From left: Kent Doyle, undergraduate; a self-portrait of Kent Doyle, West Indies business man; and today’s Kent Doyle in Manhattan. Below, Arawak cars being assembled.
Hey, I’m Kent Doyle
By Kent Doyle
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Photo by Brett C Vermilyea
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Hubris. That’s the personality trait that’s always wrecking things for the leading man in those ancient Greek tragedies. The guy has great legs that just aren’t made to look good in a toga. He has a noble brow, curly dark hair, and a great job. He is always at least a prince, if not a king, and he’s got plenty of gold and cute slave girls in mini-togas. Life is perfect, except he always manages to screw it up in the end. It’s usually unreasonable pride or presumption that does him in. I would add one more quality: Stupidity. Take Oedipus. He killed his father basically out of road rage and then married a women 25 years his own senior. The fact she was his mother just made a slight complication.
Young people are often prideful and presumptuous and stupid. I know I was. A modestly successful schoolboy sports and academic career sent me into the world overly satisfied with my own cleverness, and with an unjustified sense of entitlement. It would take me years to fully appreciate just how profoundly misguided I was, but here’s how it started.
I attended one of those toney liberal-arts colleges in the Northeast, which is to say I got a degree but didn’t actually pick up a marketable skill. I majored in philosophy and minored in anything that didn’t require advanced math or a term paper. Nevertheless, the job market was strong back then, and big corporations were still spending big bucks to train young “management talent.” The recruiters came to meet us right on campus, and I skated through those early interviews with a lot of flash and little substance. They sent me to New York City and put me to work doing financial modeling on computers. I didn’t know much about finance or computers, but like I say, the economy was strong and I did own my own suit.
I managed to survive and even prospered discreetly in the beginning, but corporate life didn’t appeal to me. I wanted adventure, so after a year I used my two-week vacation to visit a high-school friend who was living on St. Maarten in the West Indies. He was working as a bartender and living on a boat. He drank too much and enjoyed a seemingly endless parade of tanned young women who also drank too much. To me this seemed like a slice of heaven.
My friend’s father owned several island businesses, including a chain of auto-parts stores. Pop figured that one of these new mini-computers would help him keep track of all the little parts, and that divine providence had sent an expert (me) to help him. Now, this being early in the computer revolution, my slender credentials went unchallenged, and Pop offered me the job of installing a computer system for his company. A sensible man would have scratched his head and said: “Gee, that’s very kind of you, sir, but I already have a good job, and if I stick with it a few more years I might actually become worth my salary.”
But of course I wasn’t a sensible young man. “Thanks, I’ll take it,” is what I said – assuming that any fool could read the manuals – and I flew back to Manhattan to shove my suits in storage and submit my resignation.
Two months later I was sitting in my Phillipsburg office, trying to make sense of a two-foot-tall stack of Hewlett Packard installation manuals. The possibility for colossal failure was very real at this point, and I was just starting to feel the pangs of apprehension when life handed me an escape hatch in the form of an improbable opportunity. My company was contemplating the purchase of an automobile manufacturing concern on a nearby island called Antigua. It was really more assembly than manufacture, but the idea was that there was substantial synergy between making cars and selling parts for cars. Since my real but thin New York background included some financial analysis, I was given the task of perusing the new company’s financials.
Despite my lack of expertise in the field of accounting, I came to the inescapable conclusion that the Antiguan company was failing because somebody was stealing money from it. I don’t use the word “embezzling,” because that would give the process too much credit; The stealing was no more sophisticated or creative than writing checks that weren’t part of the normal business process and hiding them in sloppy records. I built a few spreadsheets dotted with red flags, which landed me on the negotiating team for this $6 million purchase.
Arawak Motors, Ltd., was the largest employer of males on the island of Antigua. Six million (Antiguan) dollars a year made the company a real player in the local economy. Never in its six-year history had Arawak turned a profitable month, let alone quarter. The meetings on Antigua comprised four groups: the prior owners, who wanted to stop their fiscal hemhorraging; the prospective buyers (us), who were too dumb to know any better; representatives of local government, who dearly wanted somebody – anybody – to keep the business alive; and a UN-sponsored investment group called Caricom. The government couldn’t have cared less about British or American citizens losing a few million dollars, and Caricom had a long history of making disastrous investments.
