by Gerald Elias
“Parsley Mortuary,” answered the now-familiar drawl. “You kill ’em, we chill ’em.”
“I suppose someone in your position needs a little gallows humor,” said Jacobus, “but don’t you even ask first who it is?”
“Ah, Mr. Jacobus, is it? And a happy Sunday to you, sir. I figure if someone gets offended by that, they’ll be offended by me sooner or later anyway, so why not find out right away? You’re lucky to find me at the office today.”
“I’m just a lucky kind of guy.”
“We should all be so fortunate. What can I do for you?”
“What’s your policy on showing personnel files?”
“The policy is no.”
“Then who gets to look at them?”
“Me and my special friend, Ludwig, who only I can see. And sometimes the CEO.”
“Herza?”
“He’s never asked.”
“What about the musician himself?”
“If there’s a compelling reason. Now it’s my turn to play Twenty Questions. Animal, vegetable, or Sherry O’Brien?”
“That obvious, huh?”
“Well, you did ask about her when you were in the office.”
“I was just wondering if she had a leg to stand on with her grievance. Seeing what’s in her file would help.”
“No doubt. But even if I wanted to share the goodies, there are all kinds of laws that tell me I can’t. As far as her grievance, I’m not saying it’s not justified, and maybe if she were in some stock brokerage office or other normal business, she’d have a case, but in the looking-glass world of the symphony orchestra I have to say it’s a long shot.”
“That’s kind of what I’ve been hearing, anyway. But thanks for nothing.”
“My pleasure, sir,” said Tiny Parsley. “My door is always open to you. And now I’m off to the big powwow in the sky, which is why you were able to find me here.”
“What’s up?”
“Contract meeting. The nitty is getting gritty. I wish you could be there with us.”
“Why?” asked Jacobus, surprised.
“You said you were a lucky guy. We’ll need all the luck that we can get.”
TWELVE
With the afternoon concert officially canceled, the meeting had been hastily arranged and both sides were prepared for a long day at the bargaining table. Sunday mornings were generally off-limits for the orchestra’s business activities, but with scant time until the expiration of the contract and pressure building for a settlement before the opening of the new concert hall, a negotiation session between the Harmonium Symphonic Society, led by CEO Adrianne Vickers, and the musicians’ negotiating team, chaired by Junior Parsley, had been agreed upon to take place at Seranak, the hillside mansion owned by the Boston Symphony overlooking Tanglewood and Mahkeenac Lake behind it. Unlike the name of the lake, however, Seranak is not of Native American derivation. Rather, as the summer residence of Sergei Koussevitzky, the great Russian conductor who brought the Boston Symphony to perhaps its pinnacle of artistic achievement, it is an affectionate contraction of Serge and his wife, Ana, with the k for Koussevitzky.
The choice of Seranak was intended to take the edge off the belligerence, if not the intensity, of the moment, to create an atmosphere conducive to a cooperative dialogue and, if the planets were properly aligned, to an agreement. At management’s expense, bagels and coffee were provided for both parties by K&J’s, and the negotiation table was turned perpendicular to the picture window so that both sides had equal access to the scenic view of the lake surrounded by the Berkshire Hills.
Formal negotiations had commenced more than two months earlier with the musicians’ proposal that included a substantial increase in salary and other compensation like pension, seniority, and health insurance; for two additional paid vacation weeks, an increase in paid sick leave, and requests for changes in rehearsal and concert scheduling, overtime provisions, and audition procedures. The prevailing principle was that in order for Harmonium to remain the best orchestra, the musicians needed to have the best contract in the industry. Along with their proposal, the musicians provided charts of comparisons with the other orchestras in their category, a time-consuming effort, in order to demonstrate the fairness and justification of their requests. According to their research, the thirty-eight-page package they offered kept them one step ahead of the Big Five orchestras: Chicago, Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and Cleveland.
Management received the proposal with poker-faced solemnity, let it gather dust for two weeks, then called for a meeting with the musicians, where they presented a two-page response basically calling for cuts in all categories of compensation and an expanded workload.
The musicians, disheartened by the quality and substance of the offer—a reaction that fit management’s game plan—had an all-night meeting, and the next day they responded with a counterproposal that incorporated some of management’s language but under any degree of scrutiny was essentially a rehashing of their original package.
Adrianne Vickers had then called Junior Parsley and asked for a late-night one-on-one meeting, a request that Parsley found highly irregular and risky, especially as at that point in time they were not yet close to a deadline. Because it could potentially require him to make concessions on big-ticket items, Parsley consulted the rest of his committee. After long and often contentious discussion, the committee gave him an ambivalent go-ahead to meet with Vickers, reasoning that any agreement he would arrive at with her would only be tentative; it would still require the committee’s support and then official ratification by a two-thirds majority of the orchestra.
* * *
Parsley traversed the flagstone walkway that wound through the rhododendron garden and stood at the doorstep of the Scarsdale home of Robert Vogelman, armed with arguments to support the musicians’ proposals but also with a mental list of potential concessions if the resultant package could still be interpreted as tops in the business. If Vickers would agree to that principle, the numbers could be ironed out. Nothing was etched in stone.
