Episode 1

On a torrid, late August afternoon, while trolling for fares, I headed south on Second Avenue from the upper 80s, beads of sweat dripping down my unshaven face. Forget air-con; it was 1974. Two of New York’s finest jumped in front of the taxi I drove, hands aloft, directing me to the curb. “Whoa,” I thought. These were uniformed police officers.

Entering the back seat, one cried, “Go!”

“Where?” I shot back.

“Just go,” the other replied. “We’ll tell you when to stop.”

There I went, cruising down one of Manhattan’s main north-south avenues, ignoring traffic lights as if Steve McQueen had taken over the wheel. As we approached the Pfizer building on 42nd Street, one yelled, “Stop here!” Both quickly exited the cab with little concern for the meter clicking away. A record of the fare could be retrieved thanks to hot seats meant to deter cabbies from offering rides to friends.

I hollered somewhat forcefully as the door slammed closed, “Hey, what about the meter?”

One of the officers shouted back, “Call the precinct. They’ll take care of it!” as they melted into the midtown crowd. 

“Yeah, sure,” I thought, “No badge numbers, names, or precinct location.” These clever bastards wanted a quick ride downtown and spotted a poor schlump to get them there without hassle or cost. That day, the power of authority became apparent, and action movies took on a whole new meaning. Wrong turns and dead ends added to the confusion I endured at this point in my life. The ability to avoid penalties for lousy behavior carried me through my college years primarily unscathed. Surviving “Big City” life would be a whole new ballgame. Hard times and indiscretions awaited my rejoinders to the authorities I crossed.  

A newcomer to New York, I stumbled through daily life like a country boy navigating a corn maze only in a city of gigantic skyscrapers instead of stalks. Growing up in South Jersey in a suburb of Camden, I was unprepared for big-city life's fast-paced hustle and bustle. As a middle child to an older sister and a much younger brother in the mid-1950s, our household ran smoothly thanks to my mom, Josephine. She was always busy after work as a seamstress in a Camden sweatshop. Our dad’s parents constantly stopped over, and the necessary cooking and cleaning left her drained. Her folks were from the working class, and like them, she pushed the limits of perseverance. Although my dad, Fred Junior, was a laborer, Fred Senior, head of the family, had a barber shop in the city's center. Even in bad times, men needed to pay for a haircut, so he did well financially and helped his son buy our home. His wife and my grandmother, another Josephine, came from a family living white-collar lives. One of my granny’s brothers rose to be a respected lawyer, and the other a songwriter and a talented pianist.

Very early on, my mother instilled in her children the importance of having a strong moral compass following the teachings of the Roman Catholic Church. I had to confess my sins in preparation for Communion with Christ (the Eucharist), but other than occasionally engaging in self-exploration, I had none. Some kids in the town I grew up in, referred to as the “Woodlynne Animals,” were involved in petty thefts, property destruction, and cruelty to animals. The only thing we shared was our interest in sports activities. With my innate curiosity and desire to excel academically, I graduated junior high school as valedictorian and continued to be on the honor roll throughout the rest of high school.

I walked a relatively straight and narrow path my first college semester, but everything changed when I joined the Lambda Chi Alpha fraternity during the second semester at Rutgers University. Our parties were highly acclaimed on and off the campus, keeping the almost 90-strong brotherhood motivated, united, and prepared for the carloads of ladies arriving every weekend. Majoring in sociology with a unique talent for shenanigans made me popular with my brothers. I was referred to as “Rue” because the older brothers often said, “I’d rue the day,” when I didn’t do their bidding as a pledge. To top off my four years of devilish behavior, I graduated magnum-cum-mediocre on “6-66”, which became the crowning achievement of my early twenties.

To help pay for college, I enrolled in the Army ROTC program, leading after graduation to an unremarkable two-year US Army stint as an undecorated infantry 2nd Lt. My dad volunteered for service and became an artilleryman in France in WWII, and my mom’s brother, Uncle Frank, roamed North Africa as a US Army sergeant. Sadly, my dad’s brother and the first Frank Tamru died in a Jeep accident in Southern Italy at 19 years of age. Two Franks and a Fred did their duty during a world war. “This Frank” got assigned to the Republic of Korea as a peacekeeping soldier after that confrontation ended. My battles included avoiding Korean ladies from enticing me to buy them drinks and dancing to popular Western songs.

After the two-year military commitment, I initiated interviews with large corporations looking to hire young warriors for various executive positions. I felt confident that my outgoing personality, which developed during those Rutgers days, could lead to a sales position. After a brief thirty-minute interview, I happily entered the corporate world in 1969 as a Proctor and Gamble detergent salesman responsible for a Pennsylvania and New Jersey territory based in Bordentown, NJ. Part of the job consisted of carrying bags of Tide, Bold, and Joy gimmicks to lure female customers to the promotional displays I’d built intended to boost sales. I gained a newfound popularity with my mother and sister and the ladies in the neighborhood when I rewarded them with an unlimited supply of soap powder and dish detergents from supermarket-damaged goods. Add photo of me in front of Tide display.

The power of Tide to clean clothes and the joy of quickly cleansing dirty dishes loomed large in their lives and mine. I found it difficult to imagine a more vacuous job than constructing mountainous detergent displays and arguing with crass grocery managers over their size, type, and location. My business career took off with a company with the best sales training program in the corporate world. P&G would not be the end for me. I took my construction and persuasion talents elsewhere after 18 months, seeking an executive position I hoped would challenge my frontal cortex a little more.

From High School days onward, Fred and Josephine (especially my mom) dreamed of me studying to be either a doctor or a dentist. I didn’t see that happening. I decided a sales job covering hospitals in the Philadelphia area with Davol, an established urology equipment manufacturer, was close enough for me. I went from hauling soap to carrying catheter samples in a sports coat and tie, witnessing an improved self-image. I enjoyed the bonus of running into perky young nurses who showed interest in my equipment. The job infused in me an increased respect for anyone dedicated to a career in medicine. Effective patient care and comfort mattered most to Davol, but purchasing agents (PAs) only cared about the price, not so much about functionality or quality. The PAs in Philly were widely known to be powerful, with the ability to kick salespeople out of the hospital if caught circumventing their office. I took this risk and headed directly to ICUs and nursing stations—this did not sit well with them. I felt pressure to stick it out until the end of Spring. Anticipating a work-free summer, I quit after 18 months on the job. With my newfound freedom of no job and no commitments to anyone, I had the opportunity to travel and explore this big, wide world waiting just for me. Travel brochures replaced technical literature on the Davl line of equipment.

With a planned itinerary only a month away, I decided to grow facial hair—no more extended corporate rules to follow. Sam Schlesinger, a close Rutgers fraternity brother, and I began our travel in New York and flew to Amsterdam, as flights from JFK were the cheapest. We wanted to learn more about the diverse cultures and historic grandeur the old world offered. The enticement of this European exploration, as told by my mom and grandmother, overwhelmed me. Fortunately, Sam had the same desire to investigate familial roots, mine in southern Italy and his in Israel. We launched a euphoric 90-day escapade covering thousands of kilometers on a high note, starting in liberal Amsterdam, where marijuana was legal. We went as far east as Israel’s Dead Sea, enjoying a remarkable aquatic experience. A doggy paddle-style swimmer at best, I found solace in the water’s ability to keep me afloat, a natural phenomenon due to the sea’s extremely high salinity. EuroRail passes transported us to Denmark, Germany, Italy, and Switzerland. Greece will be next by ferry and Israel afterward by plane. Amazingly, few arguments ensued. What sites to see, monuments or galleries to visit, and foods to eat rarely entered our conversation. Add the photo of Sam and me.

Sam and I departed ways, and as I ventured to Spain to improve my Spanish, which I picked up in high school, he went to Paris. A personal odyssey continued in the beautiful and trendy city of Barcelona. After a week into the stay, while researching language programs and renting a room near the University, I discovered the city’s allure had limits—the water flowing from a bathroom faucet being the culprit. I grew more ill each day when drinking from one after consuming salty dishes. Struggling to maintain composure, let alone able to keep fluids from exiting my body, I called a friend to wire me enough money for a flight home. Within 24 hours, I returned to the USA from my “big adventure” with a “tail between my legs” level of embarrassment.

Mom gasped at her gaunt son when setting eyes on me. That and a ragged beard made her mumble under her breath, “Quello stúpido” in her Southern Italian dialect. I’d screwed up. My loving mom rushed me to our family doctor, who concluded I had symptoms associated with Typhoid Fever - a “wake-up call” like none before. 

A month after recovery, I completed a full-time junior high school substitute teaching position close to the family home in Gloucester City, NJ. My parents were happy knowing that I’d settled down with a credible teaching job. A formal interview seemed unnecessary, thanks to a very close high school buddy, Ronnie Pritchett, the principal. Rose, his Spanish teacher, had become pregnant, and a replacement needed rapidamente! Hey, I’d sat through four years of high school and college Spanish classes and had recently returned from a harrowing experience in Spain. If that didn’t qualify me as a sub, what would? These kids, mainly 8th and 9th graders, were more interested in passing silly notes to friends than conjugating Spanish verbs. After a few months in the classroom, I discovered teachers to be a special breed. Having to face and calmly instruct kids in their first two years as teens for six to seven hours a day could drive anyone loco. Or, it could force you to find a clever way to impact their minds. Only dedicated subs survived and moved on to full-time positions, but not me.

After that year of subbing, a second visit to Spain became inevitable. I didn’t want a past troubling ordeal to linger setting up a return to Spain in the summer of ‘73, this time with a Rowan college student group. Lynn, a classmate fluent in Spanish and a Charles Manson double, served as my guide. At every turn, Lynn and I drew attention from the police. I didn’t think of us as ignorant “Ugly Americans.” We were scruffy, for sure, but not insensitive to the local customs and culture like others we observed. Exploring Southern Spain and visiting its colony in Morocco, we had one particular purpose: securing an illegal product readily available in Ceuta (Spanish Morocco), North Africa. The Guardia Civil (Spain’s National Police) interrogated us when we disembarked from the ship after crossing the Strait of Gibraltar back into Spain. We could have been incarcerated or sent home on the next flight.

In reflecting on those frivolous actions as the summer ended, three thoughts percolated in my brain. It was time to get serious about life. I needed to escape my hometown familiarity. And the big city lights of Manhattan were calling me. A powerful urge swept over me, only a year away from hitting thirty. All I’d done at that point did not elevate me to what other college grads my age had achieved. My race detoured to a successful career, family life, children, and respect within my community. I started to understand how those I encountered after graduation who had the power to affect change in their life or society, in general, did not follow the risky paths I’d chosen. Still relatively young, resourceful, reasonably intelligent, and unencumbered, what had I accomplished? Nothing!

In the past, a close fraternity brother, Robert J. Petrella, who made it big in Manhattan with The New York Telephone Company, consistently pestered me to join him. He squawked, “Get your head out of your dumb ass,” and come to those “sweet streets of New York” paved with “bricks of opportunity and miles of sensuous babes.” However, I was not ready to leave the comforts of home until now. I met “Bob,” or “Bobby as his friends and family called him, in college, where he served as President of our fraternity. For us frat bros, he was “Bugga” because he looked like a big “Bugga Bear.” That smart, sharp-tongued, motivated, tough SOB had the intellect and brass balls to lead a rambunctious group of party animals, several notable scholars (not me), top-level athletes, and guys who valued the camaraderie “frat life” offered. That fraternity experience helped him lead a platoon of Marine grunts in South Vietnam. After graduation, he enlisted in the Marines, joining our forces in South Vietnam in 1967 as a front line 2nd Lt. He left the military after three years of active duty, wounded and highly decorated, and despite being recruited for executive positions all over the country, he chose to remain in the New York area.

I sought his brotherly guidance once I decided to move to New York. I jumped into life’s “deep end” 90 miles away, filling my Volkswagon Beetle with clothes, a pair of Converse sneakers, and a tattered high school baseball glove. I headed north on the turnpike, thinking, “Goodbye Josephine’s homemade meatballs, and hello, Katz’s Deli’s pastrami on rye!” Approaching thirty and heading to start a new life revved me up faster than that yellow German bug could go. Friends said, “Hey Rue, if you make it in New York, you can make it anywhere.” I subscribed to that line of thinking. Bingo, one of Bugga’s Marine buddies, had an out-of-town assignment for a month, and he had the keys to his small pad on Second Avenue in the Thirties. A place to hang my hat and glove while thrusting wholeheartedly into job search mode. Not a bad start, I thought.