One thing you do acquire in pricey Eastern colleges is the ability to consume volumes of facts and figures, and then to regurgitate them as if you had mastered them. It was just a matter of a few all-nighters. By the time we all sat down, I was the only person at the table who had fully read the sad six-year history of Arawak Motors. I read it, I could quote from it, and I could put my hands on the appropriate citations. You might wonder why, having memorized six years worth of failures, it hadn’t occurred to me that investing in this company wasn’t such a great idea. Truthfully, the question never crossed my mind. To me, Arawak Motors felt more like a course titled “Third World automobile manufacture” than an actual business. I had read the book and felt pretty chipper about passing the test.
The purchase negotiations were supposed to last two days, but we were still there arguing a week later. The Caricom representative and I invariably went straight to the bar after the afternoon session. He was a young West Indian, but also a New Yorker and a Columbia (Class of ’71) graduate. We had a lot in common, as well as a host of recent college experiences to talk about.
When all the money issues were settled, there was only the name of the company president (or managing director) to announce. We had a candidate, the government of Antigua had a candidate, and Caricom had a candidate. The trouble was, none of these groups trusted anybody else’s nominee, and it had started to look as if the tenuous coalition might disintegrate. Everybody had a Friday-afternoon plane to catch. Finally, at the last possible minute, the Caricom representative (my drinking buddy) said: “How about him?”
As he pointed toward the side of the room on which I was sitting, everybody turned around to see what he was pointing at. I myself turned around. But nobody was behind me, so in five minutes it was agreed that Kent Doyle would be managing director of Arawak Motors. Had the plane schedules been a little more flexible, or had any more suitable candidate been available, it never would have happened. But it did happen. At 25 years of age with zero to little business experience, and no management or manufacturing background whatsoever, I was the president of a $6 million automobile-manufacturing company. Suddenly it was my responsibility to oversee two facilities combining nearly 30,000 square feet and 125 employees.
My first official duty was to drop everybody off at the airport. As I was rather forlornly watching the planes leave, I wondered what might happen if I went over to the factory and told them I was the new president, and they tossed me out on my ear. Nervously, I went anyway, and my new employees seemed willing to accept my credentials. I had a two-day supply of clothes (dirty) and my modesty at that moment of ascension to the office of managing director was deservedly profound.
One of my first Antiguan experiences was a visit to a local barbershop. Staffed by black Antigans, it seemed also to have an exclusively black Antiguan clientele. I walked in and found two chairs, both occupied, and a half-dozen guys waiting. Everybody smiled, and I sat down for what I presumed would be a long wait. Only it wasn’t. One of the guys in a chair got up and the barber snapped his towel. “You’re next, Mr. Doyle.”
And I was next.
My first thought was that maybe all the rest of the patrons were friends of the guy working the other chair, but they took their turns in order.
After that, I was very often next. Pretty soon I had a wardrobe, and a fancy house to put it in. My salary would have been modest in New York, but in Antigua it afforded me an estate with a pool, six bedrooms, and acres of fruit trees. I hired a maid who hired an assistant maid, and between them they hired a gardener. My job also came with a delightful perk called a “man of business.” This was a dignified man old enough to be my father who drove a dignified car, and whose sole purpose was to make my life easier. If I needed a new driver’s license, he would stand in line for me. Since the line at the local Department of Vehicles could extend beyond a day’s wait, this was a considerable luxury.
As time passed, I started to think it was okay that I was always next. After all, I did have a lot of important stuff to do.
My background is decidedly middle-class. My mother used to accuse us of treating her like a maid, but believe me, she had no idea. I learned what having a maid was like in Antigua, and it was great – far better than my mother on her best day. I lived alone in a six-bedroom house with a staff of three. I was the lord of the manor – a dream come true for just about any healthy adolescent male.
Things went surprisingly well that first year or so. After five years of consecutive losses, Arawak Motors had its first profitable month and then its first profitable quarter. We sold every car we made. I was working 80 hours a week, and beyond all reasonable expectations I was a success. The snooty English expatriate men’s club asked me to become a member, and the international Young Presidents Organization did the same. When Lester Bird was re-elected as Prime Minister, I was on the stand for his swearing in. The U. S. Navy’s Officer’s Club extended me courtesies. Gradually, the callow youth who was concerned about skipping the line in the barbershop started to view special treatment as reasonable … and then as his due.
This is the slippery slope that all those tragic Greek protagonists finding themselves sliding down. The poor sap is careening toward his own inevitable demise, yet he is too dense to see it coming.
One of my greatest pleasures once I was firmly installed inside the luxurious cocoon of my newfound kingdom was playing host to a succession of appreciative guests. On one such occasion, a small group of college friends was visiting from the States. They seemed genuinely flabbergasted by my miraculous ascent to the West Indian top, and if they privately considered my good fortune the result of shithouse luck, they were very likely right.
