then I realized it’s the same fellow in all the pictures. I managed to hear  “C” coming before she busted me beaking out her photo collection. But once she came into view, two things became plainly obvious. She had that “light” blow-torching off her because it was obvious she had found the “muse” that brought our her charisma. The fuse sparking her light was the fellow in all those pics.

At this point, I realize I’ve got an answer to the aforementioned “Why do I give a fuck?” question. It also explains my earlier statement about how my view of “C” really can’t change. It’s not about her exceptional external appeal; it’s all centered on her having one the most important characteristics of somebody who can be a tremendous difference maker. Not only that, she’s got the one which cannot be taught.

That was the good news.

But now I’ve got another problem. “C” has the “Willy Wonka Golden Ticket”…but she doesn’t know it. I can see it, but there’s no way I can tell her.

That was the bad news.

Here’s why, It’s easy to think I could simply drop this all in the “don’t give a fuck” folder, but there’s another problem with charisma.

Remember when I discussed the importance of anonymity and it’s inherent nature being a “double-edged sword.” Charisma is in exactly the same boat; those who have it can do amazing things when they understand the true nature of the gift they’ve been given; conversely they can also do tremendous damage when they don’t.

This becomes even more pointed when “C” gets promoted to a leadership role. Now, I’ve have a front-row seat watching her wield that double-edged weapon. Had it had been an Arthurian broadsword, for every “Black Knight” she smote, she also disemboweled a bunny (Monty Python reference quasi-intentional). By now, I had given up on trying to get a message across to “C,” but the idea of doing so never left my head…especially when the total of dead bunnies (in the form of pissed-off employees) began to mount.

To make matters worse, a collection of so-called “dead bunnies” came to me…knowing the relationship between “C” and me was so icy NASA would be planting tomatoes on Mars before it thawed…they expected me to validate their complaints.

Considering I thought their “complaints” were largely unfair and short-sighted, I committed the cardinal sin of defending “C.” Pissed that I didn’t give unquestioning legitimacy to their bitch-list, the “dead bunnies” quit talking to me.

The question wasn’t if “C” was failing in her new role; the question was how could she not? I could see she had been placed in an untenable position, and got zero preparation or support from her management. For a sports analogy on a sports-related blog, her boss handed “C” a golf bag full of putters and expected her to win The Masters.

Now, two things happen re-affirming why this isn’t in my “don’t give a fuck” file. Given my previous rantings about charisma, nothing gets my quills up quite like watching tremendous potential get wasted. Again, keeping those rantings in mind, I’m watching this poor woman drown knowing she would rather suck sea water rather than catch a life preserver coming from my hand. If there’s a better recipe for a volcanic temper eruption than equal parts rage and powerlessness, I’d like to know what it is…especially since I don’t have a more suitable target for venting that temper nor anyone else to blame for this mess other than myself.

That’s when the “movie” moment happened…you know, the one where you get sucker-punched by the big plot twist. The day comes where I hit the International “Enough” Line; I can’t watch this anymore, and the worse it gets, the madder I get at myself. In my mind, there’s one solution for this situation, and it’s time to enact it. I find myself an empty box for my desk trinkets, and as I’m on my way to my boss to make the official proclamation of “I’m outta here,” I hear “C” listening to the Grease soundtrack on one of those little “bookshelf” systems she had in her workspace. I make a throw-away, “small-talk” comment acknowledging that, along with the observation she was a shade young for whom I would expect for fandom of that flick. She offered an adamant affirmation Grease is actually one of her favorite films.

I’ve made mention of this before, but since large portions of my childhood were spent in southern California, there several landmarks in the “Southland” which make routine appearances in movies, and Grease is literally dripping with them, most notably the Los Angeles “River.” In any event, I tell “C” that I could take her on a tour of greater Los Angeles and show her the locations where almost all of that movie was filmed. I hear her say that she would love that…an answer I genuinely did not expect. Even more of a shock came when I looked over at her; for the first time in at least three years, her flood-light-bright smile was back.

I was caught so off-guard by that I didn’t know if this might actually the break-through I needed. Not long after that, there was another light of hope when I heard her make a comment about not liking Prince. If you know me and/or if you’re a regular reader of Dubsism, you know my disdain of all things Prince. Finding people who agree with me on that score is powerful stuff to a guy who lived in Minneapolis for over 15 years, where Prince sycophantry is endemic and has all the charm of hemorrhoidal flare-up. It’s also as rare as discovering people who have “C’s” “blow-torch-radiance” level of charisma.

However, it was my attempt at discerning if this was my “break-through” moment with her which brings the “Ron White” reference full-circle. I took a chance that this was my chance to build a bridge in the place of the one I burnt, and six figurative bouncers hurled me like a Frisbee right over “drunk in public” into “I was wwwwwrrrrrooong!“

I never saw that smile again. The odds that I ever will are exceptionally long not only for the obvious, but the tides of corporate America drifted us into different organizations and we don’t live in the same city. But, the old bookie in me knows the odds are never zero. Who knows…there’s always a chance “C” could see this and not hate me anymore…unless she also catches what I think of her favorite movie.”

If that’s the case, let me know how your BLT sandwich tastes with those Mars-grown tomatoes.

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You can see all the Misty Water-Color Memories here.

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