Without hesitation, Bugga called Ken Silver, one of his midtown customers, who sought an “Outside Agent” for his company, Mister Messenger. Ken, a short, stout, balding fireball, had served as a US Army First Sergeant who recognized the need to quickly but securely deliver documents from one city office to another. In the early 1970s, before the word “Fax” became entrenched in the lexicon of corporate execs, I witnessed this practical delivery scheme expand. Ken built on a novel idea—hire young, inner-city, street-smart kids who could navigate the city’s tortuous traffic. But how? Bicycles, dozens of them no less, and never a lack of eager applicants paid ten bucks a day. The necessary qualifications: fearless riders who read and spoke English and, most importantly, remembered to chain their bikes to any immovable object outside the delivery location. There were a dozen other competitors, some more sophisticated, using public transport; this service allowed their kids to cover all of Manhattan and the four outer New York boroughs. From his prized mid-town location, Ken focused on businesses from streets in the high 80s down to the low 20s, promising rapid delivery at a minimal cost.

Collage of Bugga & Mister Messanger Letterhead.

Each morning, scores of messengers, primarily black and Hispanic kids, showed up for work at the basement office. Ken selected a crew for that day’s runs and incessantly barked directions about where to deliver the documents. His instructions,

“The building’s on West 88th Street between Irving’s Deli and an old Catholic church. It’s five stories high. Walk up to the second floor and hand the envelope to Mr. Weinstein’s blond secretary who has big tits... can’t miss her.”

Garrulous and city-wise, Silver wore sweatpants, a tattered T-shirt with pens, and a whistle swinging around his neck on cords. He talked two miles a minute from that subterranean, mid-town location. Whistle blasts got the gang’s attention. He often addressed them with insults, calling them “numb-nuts,” “douche-bag,” “morons,” or something else offensive but not meant to be vicious. Silver had a unique style that saw his words flow like water off a duck’s back for these eager youngsters. I watched and listened to Silver accepting phone orders for “rapid” delivery from a brightly lit below-ground office. With papers scattered in disarray all over his desk, Ken dispatched his boys. Only one girl applied, but Ken dismissed her with one wave of his hand.

There’s no way I could have returned to high school subbing. Some full-time positions in the South Bronx, Harlem, and Brooklyn required me to take educational courses before beginning —a non-starter. I’d represent Mister Messenger in midtown, and despite the unadorned setting, I saw it as the center of a new universe. The job? Call on corporate executives to swing their messenger service over to Silver’s company and our delivery crew. “Hell yeah,” I said when accepting Ken’s offer of 150 bucks a week off the books plus a bonus for each new account secured—an amount based on the projected monthly volume that only Ken knew. Heading to Gimbels, a brown, checkered summer-weight suit caught my eye. It resembled a tablecloth design. I walked away, ready to prove I could sustain myself in the big city with an entirely new image to project. If the outfit didn’t help, hopefully, my upbeat disposition would. A new life chapter had begun.

The caption below goes with the collage of Bugga & Mr. Messanger's letterhead.

“Go with the very best” got everyone’s attention. This stationary and business cards said it all. My first job in the big city and readiness to make a name for myself drove me forward. I could live with that lame logo.

Being aggressive in reaching the decision maker of the companies Ken targeted, I noticed Pan American Airways on the list. Their iconic HQ is only a short walk from our office. I thought, “Why not go after a Big Fish now?” After a week of modest success, I grasped Ken’s MO. Making repeated phone calls, I landed a five-minute appointment with a Pan Am executive VP handling this extraneous expense. Heading there the following day, an elderly secretary ushered me into the exec’s office, placing my business card on his desk. Sarcastically, the secretary announced:

“Mr. Messenger is here about Pan Am using HIS gang.”

Sitting behind an enormous mahogany desk with a corporate image,  he brusquely said,

“You’ve got 2 minutes.”

Fabricating my way forward, I claimed our crew had the best reputation for dependability in the city and that Silver, a decorated military hero, recruited me for this position after I relocated from South Jersey. A pitiful stare prompted me to either cry, quickly head to the exit, or make a compelling offer to secure a trial. Without Ken’s approval, I blurted out,

“We’ll give you a half day of service gratis to show what our crew will do for Pan American Airline.”

He smiled, called the secretary back to make the arrangements, and I left feeling like I’d won the Belmont Stakes. But Silver did not see a young Secretariat. I thought his head would explode when I told him about this good work!

“Are you fucking crazy?”

One messenger delivered their packet to the wrong office, another forgot to get a signature on a receipt for the court document, and yet another had his bike stolen outside Pan Am’s building. Our messenger failed to lock it as instructed. My days were numbered as Pan Am never used us after the free trial.

A greener, more earnest pasture awaited my energies. A sales position in the celebrated Gimbels Herald Square store camera department had opened, and taking thousands of photos in Europe with a 35mm Canon camera, coupled with my ability to explain “f-stops,” landed me the job. Not for long, however. The economic downturn of 1973-74 hit the city hard, sending me back to pound the pavements seeking employment. In six months and two jobs, I had no idea what the future held. I had avoided smoking during my college and military days, and other than the smoke inhaled from joints when at Bugga’s, I did not turn to regular cigarettes until this depressing moment.

My next move would be to the East Side, waiting tables at The Adam’s Apple. This job and location made sense since people still had to eat, drink, and carouse. The establishment’s catchy jingle: “Come take a bite out of life,” broadcasted widely on the airways for the popular discotheque, got my attention. While wandering through the city streets, a “Waiters Wanted” sign caught my eye and made me recall that line. I hungered for a hearty bite. The Upper East Side bar scene rocked in those days, and I wanted to roll with it.

When entering the bar, a tall, handsome Italian-American, Joe Cavallaro, liked what he saw in me. At first, he appeared to be fully in charge, but his somewhat unpleasant partner, Felix Brinkmann, ran the club, assigning servers to their stations. Having waited on tables appeared not to matter to Joe, who I realized was gay. The Latino image servers presented spelled out Joe’s requirements. But not so much to Felix. My only prior experience was waiting on ball-busting Rutgers frat brothers as a Lambda Chi first-year pledge years before. If I hustled, tips would be good, and meeting the steady flow of female flight attendants that filled our dance floor could be a bonus. First Avenue became the center of the Upper East Side’s bar-disco scene in the 1970s. The first TGI Fridays had opened only blocks away, along with the famous Maxwell’s Plum on the same strip.

Add a photo of the bar and remove the news article about Felix for placement elsewhere.

Mr. Laff’s, one door away from The Apple, served as the favorite “watering hole” for the city’s professional athletes. Yankees’ utility infielder Phil Linz opened the bar in 1965, drawing Knicks and Rangers players along with his baseball teammates. Police cordoned off the sidewalks to control overflow crowds waiting to enter. Joe Namath, the Jets star QB, a frequent patron at Mr. Laff’s and Maxwell’s Plum, rarely frequented our bar, not faddish enough for “Broadway Joe,” his nickname. The Yankees were at Mr. Laff’s during home stands and throughout the year. Mr. Laff, Phil’s nickname, ensured they were treated like royalty. Wearing black pants and a V-neck shirt, the necessary “costume,” I met the requirements —officially becoming part of the East Side shtick, whatever that’s worth.

Tips were good, but my serving skills lacked finesse. When I mismanaged orders and fumbled platters, the real waiters continually rompe bolas (broke balls). Thankfully, our male customers were mostly drinkers and schmoozers desiring to “fly high” with an airline hostess “around the world” all in one night. We had a private room upstairs for those on the owner’s “special guests” list. Rarely did Felix assign me there after watching me in action. A shady but big-tipping fat guy named “Seltzer,” powerful with citywide “connections,” sat in a kingly manner a few nights a week. Stumbling and dropping a tray of drinks late one night on his extended lap cost me dearly —my job. Thankfully, not a finger or two. I approached the upstairs bartender and ordered a double vodka on the rocks. He asked who ordered it. “It’s for me,” made him bust out laughing. After the owner’s best customer got drenched, I landed on the sidewalk again. I discovered years later what unfortunately became of Felix. His gruesome 2009 murder set the New York tabloids ablaze and brought back memories of that three-month stint on First Avenue.

Losing the Adam’s Apple gig serving and mingling with the city’s in-crowd led me into a downward spiral. Considering my bleak state of mind, rumpled image, little money, and no possibility of a date, my batting average dropped below Baseball’s Mendoza (.200) Line as far as wooing East Side ladies. I needed cash to throw around and start the pursuit. 

An underworld heavyweight Bugga knew required someone to make a large delivery on his behalf. He immediately thought of me, his downcast frat brother. Of course, I jumped at the opportunity to make a quick hundred bucks and didn’t bother asking why this friend couldn’t deliver the goods himself. I stopped by his friend’s luxury downtown flat late the following evening —referred to by Bugga as Mr. “No Nonsense.” He didn’t seem like someone open to chitchat on how to proceed. When opening the door, I noticed he savored the image of a prosperous gentleman wearing a silk bathrobe and slippers with a glass of pinot noir in his left hand. 

My task: deliver 10 pounds of good Columbian Gold marijuana to a high-end customer on the West Side. After picking up the weed, I headed North to the West Side address he provided. Confused by the city’s subway system, I boarded the wrong line, ending up outside the 72nd Street entrance to Central Park. I had no choice but to scurry through the dimly lit park crossover sidewalk. There became little room for any further missteps. Around midnight, with ten pounds valued at over a thousand dollars, I’d better get this right. When finding the West Side address, a disheveled elderly gentleman buzzed me up to his apartment. He welcomed me stoned, took cash from his pocket, and counted 10 C-Notes to cover the transaction. No small talk, no asking my name, and a "thank you for stopping by” ended the interaction.

Anxious to openly celebrate this windfall, I considered heading to Adam’s Apple, hoping to impress the waiters and Felix by “flashing some cash.” Common sense and fear overcame the stupidity of not immediately settling with Mr. No Nonsense. I did not want trouble from a guy who had the power to control situations and damage someone’s welfare.

My first and only delivery served as a wake-up call about how fast questionable money can be found if you are desperate. No one said earning a decent living by enrolling in the Big Apple Graduate School would be easy.  

These were crazy, lonely times for me, feeling caught between the moon and New York City, as vocalized in the song Arthur’s Theme. The best I could do was to fall in love; the worst would be with the wrong woman. On a positive note, at least initially, I started classes at Hunter College a few weeks later, thinking I’d burnish the familiarity I’d gained with the Spanish spoken throughout the city. Located in mid-town, I found it exciting returning to the classroom, only this time sitting next to co-eds, unlike my Rutgers, all-male campus experience. With tuition covered thanks to the G.I. Bill, schooling helped fill daytime activities. That didn’t amount to much other than following the New York Yankees’ pursuit of the Baltimore Orioles in the NY Post sports pages.

Spring had sprung when a young man’s fancy turned to thoughts besides baseball. She was referred to as “Señora Sandra,” according to our professor. We shared personal life details, slowly getting involved over the next few months. I noticed her wedding ring, which broadcasts “proceed with caution,” but it didn’t serve as a stop sign when Sandy flashed those big brown eyes. She uttered a seductive giggle whenever I brutalized verb conjugations. Temptation overcame good sense and led me astray. Improving my Spanish became secondary to an affair with a lovely married lady.

I regretted committing adultery. Never before and never after did I cross that sacred line. Feeling bad, we admitted the transgression to Sandy’s husband, a Wall Street banker, before he found out. Her husband leered down at me in disgust from his leather recliner as we sat together on the living room floor of their luxury apartment. Explaining feebly how this happened, the tale spilled from my lips like spittle from a slobbering child juggling his words to escape punishment.

That night closed one door and opened another a week later. Sandra decided to introduce me to her single airline hostess sister, Sally, an identical twin. They signed on to become immersed in the glamour that a Pan Am hostess job offered in the early 1970s. They were “Uptown Girls,” and me, a “Downtown and Out Guy!” Since we were done, her twin sister only waited for me to dial her number and arrange a date. I quickly discovered she did not want a serious relationship that would interfere with her career. Thanks to an endorsement from her 10-minute older sister, I could handle that approach to a physical fling! That solo flight with Sally should be labeled a one-night pleasure excursion to nowhere. She casually flipped her Murphy Bed back into the wall, and I was sent packing. Leaving her high-rise, uptown Second Avenue studio. Stumbling home expecting to never hear from either of the seductive twins again —I was not disappointed. My focus had to be on earning a living. Further affairs or trysts could wait. Back to job hunting.

That taxi job followed as there were never enough drivers. A valid driver’s license and the ability to at least speak broken English were the requirements—I met both. A test to begin driving appeared quite simple: Respond to the following questions,

“Where is Yankee Stadium located?” “Outline the quickest way to the World Trade Center from the Upper East Side.” And “What are the optimum routes to JFK and La Guardia Airport from various locations in the city?”

