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THE FIRST IN A SERIES OF FOUR STORIES

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The automobile industry was roiling in the mid 1950s.  Independent manufacturers were joining forces in a desperate attempt to compete against the dominating Big Three by finding some kind of economy of scale.  American Motors and Studebaker-Packard were created in order to fight rivals with more research and development dollars, greater powerful buying power, and seemingly unlimited advertising budgets.

As the 1957 model year came to a close, meetings in the paneled conference rooms of each of the Big Three took place to evaluate their efforts and review the course for moving forward.  Of course, the most important nameplate at each company was the one that would be focused on first.  Chevrolet, Ford, and Plymouth models accounted for the lion’s share of profits for GM, Ford Motor Company, and Chrysler.  As such, those were the most important meetings.  

The meeting taking place at GM was tense.

E. Mensce Formage had been holding the reins at Chevrolet for several years and was widely assumed to be slated to move up to the Chairman’s chair at some point in the future.  He enjoyed all the benefits that came with running the most profitable division of the world’s largest corporation.  He was provided a secretary who couldn’t type, but was known to possess talents that were much more beneficial to the needs of her boss.  Lesser employees in the typing pool could take care of the responsibilities that required to be in an upright position rather than horizontal.

His expense account was larger than the GNP of several small countries.  Memberships to every exclusive, whites-only country club in Detroit and surrounding areas were paid for.  His company car, while technically a Chevrolet, was custom designed and built to be a rolling testament to the finest engineering, fabrics, features, and technology known to mankind.  Each year when he was given a new one; the model being retired was crushed so that it wouldn’t fall into the hands of competitors or the press.  E.M. Formage had it all.  Or so it seemed until the results of the 1957 model year came in.

Those seated around the conference table were not used to seeing Formage in anything but a happy mood.  The results of the 1955 and ‘56 model years had been what everyone came to expect.  The year just concluding did not follow suit.

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“Can anyone around this table explain to me what the hell just happened?” he said.

Nobody spoke up, thinking the question was rhetorical. It wasn’t.

Formage’s beefy hand rose in the air and came down in a fury on top of the inlaid tiger’s eye African mahogany table, startling the other executives.  “I want answers!” he yelled.  “How in the hell did those amateurs over at frickin’ Ford capture the Number One sales spot for 1957?”

Finally, B.S. Slogan, head of Marketing, spoke up, fearing nobody else had the courage and Formage would keep the meeting going till Hell froze over if he didn’t get answers.  “Bad timing more than anything, sir.”

Everyone remained silent, especially Formage, indicating more details were needed.

“We were in year three of our product cycle.  Our new 57s were essentially warmed over ‘56 models.  Sure, the fins and grill were different.  But still.  Ford put out a brand new model.  Longer. Lower. Wider.  And they gussied the damn thing up like a whore in church.  The new Fairlane 500 models were closer to our Pontiacs or Oldsmobiles in a lot of ways.  People fell for the new look.”  Slogan was simply stating what everyone around the table knew, but were too scared to say.  “And the fact that they came out with the first retractable hardtop convertible drew a lot of people into their showrooms.  Most of them didn’t buy one, they just wanted to see how the damn thing worked.  I mean, there’s nothing else like it on the market.”

Formage was seething, but still encouraged Slogan to continue.

“And then there’s the Ranchero thing.”  Slogan seemed to be gaining confidence as he spoke.  “I mean all they did was take the tooling for a station wagon and leave off the roof over the back end.  Sort of genius, really.”  Calling a competitor a ‘genius’ was probably going too far.  Slogan would get a dressing down later for that slip of the tongue.  Not the same kind his secretary did, but still it deserved to be addressed.

Nonetheless, the reality was that Slogan had valid points, none of which could be argued with.

“So you’re saying that we lost the Number One spot to Ford by 170,000 units because of a new, gussied up model, an impractical convertible, and a station wagon with no roof?” Formage was irritated, but seemed to be genuinely asking.

Slogan rummaged through some of the reports in the file in front of him.  “I’m saying that 21,705 Rancheros were sold.  In addition, 20,766 Skyliners were sold.  We had nothing to compete with those 42,000 sales and we’re the biggest corporation in the world.  And the fact that Ford sold one gussied up Fairlane 500 model for every one of the basic Ford models says they saw something in the market that we might have missed.”  Formage looked at him incredulously.  “The middle class has more money than they used to.  They can afford a nicer entry level automobile, one with some great styling and nice options.”  Everyone around the table looked at each other.  “And higher profits come on all those things.”

“What’s the answer.” Formage asked, confident that the underlings had already studied the problem while he was on a fact finding mission to Europe with his secretary.

Slogan sat down.  Across the table, Ed Vance, Manager of Product Development and Material Resources stood up.  “Threefold, we think.  We need a product to counter the Ranchero.  We’re too late to the game for 1958.  But we’re doing the engineering work to have a car-based pickup truck model ready for 1959.  Studies show that at some point pick-up trucks could account for half of all sales, and we need to be ready.”  Everyone around the table laughed.

“Next?” Formage asked.

“A compact car.  Something to compete with the imports, and the remaining independents that are focused on cars that are smaller, less expensive, and more efficient. While the middle class may want longer, lower, wider and more comfortable, there’s a subset that wants just the opposite.  We’re thinking of a Chevrolet version of the Volkswagen, but pencil whip the shit out of it.  Offer a coupe, sedan, maybe even a wagon.”  Vance had clearly done his homework.

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“Engine in the back?” Formage asked. Vance nodded in the affirmative.

“How are you going to do that with a wagon?” Formage shot back.

“Don’t worry so much about that.  We have people working on it.”  Vance was anxious to get to the next thing.  “Finally, we come out with a high-end Chevrolet.  Do the same thing to it that Ford did to the Fairlane.”  Vance was on a roll.

“And call it the Impala 500?” Formage interrupted.

“No.  Just Impala.  To start with, anyway.  Play up the sportiness of it.  A racy roofline.  A tritone interior.  Gussy up the ass end of it to separate it from the regular full sized Chevrolets.  Market it like a family car for the guy that wants a Corvette, but needs a full-sized car.”

The secretary sitting over in the corner who was actually hired for her secretarial skills said, “If we’re really playing up the sportiness of it, maybe you should call it ‘Super Sport’.”  The executives around the table were appalled that she would voice an opinion, but one of them wrote it down in his notes for later.

“What about a steel roofed convertible that retracts down into the trunk?”  Formage thought they might have forgotten that aspect of Ford’s success.

“Yeah.  No.”  Vance replied.  “Our studies show that concept is going to be a flash in the pan.  The damn thing is enormously complex, too expensive to build, is prone to failure, and not as attractive as an actual fabric top model.  Besides, there’s no way we could have it ready for the 1958s and there’s no way it could fit into the trunk of the 1959s we’re working on now.”

The other executives around the table seemed to be relieved that nobody was fired.  Formage felt like he had the answers he was going to need when he was grilled by the Board of Directors and the press about losing the Number One spot.  And about then, his pretend secretary sauntered into the conference room, and bent over the table to retrieve something.  Her back end, rumored to have been the inspiration for the ‘58 Cadillac, was on full display.  She whispered something in his ear about him being late for lunch and her hunger being almost unbearable.

The meeting was adjourned.  The plan was in place to recapture the top spot.  Somehow, everyone in the room still got a bonus.  Except the secretary in the corner.

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