Surely, Parsley thought, she wouldn’t have called this off-the-record meeting unless she were willing to talk more freely, to explore avenues of mutual interest. He knew the musicians had the upper hand: Not only was their proposal fair, reasonable, and achievable, the timing of the concert hall opening gave them huge leverage. Even though she might not give a damn about the musicians or the music, Vickers would never jeopardize the big event. If she screwed that up, she’d be toast. The pressure was clearly on her and this meeting was an opportunity to come to a verbal agreement. She could then go back to being tough guy at the bargaining table in order to convince the board that she had done the best job possible. Though Parsley cautioned himself not to be overly optimistic, visions of sugar daddies danced in his head.
Parsley rang the Big Ben doorbell and took a step back to admire the architectural lines of the sprawling postmodern house, wondering if he should have gone into a different profession. Vogelman, a retired anesthesiologist who had once studied viola at Juilliard, was one of the few truly nonpartisan symphony supporters. He answered the door and greeted Parsley warmly. They passed an entertainment room from which he heard a recording of Berlioz that he identified as a recent Harmonium release on EMI. Parsley shook his head at the irony, then politely asked after Vogelman’s family. Yes, everyone was fine, said Vogelman, and the girls were all doing well in college.
Vogelman led him to the great room where Vickers was already waiting, and offered him a drink. Unlike his usual self, Parsley declined. Robert patted him on the back, said to both of them, “You need anything, just holler,” and left, closing the door behind him.
Vickers, dressed informally in jeans, sneakers, and a University of Michigan sweatshirt, rose from the couch. She had abandoned her makeup—at least most of it—in favor of a fresh-scrubbed appearance. Parsley had never seen her other than in her standard business pantsuit and approved of the transformation.
“Junior,” she said, smiling. She extended her hand.
“Adrianne,” replied Parsley, enveloping it in his.
“Thanks for coming,” she said. “Let’s get to work.”
Parsley eased himself into the spare modern Scandinavian couch, carefully distributing his weight to avoid splintering it under his bulk, which would have put a damper on the meeting.
“So, what have you got?” he asked.
“If there’s one thing we can agree on,” Vickers said, “it’s that we’re at loggerheads. I want to break this nasty impasse. You and me. I think we can do it.”
“Impasse?” said Parsley. “That’s pretty loaded terminology. You haven’t even responded to our counterproposal yet.”
“Legally, you’re right,” said Vickers. “Maybe ‘impasse’ is too strong a word. But unless we can be honest with each other, really honest, that’s where I see things ending up. Which would be unfortunate.”
“Well,” said Parsley, “you asked for this meeting, and here is yours truly. What have you got?”
“It’s nothing specific. But I think there’s a better way. A way forward. A principle. After that, we can leave the numbers to the bean counters.”
Parsley didn’t say anything, but he was hoping the next words out of Vickers’s mouth would be, “We recognize that the musicians of Harmonium must continue to have the best contract in the orchestra industry.”
He leaned forward. “I’m all ears.”
Vickers leaned forward too. With her fingers, she brushed the hair out of her eyes. Their foreheads almost touched.
“Faith-based bargaining,” she said.
“Come again,” he said.
“It’s a new method of negotiating. Both parties agree to put their specific demands to the side and appeal to a higher order for a non–zero-sum outcome. Don’t worry, it’s not born-again religious or anything. More like a greater good, though I’m told when it really works it’s almost spiritual. Both sides agree to do what’s best, not just for management, not just for the musicians, and not even for the organization—but what’s best for the industry as a whole, for humanity. It’s win-win all around.”
“I’m not sure I’m following you. Sometimes I can be a little slow on the uptake.”
Vickers gave Parsley a sympathetic I-felt-the-same-way-when-I-first-heard-about-this smile and patted his hand.
“I don’t know all specific techniques,” she said, “but there’s this company, Facilitations, that gave a presentation at our professional development retreat in Southampton. They showed us how, if you just sit next to each other instead of having that darn table in between the two sides, it already removes one of the barriers. And if instead of having this group of musicians and that group of management”—she gestured emphatically with her hands—“you pair up one of each, reading from the same documents, you create a sense of camaraderie that leads to agreement. It’s amazing what can happen when you put little things like that together. Facilitations provides an intermediary to attend our negotiations. He keeps things on what they call the Plane of Principles, or POP, and gets the two sides to agree to stick to a few overarching goals—”
“Like world peace and bringing the NHL back to network TV?”
Vickers laughed. “Maybe POP’s not quite that lofty.”
“Then such as?”
“Such as that our primary commitment is to the continued health of the organization; that we’ll do anything, within the realm of fiscal responsibility, to provide great classical music to the community. Things like that. Facilitations doesn’t come cheap. They charge fifty thousand dollars per contract negotiation because they have a seventy-six percent success rate, but we’ve met with the board and they’re willing to pay for it. They never guarantee results, but so far they’ve got a great track record. We’re ready to get started. What do you think?”