How easy as once on the road, with no supervision, no set starting point, and no clue who you might find in the back seat of your taxi intrigued me. Unlike other drivers who parked at key locations waiting for fares, I kept on the move. Openings for eager drivers to compete on the 4 pm to 4 am night shift were always available. For the next three months, I plowed through those tortuous streets, not to mention cruising at times on a mellow high after dinner breaks at Bugga’s since his wife’s absence fulfilling her job as a flight attendant left us alone. Rather than hustling to keep the meter clicking away, I found new ways to fail. If a driver pushed hard with limited breaks, he’d make that expected hundred bucks a night. Call it NYC “survival money.” First, grab businessmen leaving work before 5 pm, some catching flights from LaGuardia or JFK. Then, continue driving through the night when carousing customers fell out of those Upper East Side bars —that was my plan. Many patrons were intoxicated around the 2 am closing hour but knew they had to head home. Ralph, our dispatcher, called them “slobbering idiots.” I kept my eyes on the meter, in no hurry to deliver them to the address they provided. I took circuitous routes while they slouched over on the rear seat. I drove one older man around in the far reaches of Queens for 20 minutes until I shook him awake long enough for him to point out exactly where he lived—a five-dollar tip on a fifteen-dollar fare —one way to survive.

Another sultry Friday afternoon, an exec outside the Pfizer Building, the same building where the cops duped me a week earlier on 42nd Street, hailed my hack. Jumping in, he stated:

“JFK, and make it quick I’m running late for my flight!”

Belt Parkway traffic at that time normally made for an hour's drive. We shared over ninety minutes of summertime misery that day—no AC. A half-hearted attempt to engage him with chitchat seemed to get his attention. The day’s lead WCBS radio news story fascinated us. Philippe Petit, a French aerialist, had strung a wire between the World Trade Center’s Twin Towers. He walked across—1,312 ft. above the Lower Manhattan sidewalk WITHOUT a safety net. Somehow, this directed our exchange to life’s risks. He appeared curious about my background after glancing at the taxi license. Explaining my temporary lull in seeking a more respectable career path, he chuckled and handed me a business card when I dropped him off at the Eastern Airlines check-in. It read: Robert McCaffrey, President, Howmedica, Inc.

Smiling, we parted ways,

“You need to get yourself a decent job, son. Call the office next week to arrange an interview. But, do me a favor, get a haircut, and don’t tell anyone we met in a taxi.”

Powerful advice from the backseat of a taxicab. Alert to that advice, I quickly replied,

“Yes, sir!”

A decent tip: the thought of a new beginning in the medical industry and the sense I hadn’t come across as a nonentity comforted me as I waited to snatch a fare back to the city. That interview never happened, but I must’ve left a good impression on him. I had no idea what impact this particular company would have in a yet unknown future position.

Add new part?

Bugga came through again. He arranged an interview a few weeks later with New York Telephone. Their hiring freeze had lifted, and Tamru somehow jumped to the top of the applicant’s list. After pulling into the dingy West Side garage in the early hours of a late August shift, I handed in another meager passenger manifest to the dispatcher, Ralph. After a quick glimpse, his words resonated:

“Hey Frankie, throw me your keys, and log da fuck out, for good.”

No explanation needs to be said. Danny DeVito from “Taxi,” a 1970’s sitcom, could not have been more direct. On that final 4 am walk home after being fired, an uplifting thought hastened my pace - fraternity brotherhood continued to offer benefits. Mean streets, tricky cops, and sweaty yellow taxis were in my rearview mirror for good. More weed and less speed took over those nightly hunts for fares. A formal title, collared shirt, and desk with an early-model push-button phone awaited a few weeks later.

This next 18-month (sound familiar?) stint as a Telephone Sales Rep provided a steady income and needed stability. I had turned 30 and didn’t have a pot to cook with, let alone one to pee in. The gender and ethnic mix of the 24-person telephone sales team I joined illuminated my daily routine. Located inside a mid-town Lexington Avenue high-rise, the job presented a bit of glamour and a structured business routine to a previously confused existence. With a dozen relatively young female reps working with me side by side, I diverted from glancing at the clock to bust and hemlines instead. Each step I took had a new vigor, walking the 50 or so blocks to work each day. And using that tattered glove to secure a spot on the office softball squad, enlivened game days. While getting back in shape on the field, I followed the Yankees after being a dedicated Phillies and National League fan. Opening up a new avenue of excitement, I bonded with those softball teammates. Bugga, a diehard Yankee fan, good athlete, and heavy bettor on their games, served as our catcher and manager. He ensured the office ladies came out to Randall’s Island to cheer us on versus the rival telephone office teams we played from the five boroughs.

Called “Bobbie” in the Manhattan restaurant and bar scene, he started making a mark in fine dining and an insider’s hangout spot while still holding his upper management position. He partnered with two city guys and bought La Verdure, a small French restaurant on First Avenue. Only the first step. The tantalizing success motivated the partners driven by Bugga to purchase an empty hair salon next door. They expanded La Verdure into The Greenery, which is an English translation. It no longer catered to those lseeking garlicky escargot or the quintessential French favorite, Coq au vin. The young, upwardly mobile, and restless New York jet-set had a place to hang out and me, a reserved spot at the bar. Bugga sat on top of the East Side club scene. Popular with patrons, suppliers, and partners, the word power defined the control he had over almost every aspect of life. After a divorce from his flight attendant wife, he drew people into his web of pleasure and conquest. Nothing bothered him as he did not expect to return home alive from South Vietnam years earlier. 

Moving from one tiny studio apartment to another, the first few years on the East Side came to a tantalizing halt. I found a subsidized one-bedroom unit in a high-rise building for documented low-income workers based on their last 2-years of tax returns. Within a month, I found myself admiring the spectacular views from the 32nd floor of Knickerbocker Plaza on 91st Street and 2nd Avenue. Facing Eastward in this 1000 sq. ft. flat, I could observe the marine traffic on the East River staring out from a large living room window. The daily sunrises created a new perspective as my Big Apple life evolved.

A close call, the first of many, began one morning when I decided to clean that window. To reach the top section of the glass, I stood on the solid wood dining table situated adjacent to the window. Carefully perched, standing to reach the top of the glass, the table suddenly collapsed. Fortunately, I fell toward the interior of the room and did not descend forward to certain death. When my mom got wind of that feeble attempt at window-washing, all she could utter in her Italian dialect was "Stupido,” which I’d heard while growing up. This would not be my only close encounter with the Grim Reaper.

Continue editing

In February, I decided to use five days of accrued vacation time to travel to New Orleans for the Mardi Gras. The planning started after an enticing invitation to head south from Fred Estanich, a former Davol colleague. Hitchhiking became the only way that fit my budget, amounting to barely 50 bucks for the trip. A joke? It sure sounded like it to telephone co-workers and friends. I’d already hit up Bugga and didn’t want to return to that well. My thumb would save the cash to treat my mate to a meal or a round of drinks. It took 17 hours to arrive in the city since I had long periods without a ride, walking slowly on the side of the road. My sign, “Heading to New Orleans,” made it clear where I planned to end up if only they’d give me a ride.

Once on the city’s outskirts, I called Fred to pick me up. We stopped at Bourbon Street, where crowds of partygoers began dancing to the wild carnival beat in the late afternoon. Walking through the French Quarter on “Fat Tuesday” blew my mind as the party came to a close. After three days and nights in the Big Easy, I headed home. A few bucks remained for an emergency. Fred handed me ten more and provided a good start early the next morning, dropping me at the entrance to Interstate 10 headed north and east. I waved goodbye and watched as Fred shook his head in wonderment at the 1300-mile trip ahead. The temperature barely hit 40 that morning. 

Sure enough, I needed the reserve when stuck for a ride outside Atlanta. I found the way to the bus station and asked how far north I could go with the 12 dollars I had left. I ambled onto an overnighter costing ten dollars to reach Baltimore. Since Tommy Tucker, a high school and college mate, had a dental practice south of the city, I sought his help. We spoke a few months before I concocted this new adventure. He often asked me to visit “when in the area”. Calling him from the Atlanta bus station around 11 pm sent his surprised mind into action. Tuck, his nickname, gathered me from the Baltimore station upon my 8 am arrival and drove me home to meet his wife. A stare of bemusement did not interfere with the hearty breakfast she prepared, and I quickly gobbled. I was due to be back at work the day before. and without pause, Tuck, an unconventional pal, came to the rescue. He said, “I’ll fly you back TODAY.” What!!!

I knew about his pilot’s license but not the access to a plane so readily. Sure enough, after a quick shower and a call to his office manager to cancel appointments, we headed to a small airport nearby. I questioned if this could really be happening. The flight plan called for us to land at Teterboro Airport, west of the city. The thrill of flying north in a Cherokee airplane over my place of birth in Camden and watching morning traffic crawl along the Jersey Turnpike on the route north drove me to offer Tuck a high five, which he did not return.

An even bigger delight focused on the flight plan he had in mind for our trip. Flying north along the Hudson River, the majestic Twin Towers froze my attention and boosted my heart rate. They appeared as indelible markers broadcasting power as a symbol of international commerce. Of course, my personal pilot focused on gaining tower clearance for landing. A problem, however, was keying the mic to get the necessary coordinates to land but did not get a response. I wondered if that little fucker (a rhyme with his family name we used in our college days), a 5’6” all-state wrestler and a bundle of energy, actually filed a plan. Time after time, each attempt failed as air traffic that afternoon went well beyond what he expected.

“This isn’t working,” My disturbed mate blurted out.

He confessed to never landing at such a busy airport and felt foolish that he couldn’t get clearance to land. Of course, that’s what happens when you don’t file a formal flight plan.

“There’s an airport in Princeton where I’ve landed before,”

He added,

“I’m sure of that. You OK?”

I blurted out,

“Of course, I’m OK,” What choice did I have? Parachute?

Forty-five minutes later, we sat on the ground in Princeton, having a Coke, laughing at this surprising twist. Thanks to ten bucks from Tuck, I took a taxi to the local bus station I made it to New York’s Port Authority station in Manhattan, followed by a subway ride across town and a short walk to the office barely before quitting time. and appeared at the office, albeit a day late. When I strolled into the office fellow sales reps broke into applause since I’d made it back at all. I approached Agnas, my supervisor, with a small travel bag in hand, and after explaining this travail, part truth, part fable to ensure I wouldn’t be docked for a second day’s pay, she signaled she had my back without uttering a word. Her sly smile, the roll of her blue eyes, and that familiar head shake let me know she’d grown accustomed to this unusual approach to the life I lived in New York.

Unfortunately, Dr. Thomas Tucker committed suicide months later —my bus ride down to Baltimore for his funeral was one of the saddest days of my life. I kept thinking, why Tuck why? He’d hooked a hose to his new Datsun 240-Z in his garage with the radio blaring 60’s oldies. I discovered later that dentists had one of the highest suicide rates of any group in the country, but why Tuck? I silently thought, “You had it all — a professional position as an established dentist, an attractive wife, nice kids, a hot sports car, a pilot’s license with easy access to a plane.”

Did his dream of “making it big” after graduating from dental school come with an unimaginable level of pressure? Would I face the same anxieties while moving up a different ladder of success in New York? 

I knew fairly early this telephone sales job would not define the future for me. Month after month of dealing with complaints from confused and often disgruntled New York City customers, the answer was a resounding “No Way!” A city dweller upset over their telephone service is a force of nature to be reckoned with, and I’d enough. “Am I a loser? A quitter?” These questions lingered for a while in my frontal lobe. No clear answer despite what turned out to be a career upgrade from soap powder. The effects of the recession seemed to be abating; a good time for a change, or at least to start the process.

A week or so after that travel misadventure, Randy, an office mate, suggested we head downtown to the new observation platform opening on the 107th-story South Tower of the World Trade Center. Things were slow at the office, with customer volumes relatively low, and Agnes, my supervisor, had been out sick. Our sales team would cover for us. On that clear but frigid day in February 1976, we took an elevator sending us skyward. Layered up, we headed outside and found our way onto the catwalk.

“Oh my God,” I boldly uttered, “what a unbelievable view!” I felt cold and pensive and uplifted beyond imagination. A few minutes later, high, when Randy, a softball teammate, produced a thick, perfectly rolled joint. After a few hits, I couldn’t stop the school-boy giggle and exclaimed:

“We’ve gotta be the two highest dudes in the world right now!”

A sign leading to the roof stated that these two towers were the tallest on planet Earth. Enamored with them on the first day I arrived in New York, I interacted with the buildings over the next 30 years. That first glorious upward glance settled in my brain, but the panoramic view of the city from the top filled my mind with elation. There, I stood perched on top of a Manmade Wonder of the World. 

A significant change lit a spark in my personal life. I faced each day as an out-of-shape, current smoker, a pathetic combination for a former athlete who begrudgingly entered his 30s without a clue as to what the future would deliver. I began running in Central Park, only a few blocks from my apartment on 91st Street, which made the most sense. Smoking was glaringly incompatible with a daily exercise regimen. There could be exceptions for a joint or two per week with Bugga and some new friends, as I decided that kept me sane and made us laugh like fools. 

New Year’s Eve 1975 loomed weeks away. Standing for hours in Times Square that night, a few seconds before midnight, I glanced up at the famous Waterford Crystal Ball as it slowly descended. With a Marlboro cigarette in my right hand, I counted down with the throngs packed like sardines into the Square:

“Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three,”

I took a last long drag and held it in,

“Two, one…” Shouts of Happy New Year were deafening and my smoking days were over.

