laugh, he found the original printer’s galleys for a book by a well known author who lived in the neighborhood, with the author’s handwritten corrections and comments. I think that piece eventually brought a tidy sum at auction. The Boss home, a magnificent brownstone on one of the finest streets in Brooklyn Heights, had a TV in every room except the baths. I don’t think Ken bought any of those sets.
He either used or gave to others, including many of his tenants, the refurbished toasters and TV sets and other disjecta he collected. He was a self-proclaimed, card-carrying Socialist. He didn’t do too shabbily as a capitalist, either.
I painted apartments, cleaned hallways and fixed minor leaks in his buildings during my last 18 months of college. Upon graduation from college, I worked in his office.
Thus began my career of studying people. You learn a lot by listening to tenants complain to their landlord. I learned a lot by watching Ken hold the phone away from his ear while one more tenant confirmed that the discoloration in the porcelain of his toilet bowl required the installation of a whole new one. Every two minutes or so Ken would put the receiver back to his ear and say, “I see.”
Well, he didn’t see; he was on the phone. And he didn’t seem to hear because he didn’t seem to be listening. And he didn’t seem to want to hear. But when the call was concluded, I was dispatched to carefully paint over the discoloration and make another tenant satisfied.
Okay, maybe this wasn’t the height of customer service but in its way it worked. The tenant had a chance to vent without being interrupted. Once Ken knew what the tenant wanted, a suitable, cost-effective solution was devised and implemented. The tenant saw a response that usually was more than acceptable.
The Big Lessons
One of the most important elements in dealing with people successfully, if not the most important element, is Listening. So the next time someone at work states, “What I’m saying is . . .” you should be able to respond honestly, “I hear you. I know what you’re saying. I’m listening to you.”
This book has two starting points in my life, both of which intimately involved my ability to listen.
The first was when I was asked by the Mayor of the City of Yonkers, NY to become his Deputy. For eight months I was in charge of Yonkers’ municipal corruption investigations. In Yonkers, that made me part of a growth industry; Yonkers was one of, if not the most, corrupt cities in America.
Loan sharking on government property. Selling public offices. Steering government services to unqualified friends and benefactors. Yonkers had it all. Every time the politically driven investigators from outside the City came in to look at my conduct, I was cleared. In fact, years later I met one of the most vociferous critics of the administration in which I served, at a reception in Albany, NY. She took my hand, smiled and said she knew me from somewhere. I replied, “You investigated me three times and three times found me clean!” She laughed, gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, “Let’s be friends.”
Well, after eight months of doing what I enjoyed, solving complex problems and bringing service back to the residents, the Mayor asked me to be his Deputy. It wasn’t what I signed on for but when a mayor asks you to serve, you serve. For over two years, I served the people of Yonkers as their Deputy Mayor.
On the first day I assumed that office, the Public Works Commissioner resigned. He assured me it wasn’t my fault, he just couldn’t work with the rest of the administration. I thanked him for his service and he warned me, “Beware of who you trust.” This would be difficult for me to do because I have a tendency to be open and trusting in my dealings with everyone.
The Public Works Department, or “the DPW” as Yonkers citizens called it, was a customer service mess. Streets weren’t cleaned regularly, only the ones in the districts of powerful council members. Recycling meant emptying the recyclables into the backs of garbage trucks full of garbage. Snow removal didn’t happen in some parts of town. Autumn leaf pickups from one part of town often found their way to huge rotting piles in front of residents’ homes on the other side of the City.
The responsibility to fix this was mine. I was accountable to the residents, including the Mayor and there were 150,000 pairs of eyes on my performance. But I wasn’t alone in this job. I had an army of Teamsters who picked up the trash, cleaned the streets, plowed the snow, removed the leaves, and recycled the recyclables. They were a group of several hundred men and women, who had endured years of political manipulation, from all sides, and tried their best to do their jobs.
On my first day on tour of the City with Al, the lead DPW Enforcement Agent, he turned to me and said, “Someone wants to meet you.” He drove us to an old City building and took me to a basement office. It was as if we were in an old movie about a tough town and the new sheriff was going to be ambushed.
Sitting in the basement office was the boss of the Teamsters local. I’ll call him Tony Beef. He wasn’t a large person, physically. In fact, he had fought and beaten cancer more than once so his voice was a deep growl with a hint of gravel in the delivery.
“Tony Shaw. I wanted to meet you. I hate your boss, the (bleeping) Mayor! I’m going to close the doors at City Hall after I kick him out! But you, I’ve heard good things about. Are you going to be fair to my men?” Word for word, this is what he said.
I responded, “It’s unfortunate you hate the Mayor. I love him and I’m loyal to him. I plan to stay in City Hall for another term with him. I’ve heard a lot about you. Not all good but you are the head of the union and I respect that. I’ll be fair; will you be honest with me?”
“I’ll be honest. Treat my men fairly and I’ll watch your back. But you watch your front, not because of me but there are plenty of people on your team who will screw you.” Except he didn’t say “screw.”
We shook hands. I admit my knees were shaking too. I knew he was right. There were members of the administration who didn’t agree with my approach to the Teamsters and wanted me to fail. If I was fair in dealing with our workers, Mr. Beef would represent them and be fair in return dealing with me. That meant if I caught someone not doing his or her duty properly, I would manage that by the union contract and discipline accordingly, up to and including firing. Tony Beef had the legal duty to represent the union members. I had the legal and moral duty to ensure the City delivered its services. I said to him, “I’m told the union manages the DPW. If it’s true, it’s over. I manage the DPW.”
He looked at me and smiled. “If the union does run the DPW it’s only because you people haven’t managed it like you should!” We both laughed because he was right. The duty to manage fully and properly is management’s alone. Says so in every union contract I’ve ever read. Usually management hasn’t read the contract and that’s where the problem starts.
After meeting Tony, I decided I had only one strategy to do my duty for the City and the Mayor who placed their trust in me: Listen.
I went out to the garages, work sites, lunchrooms, and anywhere else City workers gathered. I introduced myself and said “I’m here to listen to what you have to say. I never collected trash or plowed a snowy street in my life. You’re the experts and you’re also City residents. How can we do this better, quicker, cheaper?”
No one in my position had ever done this before – admit his ignorance, shut up and just listen. The response was some workers didn’t know what to think, some didn’t trust me, but some had waited for years to voice their ideas.
We plowed through six snow