Vickers put her hand on Parsley’s fat knee.
Parsley looked at the hand, then at the smiling face, and said, “I’m outta here.”
“You’re leaving?” Vickers seemed genuinely shocked. Parsley almost laughed. “Why?” she asked.
“Because this is what you’re thinking, Adrianne. You hire this company, Felicitators—”
“Facilitations.”
“Whatever. By offering to pay these guys, that means they’re in your pocket. They become management shills. ‘The realm of fiscal responsibility’ is code for you don’t plan on raising another cent more than you have to. So, even before we sit down to bargain, you get the musicians to basically agree to cut our own throats by committing us publicly to Fibrillation’s—”
“Facilitations.”
“To Facilitation’s Plane of Principles—to do whatever has to be done to enable management to balance the budget, namely, cut our salaries, pensions, and anything else you can put your hands on. If we agree to that so-called lofty POP, we’re dead in the water. And if we balk at joining in, or agree to it and then have second thoughts, you tell the world that management has taken the moral high road, and the musicians are lazy, greedy, two-faced bastards.”
“But as we move forward into the twenty-first century—”
“Save that for the board, Adrianne,” said Parsley. “See you at the bargaining table.”
Robert Vogelman intercepted him before he got to the door. “Leaving so soon?”
“Want to beat the traffic,” said Parsley.
“There’s never any traffic at this hour.”
“Never say never, Rob, though I did have a premonition things were going to get rocky tonight.”
“How so?”
“You know the Berlioz you were playing when I showed up?”
“Symphonie Fantastique.”
“Yeah, the fourth movement.”
“Which one is that?” Vogelman asked.
“‘March to the Scaffold.’ I think I just got my head chopped off. Anyway, thanks for your hospitality,” Parsley added, calculating that he would need a friendly board member when the orchestra went on strike.
* * *
Today’s meeting at Seranak was management’s official response to the musicians’ counterproposal. No member of Facilitations was present, but the feeling of do-or-die was.
“Over the past three months we’ve heard the musicians loud and clear,” Vickers began, “and with the proposal you find in front of you you’ll see that we’ve been listening. We believe we’ve addressed all your major concerns. That’s not to say that we can’t tweak some details, and though we’re not calling this our last and best offer, we’re all aware the clock is ticking and we’re running out of wiggle room. We’d like to wrap this up, today if possible, so we can all focus our energy on a successful opening of Harmonium Hall. What I’d like to do now is to summarize our new offer and would request that you wait until I’m done before asking questions, which we’ll be happy to field.”
Vickers gathered her thoughts and began her presentation.
“Clearly, this is a historic time for Harmonium, and as we transition from a touring orchestra to one with a home base, we need to be able to retain what has worked for us in the past and to search for a new paradigm for the future.
“One of the major questions that all parties have been seeking the answer to is: How do we structure a full season in our new home? The musicians have proposed an average of eight services per week, comprising four rehearsals and four concerts. As a compromise, we will essentially agree with that as a target to shoot for. Our only qualification is that in the interest of flexibility, or if revenue opportunities arise, we be able to add an extra concert per week, limited to six times a year the first year of the contract, and increasing one per year until reaching a maximum of nine in the last year of the contract.
“Second, we believe it is up to the music director, and the music director alone, to determine the appropriate number of rehearsals he needs to maintain the level of greatest artistic integrity, and if we were to accept your proposed restrictions on overtime,
we don’t think we also should tie his hands regarding the number of rehearsals. So our proposal today states that while we will make our best efforts to maintain a balance of your four rehearsal/four concert formula, it will ultimately be up to the music director to make that final determination, but that in no case may there be more than a total of eleven services in a given week, and if there is such a week, one of the adjacent weeks may have no more than eight, which is what you say you want.
“Another issue of importance to musicians is time off, and you have convinced us of the need and the value for the musicians to decompress after months of intense music making. Currently you have nine weeks of paid vacation: two during the Christmas/New Year’s season, four between the winter season and the summer tour season, two more between the summer and next winter season, and the one so-called floating vacation week, scheduled at the convenience of the musician.
“Today we want to take a step forward in meeting your needs and propose a real increase in free time for each musician by creating a variation of the floating-week concept. We propose two additional weeks of vacation, making a total of an unprecedented eleven weeks’ vacation, but those two would be scheduled by the symphony at their discretion and would be unpaid. Now, if you turn to page two—”
“This sounds like a shoot-the-tuba-player clause,” Junior Parsley interrupted.
“If you could wait until I’m finished—”
“Actually, I’d like some clarification now. Are you saying that if the orchestra is doing a Mozart program, for which there is no tuba, you’d schedule that as one of his vacations and he’d go a week without pay?”
Vickers turned to Tiny Parsley, a member of the management team.
“Tiny, could you respond to that?”
“That’s something we hadn’t really considered,” said Tiny, avoiding his brother’s stare, “but admittedly, the way it’s worded, that might be one of management’s options.”