A new life awaited, and jubilation infused every bone in my body, including those encompassing my clouded lungs. The monkey jumped off my back in the remaining seconds of 1975. I reflected if he (or she) would return, and could I be free from the ravages of riding sidekick with the Marlboro Man?    

New part

A few weeks later, a response I made to a Wall Street Journal ad: "Med Device Salesman wanted for NY/NJ Territory," secured an interview with Shiley Labs, the leading supplier of artificial heart valves and tracheostomy tubes. Lady Luck seemingly kissed these now thirty-one-year-old cheeks, as the company’s regional manager, Paul Mulligan, and I had a Jersey Shore connection. We shared a friend from Margate, outside Atlantic City, where Paul was raised. He spent summers there after moving to Boston. Fate stepped up to the plate that day for me. One phone call and endorsement from Bobby Booth, our mutual friend, and Paul had himself a Technical Representative for the high-priority New York territory. I’d be covering scores of hospitals in all five city boroughs in addition to North Jersey open-heart centers. I sensed this job might propel me into the orbit of career success or at least an excitement-filled future. It certainly would expand my horizons beyond starring in after-hours softball games and schmoozing with telephone office ladies. Prosthetic heart valve sales seemed to be, on the surface, a consequential career undertaking. I, at least, knew THAT much.

My spirit supercharged, the thought of a company car, expense account, and product training at the company’s stylish southern California HQ sent me over the top. After three years of being entrenched in big city survival mode, I readied myself for the Medical Device “Big Leagues.” That Rutgers Sociology degree, credible military service, a refashioned curriculum vitae, Bugga’s support, and that serendipitous reference from a Jersey Shore “drinking buddy” worked wonders. Sales presentations to heart surgeons awaited but first came a drunken celebration at The Greenery. Despite the B.A. and mostly liberal arts curriculum (a D in Biology did not bode well for my new job), I geared up mentally for the work ahead. I disappointed my folks by not taking a scholastic path to a degree in medicine —I had the grades but not the desire. Frat life fit my M.O. so much better. Never properly schooled in anatomical knowledge about the heart’s function and components in college, I at least “knew,” as the old refrain goes, “my ass from my elbow.”

As required by Shiley, I underwent a full health examination, exposing a heart anomaly called Wolf Parkinson White (WPW) Syndrome. A rare condition in which an extra electrical pathway causes a rapid heartbeat had not been previously diagnosed. I had little experience with matters related to the heart except having mine broken on occasion by ladies who came in and out of my life. Before this discovery, which did not disqualify me from landing the job, I accepted the position. Now, I eagerly learned about the heart parts industry I entered.

I graduated from my first sales job, selling a product that prevents clothes from staining to a device that can save your life.

2. Oh, Those Shiley Days - Merge with Ep 1 and use a new title / Change plan to edit on Frank’s Sydney Edits

Part 1. Nervousness, Competence, and Reputations

Doubt lingered as I flew to Orange County, California. I felt slightly overwhelmed at the thought of working for Shiley Laboratories, a well-established heart valve manufacturer. Could I handle the intensity required to approach the crème de la crème of surgeons? Most people viewed Neuro and Cardiac surgeons as occupying the top rung within the US surgical community. The ability and qualifications required to operate on your brain or heart take years of post-graduate work beyond what other specialties require. Given that more individuals underwent heart surgeries compared to brain operations, it was evident to me who held the highest position in this medical domain. There I was, a newly minted Technical Representative responsible for sales in one of the country’s most critical markets. From powerful business titans to the average city resident, New Yorkers wanted to know who could best repair a malfunctioning heart. If necessary to replace a heart valve, deciding the type and model selected would be crucial for the surgeon and especially critical for the patient. That heart valve had to open and close 100,000 times a day, 35 million times a year, and almost 3 billion in a lifetime. They preferred their new valve not to miss a beat.

Under that Big Apple media spotlight, several local surgeons had elevated profiles in the city and throughout the country. My customer base saved lives, and I soon learned who held sway in New York City.

The summer of 1976 had started, and I knew it would be bereft of the past few years’ aimless pursuits. After a week-long training program in Southern California, I jumped into the deep end upon my return home, targeting the influential New York University Medical Center. I moved into my first studio apartment near NYU on the East Side, a section of Manhattan I knew well. I planned to meet with the widely respected Dr. Frank Spencer, Chairman of the Dept. of Surgery. Perhaps an aggressive first call? I had no idea whether he’d grant me an audience. I couldn’t walk into his office expecting to deliver a sales pitch on the company’s recently introduced heart valve, one made from a calf’s heart tissue. A week ahead, I confirmed a meeting the following Monday at 5:00 pm sharp.

Standing outside the complex with trepidation that fateful afternoon, my gaze turned upward at the multi-story central tower. My mind drifted back to when I’d picked up passengers at the hospital’s main entrance in those loony taxi-driving days, and refocused my thoughts on Robert DeNiro in his then-just-released movie Taxi Driver. It was one of my favorites.

I pondered for a brief moment what I was doing there.

Two weeks earlier, I’d sat in a training class with several new salesmen: Amaden, Lee, Ryno, Anderson, Peterson, Serino, Trotter, and Briscoe. The names of these workmates have been etched in my mind for nearly fifty years. I joined what appeared to be a talented, experienced group of salesmen. Recently hired cardiovascular product manager John Darnall walked us through the evolution of mechanical and biological valves — the latter normally referred to as bioprosthetic or tissue valves. They were made from either calf, pig, or human tissue. John prepared us for the firing line, as Shiley, widely known for its popular mechanical valve, had recently entered this growing market segment.

Darnall played a video in the operating room at UCLA Medical Center in Los Angeles. A routine valve replacement case demonstrated the basics of what we’d witness as Technical Representatives with Shiley. The precise movements of the lead surgeon (I can’t recall who did the case) and the operative team riveted my attention from the start of the procedure. But still, this was a video and I needed to see the real thing up close and personal.

These were early days in the transition from the predominant use of mechanical valves to those made from animal tissue for a select cohort of patients. When someone had their natural valve replaced with one made of titanium, plastic, or pyrolytic carbon, they had to take blood-thinning drugs for the rest of their life to prevent the device from clotting. A thrombus or blood clot could compromise or stop the occluder from functioning correctly, leading to heart failure and sudden death. When implanting a tissue valve in older patients, surgeons often prescribe the same drugs for the first few months to prevent clotting and then discontinue. They saw this as an advantage for these patients, fully aware available clinical data showed they may be functional for 12-15 years at the very most.

Heart surgeons stamp their imprimatur on patients when selecting a particular design or brand of valve. Their reputations hinged on the outcome of the surgery, and the performance of the device they chose could impact their career for years. These individuals would have your heart in their hands with the power to repair or replace it. When representatives called on them, these specialists would find time to meet, but only if you presented them with relevant information. I didn’t plan to waste their time.

The additional training we received on the line of respiratory care equipment proved to be less complex, but this product array had become a staple of Shiley’s business.

Company founder Don Shiley stopped by the class to welcome us, and the president at the time, Bob Elliott, delivered an inspiring talk on the job ahead. From that day forward, employed in a complex line of work, I viewed these gentlemen as a dynamic duo who might positively impact my future.

Early in his career, Don was employed as the chief engineer by Lowell Edwards, manufacturer of the first successful prosthetic heart valve at the start of the 1960s. The two previously worked together in the aerospace industry in Portland, Oregon, in the 1950s. At first, Mr. Edwards investigated producing an artificial heart and began collaborating with an innovative Portland heart surgeon, Albert Starr. Dr. Starr convinced Edwards to refocus his effort and collaborate on a replacement for failing heart valves. They finally decided on a caged-ball design, which became known as the Starr-Edwards valve. After several design and material changes, this valve continued to be implanted worldwide for decades, especially in developing markets.

Despite the valve's success, Don Shiley believed he had a better idea for a mechanical valve. He proposed using a tilting disc, rather than the much heavier and bulkier ball-in-cage configuration, to regulate blood flow. He thought the heart would not have to work as hard due to his design’s improved hemodynamics. When Edwards did not encourage him or provide any development funding, Don left and, in 1964, began tinkering with different apparatuses to construct and test his valve’s flow characteristics. His Southern California home and garage launched a new heart valve concept he felt would work better than previous models. Months afterward, in a bold move, he officially launched a company bearing his surname and housed it in a small facility near his home. 

Over the next decade, I observed Don Shiley blend his engineering expertise on fluid dynamics with the pioneering clinical work of Prof. Viking Björk, a leading Swedish cardiac surgeon. Dissatisfied with the models available, including the Starr-Edwards valve, the professor expressed interest in developing an improved prosthetic heart valve. In January 1969, Björk’s name directly associated itself with Don Shiley’s new tilting disc heart valve when he introduced it clinically at the Karolinska University Hospital in Stockholm, where he operated.

Don Shiley initially attempted to develop a disc valve with heart surgeon Dr. Earle Kay of St. Vincent Charity Hospital in Cleveland. Interestingly, Dr. Björk implanted the Kay-Shiley aortic valve in 60 patients before he started working directly with Mr. Shiley, but the clinical outcomes were disappointing. After his results published, the company ceased production. That came before I jumped on the Shiley bandwagon. 

Part 2. The Elliott Years Inspire

In the late 1960s, Robert A. Elliott responded to a Los Angeles Times ad for an “administrative manager.” Mr. Shiley, confident in his engineering expertise, was uncomfortable running day-to-day operations. While working in the Los Angeles aerospace industry, Elliott earned an MBA from the University of Southern California before joining what appeared to be a young company on the rise. Around the same time, the need for an engineering chief became evident. Don found Bruce Fettel, also from the aerospace industry. Mr. Shiley planned to develop new devices in the expanding cardiac surgery market that exceeded his expertise in heart valves. Don secured two critically important employees (and future CEOs, no less) in a matter of weeks.

Don’s wife, Pat, played a vital role in her husband's career once he established a proper facility. She had a desk in Don’s office and, early on, looked after administration as the company added manufacturing staff, sales, marketing, and customer service personnel. Coming from a strict religious background, Mrs. Shiley’s personal belief weighed against employees dating one another, and if discovered, they’d be let go. That changed after the more cosmopolitan Elliott took over the administrative reins. The brightest and best people were now onboard in critical positions as Bob steadily impacted the organization he now controlled with his business savvy, energy, and élan. Elliott’s indelible imprint on Shiley moved deeper into the 1970s, with one successful product launch after another.

After joining the team, I witnessed this vibrant mix of talented, fun-loving, attractive, and ambitious hires come together in a stunning Orange County setting. This private medical device manufacturer housed in a showcase office in Irvine saw positive energy flow inside and outside the facility. Several marriages between employees followed, and the joy of being employed by Shiley surged. There was no stopping it, as those late ‘70s and early ‘80s working in Southern California were an intoxicating time for everyone. In 1973, Mrs. Shiley died at the young age of 46. She never witnessed this refashioned corporate culture and “oh, those Shiley days” of impressive sales and marketing successes.

New tilting-disc configurations slowly but steadily replaced older, initially accepted ball-in-cage valve designs. The designers of these precursors, Drs. Denton Cooley and Michael DeBakey, were considered giants in cardiac surgery, but only the valve bearing Dr. Starr’s name remained implanted for decades. The McGovern valve could be implanted without sutures to save time, a crucial factor in a patient’s recovery. The longer a patient spends on the heart-lung machine, the more damage to the heart. Despite this advantage, other problems persisted and prevented the valve from taking off.

The tilting-disc Björk-Shiley Delrin Valve steadily moved to the top of the list for heart surgeons. Over the next decade, Björk and Shiley were synonymous with trust and performance in the cardiac community. The data on the reduction of hemolysis (destruction of red blood cells) and turbulence, as blood flowed through the valve, captured the attention of surgeons once they read clinical reports in peer-reviewed journals. Those two names strung together had a soothing ring whenever I overheard surgeons discuss their choice of a heart valve. When these specialists in the West replicated the professor’s clinical results in Sweden, its popularity soared. Becoming the number one mechanical valve of choice caused giant healthcare companies to investigate expansion, and Shiley Labs started to whet their appetites.

Part 3. Tissue Heart Valve Enthusiasm

Dr. Dwight Harken is credited with the first successful mechanical heart valve implant in Boston in 1960, using a model similar to the Starr valve. Following that implant, other configurations were tried, but none surpassed Starr-Edwards’ performance and durability. The general acceptance of Shiley’s tilting disc mechanical valve in the late 1960s saw the company invest in a new bioprosthetic valve: the Angell porcine (pig) xenograft (a tissue graft from a donor other than the patient), named after Dr. William “Bill” Angell in San Diego. Other valves made using a similar design and material gained implants and increased market share, but Shiley’s version excited almost no one. Shortly after that introduction, the company shifted focus to the extended research work of Mr. Marian Ionescu, a fellow at the Royal College of Surgeons in Leeds, England (British and Australian surgeons were commonly addressed as mister to distinguish them from medical doctors). This mercurial surgeon and inventor led a full life, impacting the field of tissue heart valves like no other at the time. Ionescu, originally from Romania, used strips of bovine (calf) pericardium (membrane enclosing the heart) to construct his new valve, providing central flow and less hemolysis. Porcine aortic valves had a leaflet with an inflexible septal shelf, or membrane from the myocardium (heart muscle), reducing the active orifice area and blood flow and creating variability in its performance. This drawback could lead to clotting of the valve. Mr. Ionescu initially believed he would not face that problem with his valve design and the type of tissue he selected. 

*Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons.

Shiley and Elliott were enamored with the potential of offering surgeons a choice of valves to dominate the market. They knew of concerns when implanting these valves in younger patients, considering the reported risk of early valve deterioration. The standard post-operative protocol for mechanical heart valve implants required lifelong anticoagulant drugs for patients of any age. What appeared to be an improved bioprosthetic valve constructed of pericardial tissue from a calf’s heart enhanced the company’s profile within the cardiac surgery community.

I, of course, faced the challenge of ensuring this occurred in the prized New York territory. Deciding which surgeons to target prioritized every call I made.

Back at New York University Medical Center, I walked up confidently to the lobby’s front desk and blurted out,

“My name’s Frank Tamru. I’ve got an appointment with Dr. Spencer.”

The young lady casually replied, “Fifth floor, second bank of elevators on the left.”

As I entered his office, I mentally rehearsed my first utterance to Dr. Spencer. I handed his secretary my business card and formally introduced myself. She looked up and said:

“Sorry, Dr. Spencer’s been called back into a case. You’ll have to reschedule.”

Without hesitation, I politely asked,

“Is there another surgeon who might have a few minutes to spare? Tell him I’m from Shiley and want to discuss the Ionescu Valve.”

Smiling, she replied,

“OK, I’ll see if Dr. Trehan is still here, but he may be operating at the VA today.”

After a 15-minute wait, a swarthy young doctor in a white lab coat stepped out of his office and, without introduction, said, “Ionescu, eh? Let’s talk!”

This unplanned meeting with Dr. Naresh Trehan, an Indian-born attending NYU heart surgeon, ignited our long relationship that day in a seemingly small but consequential way.

Dr. Frank Spencer, the special guest of honor, fortified the power of loyalty in their relationship —impressive and instructive by any measure. The master surgeon had traveled to his former student’s far-off place of work to officially launch the institute. Every heart specialist in India anticipated the impact this dynamic, American-trained surgeon would have on the country. At the time, there could not be a more high-profile individual and event to chronicle in Asia. Destined to be a leader in heart surgery in India and Asia, he reminded me of a scene I found depicting a “Frontrunner” — a poster of a cowboy outrunning a tribe of Native Americans in the Old West to save his skin. I mailed it to Naresh when learning he’d return home to practice in New Delhi. 

I had proposed a trial of this new tissue valve a week after calling on Dr. Joseph Cunningham (aka “Dr. C”), another member of Dr. Spencer’s talented surgical team. A tall, muscular man from Alabama, Cunningham had previously worked in Texas. Many thought he was born and raised there because of how he walked and talked. We met for thirty minutes a few days later as a follow-up to the Trehan meeting. I presented him with the same data Shiley had accumulated on our valve’s clinical results from Mr. Ionescu's hospital in England. The main porcine tissue valves implanted were the Hancock, named after the author, Warren Hancock, and the Carpentier-Edwards models. The NYU surgeons favored Edwards, most likely because Dr. Carpentier, its French author, dedicated decades in Paris to developing what he considered the ideal tissue heart valve. A rivalry began to grow between Drs. Ionescu and Carpentier, who both had strong personalities and faith in their work.

The time had arrived to observe a valve replacement case at one of New York’s finest hospitals in my old East Side neighborhood. My first close-up view of the magic open heart surgery.

Entering the operating room after a brief orientation from the head nurse, a green scrub suit, cap and face mask sufficiently covered me. She issued a stern warning that if feeling faint, I must move away from the OR table to avoid falling on anything important. I stood at attention, adopting a military stance, only this time with arms folded as a precaution. The room temperature seemed barely above freezing. I recall shivering at first and, as the case progressed, drenching my clothing in sweat. The powerful operating lights provided illumination unlike any I had witnessed before. 

The sounds, a symphony of beeping monitors, whirring equipment, and focused conversations by a team of specialists riveted my attention in a room where life and death hung on the skill of a surgeon. Soft music played in the background as the prepped elderly male patient, covered by a large surgical drape, lay still. With an endotracheal tube protruding from his mouth connected to a ventilator, he continued to breathe. The heart stopped (arrested) after it was infused with cardioplegia solution. When the bypass began, the anesthesiologist left the room. Dr. Cunningham told me to take his place – the best spot in the room to observe his manipulation of the heart. What an education! When looking down, I could see the top of the patient’s head a foot away from my waist.

Nothing shocking to my senses so far, but the odious smell of bone being pulverized by a saw cutting through the patient’s sternum made me queasy. Tiny segments of his sternum floated in the smoky air as the pericardium (outer heart sac) came into view. Next, the smell of burning flesh from the electrocautery (Bovie) added to this sensory overload. Part of me wanted to exit the room, but that was not an option.

From this critical point forward, the precision of the surgeon's hands and fingers fixated my attention on the exposed heart. A clear view of this motionless organ riveted my eyes solely on mankind’s most storied body part. Cannulation delivered blood to an artificial lung (pump/oxygenator) and returned it to the patient’s body, providing Dr. C with a clear operating field. The mitral valve is now exposed and, after close inspection, excised and replaced with the Edwards porcine valve—a seemingly straightforward procedure. The dexterous speed he demonstrated amazed me. Limiting time on the pump mattered. 

This foreign setting reminded me of the fragility and resilience of the human body, leaving an indelible impression on a neophyte like me, who watched a native valve replaced for the first time —not a memory easily removed from your mind, nor did I want it to be. My job entailed selling hundreds, if not thousands, of Shiley mechanical and tissue heart valves over the next few years.

Fortunately, NYU surgeons were interested in learning about the improved flow dynamics of Ionescu’s bovine pericardial design since they already used our mechanical valve. A week or so later, I finally met with the soft-spoken Dr. Spencer and presented the same information provided to his younger team. Attentive to what I had to say, Dr. Spencer promised to discuss a clinical trial with his group after thoroughly reviewing the data. Shortly after, NYU accepted the Ionescu-Shiley Bovine Pericardial Xenograft, its formal designation for clinical evaluation. Dr. Spencer had faith in the Shiley brand, as most surgeons did in the mid to late 1970s. The support I gained for the trial from these NYU surgeons had me thinking, “Maybe I could play in the big leagues of heart valve sales after all,” but a self-congratulatory dance did not seem appropriate.

Early in the second year of my employment with Shiley, I was sent to San Francisco to help staff the booth at the Society of Thoracic Surgeons’ annual meeting. STS President Dr. Thomas B. Ferguson chaired the event. Heart surgeons, residents, and interns stopped by to discuss design advancements with our mechanical valve and the introduction of this new bovine pericardial valve. I noted from their badges that Drs. Charles Bailey from Philadelphia, Vincent Gott of Baltimore, and Denton Cooley of Houston were talking with Prof. Björk and Don Shiley. I recognized Dr. Cooley, having seen him appear on the cover of Life Magazine after implanting the world’s first total artificial heart (Liotta-Cooley) in a patient in 1969. I felt like a rookie baseball pitcher reviewing the line-up of batters and seeing the cherished names: Mays, Mantle, and McCovey. What pitches should I toss to convince them I belonged in the surgical league they dominated? I decided I’d better move closer to the action.

Fortunately, Don and the Swedish professor dominated the conversation about our convexo-concave design, later referred to as the BSCC. This was a change in the mechanical valve’s disc intended to improve blood flow, recently incorporated into what had become the best-selling heart valve of the day. It seemed appropriate, as both of their names were linked in perpetuity to the popular device. When the conversation turned to biological valves, I saw an opportunity to test my ability by participating in the exchange. Based on Dr. Bailey’s well-known heart valve repair work, I asked his opinions about the Ionescu Valve. I whispered awkwardly, 

“What valve would you choose if you couldn’t fix or replace a broken one?”

Dr. Bailey looked at me quizzically, pointed to his feet, and offered an unusual analogy:

“Well, son, see these shoes. They’ll wear out after thousands of steps—because they’re made from leather. These calf and pig valves will follow that same scenario over time, and the last damn thing I want is to have to re-operate on my patients. I hope that answers your question….”

There would be no further pitches to this all-star hitter that afternoon. Standing next to these surgical giants at the Shiley booth was a humbling experience. Dr. Björk took me aside and, in so many words, told me not to let Dr. Bailey’s negativity diminish my enthusiasm. It made me realize I’d entered a technical sales world ill-equipped to survive unless I continued learning. I saw myself as being on the roster for one of the most respected manufacturers in the cardiac surgery industry. My confidence level increased a few notches after each successful encounter with a surgeon.

Despite my progress at NYU, I effectively did nothing further to promote the bovine valve to this skeptical surgeon. I demurred going further after the “shoe leather-heart valve” comparison threw me for a loop. I later learned that Bailey graduated from Rutgers. It may have been better to talk about the one thing we had in common: our university days as Scarlet Knights in New Brunswick, New Jersey, living “on the banks of the old Raritan”, as our college fight song went.

Confident in Mr. Shiley and the Swedish Professor from the Karolinska Institute, I listened to what they told potential customers about a valve they co-authored. Upon returning to New York, focusing on the pericardial valve seemed logical, considering our mechanical valve had gained wide acceptance in most of the city’s open-heart centers. The Ionescu-Shiley valve seemed to have a bright future. 

George Reed headed one heart center I enjoyed calling on: Westchester County Medical Center in Valhalla. He’d previously run Manhattan’s NYU-Bellevue program, where I first met him in 1976. The hospital, less than an hour's drive from the city, became designated as a tertiary care hospital for the mid-Hudson Valley. Dr. Reed’s new cardiac surgical service rapidly evolved into one of the busiest in the state. He operated on all patients who could benefit from surgery, regardless of their ability to pay or the severity of their disease. I watched him implant our standard Björk-Shiley Spherical Disc valve (BSSD) while discussing the benefits of the calf tissue valve we began to promote in 1977. The BSSD valve preceded the Convexo-Concave (BSCC) valve, which the company later launched. During the surgery, the operating theatre experienced a power blackout. I quickly stood off to the side and watched the chief cardiovascular perfusionist, Karen Bendall, power the Heart Lung machine using a hand crank until the reserve generator kicked in. Meanwhile, “My heart was in my mouth,” an expression of fright I rarely felt. That afternoon, I learned about the power of teamwork and how calmly Dr. Reed reacted. We discussed that riveting event when meeting over the next two decades. 

Karen and I also built a solid relationship when she began ordering our Shiley S-100A Blood Oxygenator, or “Bubbler.” Two systems were developed based on how the oxygenator transferred essential oxygen to the patient’s blood cells to accomplish one part of the surgical procedure. Early "Bubblers,” as they were called, dominated the industry, but later, the more sophisticated “Membrane” models caused less damage to the patient’s blood. Membrane technology raised the method of respiratory exchange from an unphysiologic, mechanical mixing of oxygen and blood to a gentle, molecular exchange of gases across various membrane materials. This became necessary as the patient’s blood no longer received oxygen from his or her lungs. 

These sales calls allowed me to escape the city’s snarling traffic, breathe clean air, socialize with Ms. Bendall, and earn some decent commissions in one afternoon. According to Mr. Webster, the word Valhalla was a place of honor, glory, or happiness. It certainly felt that way to this happy sales rep.    

One notable heart surgeon, Dr. Robert Frater, chief of cardiac surgery at Albert Einstein Medical Center in the Bronx and an expert on tissue valves, took me to task when discussing the benefits of our calf valve versus the two porcine models on the market. Despite advising him that NYU would begin a trial and Dr. Cooley had implanted hundreds of valves at the Texas Heart Institute, Dr. Frater went on a tirade about a leaflet of an Ionescu valve he’d implanted. It had detached from the supporting stent, causing an “immense problem” for the patient. Frater, originally from South Africa, had trained at the prestigious Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, and knew his stuff regarding these types of tissue valves.

I was there to listen and learn, not to argue.

Much later and better acquainted with Mr. Ionescu and the valve he’d developed with Shiley’s engineering assistance, I understood Dr. Frater's unrestrained antipathy toward both.

Part 4. The Fogarty Catheter under the Shiley Name

Besides heart valves, we had a line of arterial embolectomy catheters used by vascular surgeons to remove a blood clot or thrombus, (a fibrinous clot that forms in a blood vessel or one of the chambers of the heart) from a patient’s circulatory system. Dr. Thomas Fogarty developed the product in 1961. The catheter took on his name thanks to wise marketing by the manufacturer, Edwards Labs (the company Lowell Edwards formed in the 1960s). At the time, they were the dominant manufacturer in the cardiac device industry. Shiley developed a similar, less expensive catheter in the mid-1970s, equally effective in its performance.

