ME AND THE SUITS

I’VE NEVER BEEN much of a corporate type. When I left Caribbean academic life for the real world in the mid-70s, Joe Gilbert, rest his soul, was general manager of the Society of Automotive Engineers. It was Joe who had set me on a corporate path, but it didn’t take. 

In 1979, I left being SAE’s manager of member relations for R&T’s engineering editor position. Part of my amicable departure from SAE was to retake the bevy of tests that had garnered me the job several years before. I recall one of the testers’ conclusions from this second time around: I was a “fortunate individual capable of fulfilling fantasies in a rational manner.” 

This brings me to today’s topic: me and the suits, in particular, R&T’s bosses in New York City. Tidbits follow about taxi takers riding through the slalom, R&T telephonic munificence, and the mystery of the mojous. 

R&T’s Remote Suits. The magazine became part of CBS Publications back in 1972. This was an era when Columbia Broadcasting System diversified into owning, among other things, Fender Guitar, Steinway Piano, Field & Stream, and Woman’s Day.

I don’t know whether CBS suits went fly-fishing with Field & Stream. But typically when New York City weather grew dreary, some suits would visit Newport Beach to learn more about cars other than yellow metered ones with lights on the roof. 

Slaloming Suits. Track testing was part of my regular gig, and our visitors always set aside time to accompany me to nearby Orange County International Raceway, our local drag strip/abbreviated road course. 

If possible, I’d arrange things to include an exotic car as well as something with rear seating. The era’s test equipment occupied the right seat, but the suits were invited into the back seat to experience incipient-lock braking from 80 mph, something only occasionally seen in taxies of The City. 

The R&T slalom was another suit-pleaser: 700 ft. with cones spaced at 100-ft. intervals. Typical speeds for sedans were in the mid-50-mph range, whether done solo or with three suits aboard. 

The Quattroporte’s road test report said, “… when driven at moderate speeds, it has feminine appeal, but the harder you push it, the more masculine it becomes. Altogether, a most sensual car in the best Italian tradition.” 

I didn’t record slalom speed with three suits aboard, but my solo best with the Maserati Quattroporte was 55.2 mph. A non-taxi-like experience, even for The City.

Telephonic Munificence. Wife Dottie recalls a suit encounter of not quite the same kind: Rob Walker was our primary Formula One correspondent at the time. Ordinarily, he would post his race reports (neatly hand-printed; “I never learned cursive,” he’d say) immediately after returning to his home, Nunney Court, near Frome, Somerset.

We used to joke about an MI6/CIA drop between Nunney Count and Newport Beach, capable of delivering Rob’s reports in record time.

Rob’s reporting of the Australian GP was another matter: As soon as he’d finished the report (and once the times-of-day were appropriate), managing editor Dottie would phone Rob in Australia. He would then dictate the report to his “editress,” as Rob called Dottie.

She’d type it out, with one of those neck-cradling gizmos holding the phone to her ear. (Why not use speakerphone, Grandpa?)

Wife Dottie recalls pounding away on her IBM Selectrix for an extended period. Meanwhile, just outside her office the suits were having a lively discussion about R&T expenses—including exorbitant phone bills. One of the suits looked in, waved a friendly hello, and went back to the discussion. 

Editress Dottie continued taking her long-distance dictation.     

The Mystery of Mojou. I recall a visit from another suit whom we came to know as “Mojou.” He was a large fellow with a southern aristocratic manner, in a three-piece white linen suit and, oddly, without socks in his well-crafted loafers. 

After studying several issues of the magazine, he assembled us all in the conference room to hear his improvements. “What this magazine needs,” he pronounced, “is mojous.” 

We all nodded sagely, though we were too timid to ask what the hell “mojous” were. Only later, one of us deciphered the word as “modules.” 

To the best of my recollection, we never adopted modules. ds   

© Dennis Simanaitis, SimanaitisSays.com, 2021