In looking into new sales opportunities, I’d discovered that NYU had the most acclaimed and powerful vascular surgeon in the entire city, Dr. Anthony Imparato. I assumed he might be easier to see than the city’s imposing heart surgeons. His Italian surname got my attention, considering I shared a similar ancestral origin (despite my name not hinting as much). My grandfather changed his original surname, “Tamburro,” upon suggestion when landing on Ellis Island in the early 1920s. Immigration officials believed shortening an applicant’s last name would allow them to blend more smoothly into American society. I would carry the name “Tamru,” confusing many who tried to associate this surname with my parent’s county of birth. Similar last names hailed from Japan, Morocco, or, as I discovered later, Ethiopia, where a close variation was fairly common. 

Not too long after my first meetings at NYU with Drs. Trehan and Cunningham, I decided to stop by Imparato’s office to meet his personal assistant and arrange an appointment. I had rising confidence, considering I was faux pas-free so far (a self-evaluation), and the catheter was much simpler to detail than a mechanical or biological heart valve.

Presenting a business card reading “Technical Representative” to his attractive secretary, I proudly stated,

“I’d like to schedule an appointment to see Dr. Imparato.”

Without even looking at the card, she casually replied, “Sorry, Dr. Imparato does NOT see salesmen.”

Somewhat knocked off stride, I uttered anxiously, “I’m not a salesman and I want to discuss technical advancements in embolectomy catheters; I know he’s a busy surgeon, but I’m willing to wait—”

“He doesn’t see representatives of any kind,” she shot back sharply, cutting me off in mid-sentence.

Each time I visited NYU over the next four months, I stopped by Dr. Imparato’s office, hoping he would have a change of heart. I left a business card with a note every visit, and while there, feasted my hungry eyes on the lovely, statuesque young woman acting as his praetorian guard. My hopes were in vain, but I successfully detected a pattern in the doctor’s Friday afternoon schedule; he left the office at precisely 5 pm (probably to catch a train to a home in Long Island). With him on the 8th floor, I thought, why not wait outside the office and, by chance, be on the same elevator ready to show him Shiley’s version of the Fogerty Catheters? I knew what the doctor looked like from a photo posted on the wall in NYU’s Department of Surgery.

It worked. I followed him into the elevator, a demo catheter in hand, and quickly introduced myself.

“Dr. Imparato, my name’s Tamru. I’ve wanted to show you this catheter for months. It’s new, equal to the Fogarty in performance, and may even be less costly to the hospital.”

He looked at me without expression, took the catheter from my hand (I had pre-inflated it), felt the tip, squeezed the balloon, and, without hesitation, said,

“Drop a few samples off at my office next week. I’ll give them a try.”

Wow, I thought, that’s it!

In the early 1980s, there were signs of a power shift toward cardiologists. This new technique for removing blood clots transformed an invasive operation requiring a significant incision and a lengthy hospital stay into a one or two-hour procedure. The entire case could be completed with a single incision, employing an Embolectomy (EMB) catheter while the patient underwent local anesthesia. A return to home the next day brought smiles to the faces of patients convinced to forego open-heart surgery.

I didn’t know whether to say thanks or give him a traditional Italian embrace as a sign of gratitude. I did neither, as he quickly exited the elevator and building to hail a taxi. I knew that if the trial went well, NYU could be the most significant dollar-volume account in the entire Northeast territory (when adding revenues from tracheostomy tubes, blood oxygenators, and Ionescu and Björk valves). / See note advice from G.

My early success with Shiley hinged on success at that one hospital. Deciding to show up in the late afternoon to hang out in the surgeon’s lounge, I got to see Drs. Trehan and Cunningham again, and meet Drs. Steve Colvin, Tony Acinapura, Gene Grossi, and Wayne Isom (before he moved to Cornell Medical Center further uptown in Manhattan). Dr. Spencer wanted his team to be the best-trained heart surgeons in the country. He sent Isom to New Zealand to learn congenital cardiac surgery under the tutelage of the world-renowned Sir Brian Barratt-Boyes and Colvin to France to learn from heart valve repair guru Dr. Alain Carpentier. A promising young Malaysian surgeon, Dr. SAW Huat Seong, had also trained at NYU a year before from conversations I picked up in the lounge.   

Part 5. Money to Spend

Employed in New York with a company car, expense account, and message of quality products to deliver motivated me to work harder as I strove to keep up with my colleagues. Being a member of the Shiley team in the late 1970s seemed as if I’d awoken in the middle of a dream, living on the trendy Upper East Side with a new outlook on life. I traveled to attend conferences in cities around the country and had money to spend when seeking fun at home (The Studio 54 “Disco Craze” had begun at this time). I felt more at home at Bugga’s East Side bar, The Greenery, but I stopped at one popular disco, New York, which was much easier to enter. Studio 54 doormen closely examined male patrons standing in line sometimes for hours to determine if they fit the exclusive scene they protected at all costs. 

New York New York accommodated my style and mentality much better. Sure enough, I met Jane, a statuesque British lady about thirty years old. After dancing to Boogie Nights, she invited me back to her apartment, poured me a tall drink, added mood music, and beckoned me over to a lush couch. Considering how little intimate contact I had in my first few years in the city, I saw Jane as an indication my luck had changed. It took seconds to reach coitus but, unfortunately, less than five minutes to climax (mine, that is, not hers). Jane played her part well, but Tarzan did not.

Jane stood up and spewed these memorable words in her distinctly British accent:

“I can’t staand a maan who takes his pleasure first,” and headed to the bathroom, locking the door without uttering another word.

I grabbed my slacks, shorts, and shoes and quickly left. I walked straight over to The Greenery to drown my disquiet with help from Johnnie Walker. Bugga, sitting at the bar, shook his head and could not control an outburst of derisive laughter when I shared this nightmare. He suggested I try Plato’s Retreat, a recently opened sex club for swingers on the Lower East Side. I did not qualify as a swinger other than a guy who swung a bat and often missed the ball when playing softball. The city drifted closer to decadence in the 1970s. I did not return to “New York, New York,” in case I’d run into Jane.  

Besides hanging out with Bugga, I reunited with my local fraternity brothers. Betting on the ponies at Belmont Racetrack and gambling on the Yankee’s pennant run that year seemed like everyday pursuits for a mid-thirties bachelor, besides fruitlessly chasing after fashionable Eastside ladies. Unfortunately, my practiced heart valve sales pitch did not transfer to dating success. Seemingly, my eagerness to score had a negative physiologic effect on my performance. The British lass could attest to that!

I thought it might be time for a break from city life, so I went to visit my friend Sam, who lived in Trenton, New Jersey, a 30-minute train ride from Grand Central Station. We could hang out for the weekend, relive our European travels, watch baseball, and check out the local bar scene. Central Jersey ladies could not be as difficult to meet as those in New York. I packed a small bag, grabbed a taxi, and headed to Grand Central. I noticed there was a train to Philly with a stop in Trenton. It was leaving in fifteen minutes, and since you could buy a ticket on board, there was no need to stop at the ticket counter. Sitting in a car next to an elderly man, I asked him if he lived in Trenton and if he was headed home after working in the city that day. He said matter-of-factly,

“This train is not going to Trenton, it's nonstop to Philly.” I jumped up, grabbed my bag, and ran up the stairs to check the departure board for the train to Trenton. There it was on Track 7, leaving in five minutes. As I scurried down a long flight of steps, the handle on my bag broke, forcing me to tuck it under my arm. I reached the bottom of the stairs and spotted the LAST car of the train moving past me. Yes, moving and steadily gaining speed! A few passengers were standing by the door. I banged on the window to signal I must be on THAT train. Luckily, one guy opened the door. I jumped in, almost knocking him over, and said, “Trenton, right?” "Yes, Trenton!” shaking his head in disbelief at what he and the others standing there had witnessed.

Needless to say, this was not my finest moment as a New Yorker or traveler. Sam could not believe this story and busted my balls the entire weekend, as a loving frat brother would be inclined to do. I had better get my act together, as this discombobulated way of living had to change. Too quick with Jane and too dumb to board the right train.

Later that summer, while waiting at LaGuardia to board a flight to Chicago, I recognized the Yankees’ owner, George Steinbrenner, directly in front of me. A recent article in the New York Post publicized his large donation to an intercity charity. As a caring act, I tapped him on the shoulder to offer thanks. This large, imposing man turned around slowly, looked me in the eye, and thanked me for commenting on his generosity. He’d angered fans in those days for his hiring and firing battles with the popular Yankee’s manager, Billy Martin. Perhaps he thought I would add to this hostile chorus. Now, as a New Yorker, baseball was in my blood, and “root, root, root for the home team” intensified after that encounter (as did my betting). And, “If they don’t win, it’s a shame.”

Besides Shiley’s position as the leading provider of heart valves, the company controlled a sizable sector of the respiratory therapy and anesthesia markets, with a line of tracheostomy and endotracheal tubes. Calling on local respiratory therapists, nurse anesthetists, and ICU staff to demonstrate your product line was less intellectually formidable than trying to address the esoteric concerns of heart surgeons. This group of specialists addressing breathing issues seemed younger, more dynamic, and amenable to an equipment change. It was especially true if you were price-competitive, service-oriented, and compliant with occasional bouts of after-hours carousing at popular watering holes throughout the city. The CRNA’s (Certified Registered Nurse Anesthetist) convention progressed as the highlight of every tube salesman’s year. The company’s decision to create an entirely new division for these products helped grow the bottom line and began to attract suitors for a possible company purchase. The Shiley “Trach Tubes” (used to keep open the air passageways in the windpipes of patients who needed help breathing) were, in my opinion, some of the best-designed devices available to clinicians in my years calling on doctors and nurses.

Bob Elliott, president for seven years, organized a sales meeting for those in the field at the luxurious John Wayne Resort Hotel in Newport Beach. As Bob viewed Shiley as a family-oriented company, wives were invited, and he wanted them to share the success equation. This was Bob’s way of thanking everyone for their dedication since the sales team spent numerous nights away from home covering their large territories. John Wooden, head coach of the UCLA basketball team, was a coach whose teams won NCAA championships year after year. This inspirational speaker led what could only be labeled a “Pep Rally.” Not married then, I thought this event created unity and loyalty to the organization Don and Bob carefully constructed and led.

To be labeled a “Shiley Man or Woman” (we did have a few ladies in the salesforce) as the ‘70s turned into the ‘80s snowballed into a prized accolade acknowledged by almost everyone in the business, including competitors. It was not only a company on the rise. The relationships developed among the various sales teams, and supporting staff in Irvine lasted for years beyond when employment ended.    

Oh, how those Shiley days would change.       

Despite the prestige associated with selling heart valves, I grabbed the opportunity to join the newly formed “Surgical Products” division as Eastern Regional Manager (respiratory devices were separated from the heart valves the sales team sold previously) in 1977. More money, freedom to operate, and job flexibility suited my modus operandi at the time. Of course, less stress and concerns over valve thromboembolic events (blood clots causing blockages) and waiting weeks to see busy heart surgeons no longer concerned me. I’d be managing a crew of salesmen covering the North East region from Maine to Maryland in the south and Pennsylvania in the west. The promotion seemed to be a step in the right direction but did not assuage my yearnings to see the world. Teamwork was ingrained amongst the various divisions (Cardiovascular, Surgical and Cardiopulmonary) as we counted on each other to share leads and offer assistance.

Once established, I wanted my all-male team (I only interviewed one woman) to dominate the Tube Markets and continue growing the Shiley brand. The freedom to operate and make good money while enjoying the visceral fruits of representing a respected company went beyond the pale at times. We had lax supervision in our division, and many of the devices we promoted “sold themselves.” Meeting top management’s projections was not that difficult a challenge. Solve order-delivery issues, be alert to device in-servicing requests, build rapport with the customer service department, and stay close to your ICU Head Nurses, and you’d easily exceed the forecast. This left plenty of time for other, more recreational pursuits.

It was a simple but effective strategy. 

We benefitted from the company’s reputation in heart valves with equipment essential for use in operating rooms (endotracheal tubes to deliver anesthetic gases) and ICUs (tracheostomy tubes for patients connected to respiratory machines). At times, invoices popped up in my mailbox from hospitals my guys nor I ever visited or knew existed.  

I hired Tony Yeykal, a gregarious salesman from Allentown, Pennsylvania, to cover the entire state. He had a personal reference from Wayne Peterson, a close friend and fellow Shiley manager based in Atlanta. Over a lunch interview at Katz’s Deli on New York’s Lower East Side, I found the right salesman for the “Pensy” tube market even before my pastrami-on-rye and his corn-beef sandwich arrived. Tony’s nickname was “Doc,” derived from his surname, Yeykal, which had led to “Doctor Jekyll” taunts during his high school days in Western PA. I viewed Doc as ideally suited for the territory he covered. He previously sold medical equipment in several influential Pennsylvania medical centers. Located less than an hour's drive from Philly and New York, we often met for sales consultations. A fun guy to be around, we immediately bonded beyond discussing product-related issues. 

Within a year after I grabbed the management position, sales were cruising along smoothly. Hiring Mike Casey, a local Irishman for the New England territory living in Boston, added a determined former Marine to our team. I found Tom Doyle via a headhunter for the critical North Jersey market. He had the right approach, was mildly aggressive, and showed flexibility in handling diverse customer needs in a competitive North Jersey market. Although prone to gaffs after a few drinks, Tom’s smile disarmed customers we entertained during product presentations outside their hospitals.

I organized a catheter demonstration at a gourmet restaurant in Englewood for one of the area’s leading vascular surgeons, Dr. Herbert Dardik, and his team. With a soiled napkin stuck in his waistband, slurring his words while dancing to a Beatles song, Tom told the reserved doctor he MUST use “our great Shiley catheters”. Intervening as Dr. Dardik quickly rose to leave the restaurant, I told him Tom’s wife had given birth to a baby boy. Being delirious with joy, he might have had too much to drink. I left out the fact that his baby arrived the year before. The doctor thanked me for hosting the dinner but departed. The rest of his team stayed behind to enjoy the open bar.

I grabbed Tom, pulled him aside, yanked the soiled napkin from his waist, and said,

“Hey, man, I’ve no problem spending Shiley’s money to promote product evaluations, but I'll be damned if I use their cash to turn customers against us.”

He got the message and wrote a letter of apology to Dr. Dardik, who eventually used our embolectomy catheters. Tom never drank, sang, or danced at a company-sponsored event again and went on to win sales awards.

At the time, Ian Wagstaff, a transplanted Brit, led Shiley's Customer Service department. He settled in Orange County and suited the California scene well. He managed a team of sterling young women led by Sue Krohn, Ruth Sterling, and others that we counted on to deliver the goods despite time constraints, price disputes, and often miscommunication from salespeople when ordering evaluation samples. Walking through the department was always a delight. These stylish, competent ladies and the expert functionality of the team Ian brought together were hallmarks of the department. We sold directly to hospitals in the US market but through distributors overseas, requiring a skilled staff to handle our domestic sales besides complicated international transactions. Sue solidified the department after she was appointed the department head when Ian decided to join the sales force.

After less than two years with the division, I witnessed the company’s incredible growth. Besides creating this surgical products group, Shiley also separated the sales of blood oxygenators, cardiotomy reservoirs, and tubing sets (known then as the Cardiopulmonary Division) from the main heart valve line. Initially, I was involved with this product grouping in 1976, as these clinicians were vital to the open-heart operative team. After the company appointed Jerry Nigh to run the group, the salesmen followed his guidance in getting to know perfusionists. How? Two ways! Supporting the AmSECT (American Society of Extracorporeal Technology) annual conference was crucial. Entertainment (all forms) back in their home city could seal an account for years. The rule was once a hospital’s open-heart program used Shiley equipment and fell under your responsibility —you would NEVER lose the business.   

There was one young lady named Pam who could pull a rabbit out of a 10-gallon black hat or guarantee enough cardiotomy reservoirs and perfusion tubing sets to see my perfusionists through their loaded operative schedules. Shiley’s customer service department broadcast its role as an asset when moving products from our factory to hospital operating rooms on short notice. Calling on those who ran the pump (heart-lung machine) to control and monitor the patient’s blood as it flowed outside their body during a surgical procedure presented a different challenge from presentations to heart surgeons. They were not doctors but savvy, mostly young technicians who controlled the blood oxygenators Shiley offered; no formal appointments were needed. Show up in their office (usually late afternoon in the hospital basement) with literature, snacks, and lurid stories about competitive programs. Jerry recognized their crucial role in determining which system to employ to guarantee successful heart surgeries. The competition was keen to win them over, so learning their ‘hot buttons’ gave salespeople an advantage in obtaining the business. Even modest programs could approach spending thousands of dollars per hospital per month. You, of course, had to have a reliable product. If not, you didn’t stand a chance, no matter how well you treated them. Four aggressive companies were chasing after their business. Bentley, Harvey, Cobe, and Galen were tough competitors, especially Bentley (Jim Bentley had also worked for Lowell Edwards around the same time as Don Shiley and Warren Hancock). Mr. Edwards had hired quite a robust roster of entrepreneurs in what was unquestionably the crucible of the cardiovascular device industry.

American Hospital Supply wisely bought the company in 1966, calling it American Edwards Laboratories.

Part 6. International Opportunities Arise

In 1978, Shiley expanded further into overseas markets (mainly Europe), and despite the appearance of contentment, restlessness consumed me. My interest in landing on a foreign shore to represent the company was no secret whenever the topic arose at sales meetings. The president's somewhat vague promise of a future overseas job enlivened me despite having yet to discuss a potential date or actual position. At this time, the company had an engineer of Bolivian heritage covering all Latin American markets based in Irvine and a former domestic sales manager from Kansas City responsible for Asia and the Pacific (based in, of all places, heavenly Kailua, Hawaii).

At the Annual Meeting of the Society of Thoracic Surgeons in 1978 in Orlando, a private conversation between Don Shiley, the company founder, and Bob Elliott, the president, caught my attention:

I heard Elliott say,

“We’ve had several inquiries from distributors in Indonesia and China about the availability of our products there, but it may be premature for us to add resources right now. We have Louie Cisneros covering South America and Gary McCord, who’s appointed several Asian dealers already.”

“Well, Bob, considering our success in Europe, maybe it’s time we looked into it further,” Don replied without hesitation. (Used G edit to say looked vs look)

Don Shiley’s approach to growing the company drove everyone forward, but he left it up to Elliott to follow through. He’d hired a budding star and confidently appointed him president eight years earlier. The results were startling. From sales of $375,000 in 1968 to over $30 million in 1977, Don’s company, launched after he left his position at Edwards, continued on an impressive upward trajectory.     

This conversation did not fall on deaf ears. Opportunistically within range, my antennae had already been attuned to these management rumblings. Fully aware of how well the Shiley heart valves were selling domestically, when salespeople shared stories of overseas postings, even speculative, it fueled my interest in a potential move. With my background and the ability to speak razonable Español, I thought an opening working with Louie might be possible in South America. Of course, I had more to accomplish with my Surgical Products team before I could push hard for an international posting. I awaited a chance.

For most New Yorkers, the city challenged their every move —a taxing environment for sure. For others, working in the center of the universe sharpened their game. My journey had only begun, but I didn’t see New York defining my career. Midnight fantasies had me circling the globe. 

While there, why not enjoy a bachelor’s life, find a classy woman for my arm, and officially partake in the exciting local scene? A popular Billy Joel song caught my attention at the time. "Big Shot,” directed at his lady friend boasting of the people she knew at Elaine’s, a Second Avenue eatery and watering hole for the Broadway in-crowd, had some catchy lines. I lived two blocks away on the Upper East Side and felt motivated to stop in one night for a quick “pop.” I walked by it daily, and when Joel crooned, “You had the Dom Perignon in your hand and the spoon up your nose,” I wanted a first-hand look inside. Considering I’d dropped off several “party animals” there in my taxi driving days, I was unafraid of curiosity killing my inner tiger. It occasionally wanted to roar, and why not at this popular neighborhood saloon? The tenderhearted but imposing proprietor, Elaine Kaufman, ran a tight ship in preferred seating for runaway egos, wannabe actors, and drunken fools. I didn’t fit into any of those groups. The food tasted fine, but the ambiance was provocative. Only one issue remained: my experience working at Adam’s Apple a few years before did not prepare me for the people I might get to know at Elaine’s. In comparison, the Apple was a kindergarten compared to this graduate school of local celebrities. Despite a strong temptation to cater to my nose, I had nothing in common with anyone there. My left arm would be fine without a lady wearing a Halston dress hanging on to it.

My mind itched for a change and echoed my inner discontent with life in the city. Residing in this hotbed of medical excellence, cultural diversity, sports dominance, and 24-hour stimulation, New York could fulfill anyone’s level of gratification. I had a cushy job, but consecutive winters of extended, icy blasts further stoked my disquiet. Increased street violence, the Son of Sam fear-invoking, citywide murder spree, and the national fiscal crisis had residents on edge. Add a July 1977 power blackout along with several garbage strikes; the Apple began to show signs of decay.

Nothing seemed worse aesthetically the next two winters than walking along Manhattan’s sidewalks and glancing down at doggie droppings, yellow snow mixed with miniature, drained vodka bottles, and half-empty fried rice containers. My shoes came off the moment I entered my apartment.

Was New York slowly decomposing, or had the city’s enticing glow worn off?

In May 1977, the blades of a New York Airways helicopter killed five people atop the Pan Am Building, now the MetLife Building. The fatal incident ended the time-saving, convenient service to and from JFK Airport. Only one week before that horrific accident, I landed on that helipad upon arriving at JFK. I’d disembarked from a long, bumpy flight from Los Angeles after a visit to the Shiley office, where I met two fellow regional managers. They accompanied me to inform President Elliott that we’d discovered our immediate boss and one of our fellow sales managers had concocted a scheme detrimental to the company’s interests and strictly for personal gain. The pair had secretly formed a regional distribution company that bought tubes from Shiley at a 30% discount and sold them to hospitals who thought they were getting a better deal buying bulk from a local dealer. Since they owned the company and were paid a handsome management salary by Shiley, their actions were unethical, to say the least. We knew Elliott would handle things appropriately and left it up to him to decide what steps to take - we were messengers only. The next day, the dealer’s ownership was investigated and confirmed. Our colleagues were no longer Shiley Men. A call from my former boss Paul Mulligan a week later thanking me for exposing this obvious scam was the only “thank you” I needed.       

Talk about killing the Goose that had laid a Golden Egg.

My diversions varied during that summer of ‘78, but betting on baseball increased as I followed the New York Yankee’s battle with the Baltimore Orioles for the American League pennant. The action occurred at The Greenery, where Sonny, the local Eastside bookie, held sway. I placed five-dollar bets, while Bugga doubled or tripled that amount in betting almost daily on the Yankees. Somehow, they lost when favored to win, and our debts accumulated. In my case, it was two grand down for the season, and for Bugga, ten big ones. The 1978 World Series awaited against the Los Angeles Dodgers, and we decided to go “double or nothing” after Sonny tempted (taunted, actually) us to “win back our losses by sticking with the Yanks.” We did, and after they lost the first two games of the seven-game series, we were dispirited. Our guys swept the next four games thanks to the hitting heroics of Reggie Jackson. We saved face among friends after an embarrassing summer of hardball pain. The Yanks won 100 games and lost 63, and Bugga and I resided in the monetary loss column until the chips were down. Blow the first two games to start the Series, no problem. Lady Luck joined us at the Greenery on that celebratory day. We treated Sonny to a few beers - how sweet it was watching him count out those Benjamin Franklins. We did not come out ahead for the season but regained trust in the Yankees to win when it counted and openly smirked at the subdued bookie. He’d gone all out in encouraging action on the Dodgers.

Part 7. City Shenanigans, Big Brothers & Travel Adventures

Besides the idiocy associated with betting on baseball, another treacherous routine emerged. Driving through the city's red lights (before the “turn right on red law” passed) morphed into an obsession. Going back to my taxi days when I’d drive straight through red lights, I noticed city cops rarely bothered enforcing that law - too many other activities got their attention. Despite knowing I'd eventually get caught and ticketed, I always hurried to make an appointment or meet friends. The thrill of driving unimpeded addicted me. I told friends I’d gained 3-4 hours a week by not sitting idle at red lights. After months of breaking the law, one night on the Upper West Side with Bob Petrella (Bugga) and Charlie Rosen (another frat brother and racing fan), filled with intoxicants after a poker game ending at 2 am, I got stopped by two officers pulling their patrol car astride my Pontiac Grand Prix (without exiting):

Rolling down a window, one barked, “Hey! Are you fuckin’ blind? Can’t you see those lights were red?”

I mumbled, slurring my words, “Yeah, yeah, guess I shoulda stopped; they were not very bright…” or some gobbledygook of an answer.

A bitter cold night, and these cops did not want to leave their heated car to write a ticket. My frat brothers slept through the entire incident, as knowing them, the situation would have been even worse if they awoke.

I wondered for a moment if either of these officers were the clever bastards who’d jumped in the back seat of my taxi for a free ride years before.

Surviving and thriving in the Big Apple did not come easy, but I learned how far my shenanigans would take me. We achieved both when sales hit targets, late-night entertainment of customers went well, and a drink for the road turned you into a joker. There’s the result. We used all but one letter to create a new message — the sign changed back that morning when the manager did his daily inspection. We met Joe in catering, who found it “pretty damn funny” without us revealing the culprits. Stupid, moronic, lame-brained, pick your adjective —retelling the story as “clever” explained our mindset at the time. 

A week later, another near-death experience followed this intellectual word challenge. I was heading west on the Schuylkill Expressway, known locally in Philly as the “SureKill,” which served as a major commercial route in and out of the city. While driving with Doc and another friend, I looked at the elevated Eastbound traffic as something caught my eye. A large round, black object seemingly floating in the air headed towards my precious Pontiac. OMG, a truck tire from an 18-wheeler broke loose and headed straight for our windshield. I quickly swerved to the right to avoid a direct hit with potentially catastrophic consequences. But it didn’t miss us completely, hitting the front left bumper, bouncing high in the air, and continuing down the highway.  Breathing a sigh of relief, I pulled off the road to assess damage. One problem: I couldn’t open my door. The impact of the tire strike created a ripple effect down the entire left side of the car. I heard New York friends say they‘d "dodged a bullet,” but "dodging a tire” remains in my storytelling cache. Two weeks of driving a rental car while my prized Grand Prix underwent repair made me thankful to be alive.   

I didn’t share the “SureKill” experience with him as he had heart palpitations a few weeks before, and I didn’t want to add to his health issues. I needed a positive change in my life and decided to look into the New York Big Brothers organization after seeing a billboard seeking interested men to join. The interview was exhaustive, considering the role you’d play in the life of a youngster who lacked a father’s guidance or a close male relative to spend time with.

Asked during the interview if I had a preference for the ethnic background of the boy I’d be assigned, I said: “Not really, but I’d like someone interested in sports, especially baseball.” Look at G edit.

Next came an interview with the boy’s mother, in this case, a relatively young black woman living in a middle-class section of Manhattan’s Upper West Side. I recall the mom being thankful I would be mentoring Christopher (her son preferred “Chris”) since I worked in the medical profession - she hoped he might lean in that direction one day. We met a few days later after she approved of me becoming her only child’s Big Brother. Chris was initially shy, but baseball helped us bond. He was a New York Mets fan, and I favored the Yankees, but since they played in different leagues, we could cheer them on without conflict. No longer gambling at that point, I enjoyed watching the sport with my “little brother” during the 1979 season. The mother had deep concerns that her boy would go astray without consistent guidance from a successful male mentor. Not knowing if I’d have a future son, I recognized the program's power and value for both sides. We often discussed his academic interests in starting junior high school the following fall. He was a likable youngster who I sensed enjoyed spending time with me. To this day, I regret not maintaining our connection. Perhaps, one day, I’d have a son like him. 

On a particular visit to the company HQ in Irvine that summer, I let President Bob Elliott know,

“Word in the trenches is we’re looking to get more aggressive in expanding marketing and distribution outside the US; hey, keep me in mind when we do. I’m ready for a change.”

Field supervision was extremely loose after the company sold to Pfizer Inc. in 1979 for $80 million dollars. It seemed as though everyone got caught up in the glamour and expected security of being consumed by one of the world’s premier pharmaceutical companies.

“I’ll do that, Frank; keep up the good work in New York, and give me some more time.”

Bob’s vague promise for a spot in a nascent international division peppered our dialogue each time we met. Not an overwhelming endorsement, I thought! Since we already had several dealers selling for us in Canada and Europe and Gary McCord, the older sales manager covering the evolving Asia/Pacific market from Hawaii, the die appeared cast for a further focus outside the USA. The Shiley name was ingrained in the clinical vocabulary of more surgeons worldwide, and the company needed to support that recognition with increased staffing and investment.     

Louie Cisneros, the engineer based in Irvine and originally from Bolivia, was responsible for sales in Central and South America. In early 1979, I flew to Brazil, accompanying him to assess the demand for a new tissue heart valve developed in collaboration with a famous local surgeon, Dr. Euryclides de Jesus Zerbini. We were tasked to evaluate the possibility of manufacturing the bovine pericardial valve in Sao Paulo and investigate the market size for tissue valves in South America. We were aware that a private local group produced these models of tissue valves, but did not consider a joint venture feasible. This surprise bonus for my sales efforts in the Northeast energized my focus on the goal of a foreign posting. And, with matchless timing, after the market evaluation ended, the Carnival began in enchanting Rio de Janeiro. It did not disappoint.

Retelling exploration exploits in an exotic locale animated my delivery when talking with friends. Salespeople thrived on the fodder of experiences enjoyed beyond their territories. Whether discussing a travel adventure, sales results, or ladies met (and bedded, if lucky), one-upmanship was a refined skill amongst competitive salespeople. One discovery in traveling with Louie was that he seemed a bit shady in his manner of conducting business. The thought of working under his cagey direction had little appeal. I preferred a fresh start in an open, somewhat virgin territory, like Asia.

The Far East would call, and I did not venture South of the Border again until several years later, in a much different role and stage of my career.

Once back home, foreign travel lingered on my mind. The saltiness of the vast expanse of Rio’s Copacabana Beach seasoned my storytelling vocabulary for months. The reality of another ferocious New York winter with a large territory to manage disabused me of fanciful notions about an immediate change. A mental and physical diversion seemed appropriate, and now that I’d gotten the cigarette monkey off my back, I felt like a new man. Training in earnest for the October 1979 New York City Marathon lay ahead.

Part 8: Heading West to Reach the Far East?

Creative impulses on each long run through Central Park accelerated into full gear as I crafted ways to head out west to the home office. Prepping began for my future, but at that point in time, a nondescript international sales position.

A month before the scheduled marathon, I concocted a risky plan that would change my life forever. Field management was in flux since the pharmaceutical giant Pfizer bought the company for the astronomical sum of $80 million dollars - over $400 million in today’s dollars. A pronounced change would be coming under Pfizer's management.  Sales territories would surely be redrawn, and managers repositioned or fired. I decided to make a bold career move westward! And with sales in my region robust and little supervisory control (none, actually), the move would be of my own volition and timing.

On a chilly late October Sunday, I finished the Marathon in 4 hours, 36 minutes, and 20 seconds, a time etched in my mind forever. The course wound its way through all five city boroughs, allowing me to say farewell to each. Starting in Staten Island at the foot of the Verazzano Narrows Bridge, I uttered softly to myself:

“Goodbye Staten Island, farewell Brooklyn, so long Queens and the Bronx,” and finally, “I’ll miss you East Side Manhattan, my home sweet home for these past 7 years.”

I told close friends, “It’s time to move on.”

Coincidentally and conveniently, my apartment lease was up at the end of the month, and what little furniture I had was trashed or donated to charities. I handed my company car keys to the garage attendant with instructions to turn them over to whoever replaced me. I packed two small suitcases and took the bus to see the folks in South Jersey on Monday. My mom and dad asked me if I had a firm job offer “out there.” I replied, “working on it.” Both frowned as expected but wished me “Godspeed” with a warm embrace. My young brother Don dropped me off at the airport, shaking his head in disbelief at the travel plan I’d constructed. That fateful Tuesday morning, I boarded a flight from Philly to Chicago. My journey west had begun.

I’d booked the week before on Amtrak’s transcontinental “Chicago-San Francisco Zephyr” (now called the California Zephyr) with the terminus in Oakland. I looked forward to traversing two-thirds of our great country by rail.

Sitting by a window as the Zephyr rolled slowly out of Union Station in Chicago, my Shiley fantasy now awakened. I’d be taking “possession” of that “promised” international position. Late in the day on the Tuesday after the marathon, I became aroused by this dreamy state of mind. The thrill of a two-and-a-half-day cross-country trip began to sink in. The muscular aches and pains from the 26.2-mile course I’d run two days before did not dampen my spirits. Horace Greeley’s “Go West, young man” exhortation rang in my head that entire fall afternoon. The flatlands of Iowa lay directly ahead, while a day later, the majestic Rocky Mountains awaited my eager gaze.

I had once transversed the country by car with George Lane, a notable author, and Rutgers fraternity brother. After we graduated on 6-6-66, our journey laid in my newly purchased MGB. I did all the driving from Camden to Los Angeles and back in 10 days. George had not been trained on a “Stick Shift” transmission, and there wasn’t enough time to evaluate his clutch skills. This frat brother and great companion kept me awake and focused on the road. He also controlled the Maps - GPS was a LONG way off. In a vivid, direct way, I grasped the vastness of the country and the utility and significance of the Federal Interstate Highway System constructed post-World War II under the Presidency of Dwight Eisenhower.

My current travel to the West had quite a different intent and route.

I disembarked from the Zephyr in Oakland and called Lou Perrone, aka “Baron,” yet another Rutgers frat brother who’d settled successfully in San Francisco years before, to let him know I’d arrived. Without fail, he dispatched his assistant, Desirée, a vivacious redhead, to pick me up at the Amtrak station. I couldn’t keep my hands off Desi from the first meeting. The sense of touch jumped to the forefront when meeting a shapely, winsome young woman like her. Although under six foot in stature, I could handle myself on a basketball court. I often surprised mates when demonstrating I could palm a regulation-sized ball. I tried not to overdo the “touchy-feely” act when meeting a bosomy lady, but it seemed my hands were made for that approach.

I’d asked Baron before departing Chicago if his offer of “a place to stay whenever in the area” remained open. It had been over a year since we’d last met. We had some catching up to do late into that Thursday night. An early morning flight to Orange County was next on the agenda, along with a call to a young Shiley marketing guy and confidant, Greg Snyder, announcing “I’d arrived.” If my bold (foolish, most would say) plan came to fruition, I’d have a place to hang my hat, thanks to Greg’s prior invitation when I told him my strategy for securing a job at the home office. If not, remaining on the West Coast while job hunting might be challenging.

Greg picked me up at the airport after I’d freshened up and drove me to the office. A fly on the wall in Shiley president Bob Elliott’s office would have heard this exchange later that Friday morning:

“I’m here for that international job we’ve been discussing for some time now,” I uttered somewhat brazenly to Bob after I arranged with his secretary to see him right before lunch.

“That’s great, Frank, but when you return to New York, tidy things up in your territory, we’ll devise a plan.” Looking at me quizzically, he continued. “After all, we’re growing fast overseas and need guys like you in the field.”

“Bob, I no longer live in New York. I’m staying with Greg in San Clemente these days. My territory is already above quota for the year, and I know how much work needs to be done in the countries and new markets we’ve discussed opening.”

After I finished my rhetorical song and dance in Bob's office, I sat down and felt relieved. There could be no turning back now.   

Within an hour, I had a new title as International Marketing Manager, a small office that was formerly a supply closet, and a wealth of congratulatory days awaiting. The anticipation of this new chapter in my life was palpable. Somehow, I knew Bob would not let me down.

The buzz at Shiley after I settled into this new job: “Did Tamru do that?” Serendipity continued to be a favored topic of discussion.

This “transfer” to the home office, uninvited, no less, signified that the daring move would be rewarded with an overseas assignment, albeit not for several months. The questions were “Where?” and “When?” but the “Why?” and “Who?” had already been decided. After meeting Gary McCord at the office in early January 1980, Asia looked more promising. He seemed to need an adventurous but dependable person to assist him.

Returning to New York was no longer an option.

Living in Southern California, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven after seven enlightening but physically and mentally challenging years in New York. Now, my dreams were coming true with the soothing climate, the close-knit Shiley family, and an even brighter future ahead. In this initial assignment, I was tasked to develop an international business plan covering Central & South America besides the rapidly growing markets in the Asia Pacific region, which I favored. My military service in South Korea opened my eyes to what was possible in the expanding economies of Japan, China, India, and several other burgeoning Southeast Asian countries.

Heart surgery cases were rapidly increasing throughout the entire region.

After scrutiny of market potential, an opening in the Far East awaited someone who could transition smoothly with little notice to Australia or another country as a base of operations. Gary, who had relocated to Hawaii from Kansas City only a few years before, was responsible for the entire region. He did not like being away from his growing family (5 children) for weeks. He left it up to me where to be based and made me an offer in mid-March 1980. I immediately accepted.

My mind was aflame with where this transformative assignment would carry me—launching my career in the region while based in Australia made the most sense. We had a robust and loyal customer base for the Björk-Shiley valves and a potential market for our new tissue valve along with the respiratory and cardiopulmonary products lines. Language, culture, and lifestyle seemed to be consistent with what I’d enjoyed in the USA—perhaps even better.

The decision was not difficult since local commitments did not encumber me to remain in America other than separation from family, friends, and my favorite sports teams. The novelty of international work weighed heavily on my mind as the allure of travel around the world to that “Land Down Under” went beyond exciting. Cultural changes awaited. And I had two weeks to arrive and set up shop. A heart surgery meeting had been scheduled in Surfer’s Paradise around that time. Even though I didn't surf, I wanted to discover what this particular paradise was all about.

To quote Men at Work in their popular song “Down Under”:

“Oh, ‘Do you come from a land down under? (Oh, yeah-yeah)
Where women glow and men plunder?
Can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder?
You better run, you better take cover’, 'cause we are living in a land down under.”

I’d shortly be a Man at Work on this faraway continent at the bottom of our planet.

The Power of Persistence was in play.