One afternoon I took them on a tour of the other side of the island. I was driving one of Arawak Motors’ most recently produced cars, fresh off the assembly line. It had become my habit to grab a new one every week or so. I would turn off the odometer and attach a little homemade license plate made out of brown cardboard to the bumper with a bungee cord. This was absolutely illegal, but I called it part of my quality-control program. What I should have called it was part of the Kent Doyle ego-enhancement program. In any case, with the sightseeing over, we were headed back to my side of the island when a car accident forced local police to funnel rubber-neckers slowly past the wrecks.
An austere-looking corporal spotted my cardboard license plate just then, and motioned me over to the side of the road. Today, in New Jersey, a thrill of fear would have caught in my chest had I been pulled over by a state trooper. But for that Kent Doyle on that island at that time, there was not only a total absence of fear, but a genuine feeling of impatience.
Corporal Joseph tucked in his chin. “You don’t have a license plate,” he said.
“It’s okay,” I replied. “I’m Kent Doyle.”
My response had less than its usual impact. It wasn’t a very big island, but the far side was still the far side, and the corporal seemed not to have heard of me. The personification of British rectitude – steel-gray hair, chocolate skin, straight back, and marathon-lean body – he had clearly worked long and hard to achieve his station in life. I, by contrast, happened to be wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt, white shorts, and aviator sunglasses. My cardboard license plate looked like an 8-year-old had made it.
Our conversation went on. “I’m Corporal Joseph, and you can’t drive a car without a license plate.”
“Hey, I’m Kent Doyle.”
“I don’t care if you’re the King of England. It’s illegal to drive a car without a license plate.”
“Look, I’m Kent Doyle.”
I said it as if I thought he hadn’t been able to hear me the first time, and he spoke to me as if I hadn’t been able to hear him. We identified ourselves a couple more times without any indication that there would be movement on either side. Eventually Corporal Joseph turned to one of his minions: “Pull him off the road and take his keys,” he commanded.
As the corporal started to walk away, I envisioned the long walk home with my friends. But then …wait a minute. I was Kent Doyle. I put the car in gear and drove away.
My friends were speechless. Where they came from – hell, where I came from – an act like this might have drawn pistol fire. I would have spent a night or two in jail, and would be a pedestrian for the foreseeable future. They told me I was in major hot water, and solemnly advised me to turn myself in, beg for mercy. But there wasn’t any pursuit. Antiguan police officers weren’t issued guns or cars, just billy clubs and bicycles. Still, my friends insisted that I was out of my mind. So when we got home I called our corporate attorney, a man of considerable standing in the community whose opinion I valued greatly.
“I wouldn’t worry,” he said. “But stay where you are and let me make a few calls.”
This is the penultimate moment in just about any Greek tragedy. The protagonist sees his folly in exquisite detail, at which point his foolishness is revealed to the world. Inevitably, he must face his transgression and accept public accountability.
Corporal Joseph called half an hour later. “Mr. Doyle,” he said stiffly. “I’d like to apologize for troubling your afternoon.”
I looked down. My heart started to race, and the earpiece of the phone became slick with perspiration. The guy had been trying to do the right thing. He was proudly enforcing the laws of his country, laws he applied to his fellow citizens; dare I say it – laws he applied to black people. And some countryman of his – his boss, or his boss’s boss, or the goddamned prime minister for all I knew – was insisting that he apologize to this arrogant white punk who had enjoyed a few too many glory days at Orchard Park High School.
I haven’t done a lot of really crummy things in my life, but causing Corporal Joseph to call me up and apologize ranks high on my list. I kept trying to stop him, but he plowed doggedly through and got off the phone in a hurry. If he’s still with us, I’m sure Corporal Joseph has a hard place in his heart for me.
Greek tragedies typically have Epilogues. After the play is over, a single actor or a chorus comes on stage and tells the audience what ends up happening to the main characters. It’s never a happy ending.
Our major parts vendor went into bankruptcy, and that forced us into receivership. I fought the good fight, but was nonetheless shocked at how quickly it all went away. The household staff went first. Then, in a matter of months, I went from always being next to “persona non gratis.”
Going broke feels a lot like walking around in public with no clothes on, or at least how I imagine that might feel. There were unflattering articles about me in the newspaper, and members of Parliament wondered just how a fool like me could have gained control over one of Antigua’s leading industries. I got my 15 minutes of fame and subsequently found out that I didn’t have quite as many friends as I thought I had.
Eventually I was on a plane destined for the United States with 10 cents in my pocket and fear in my heart. I thought the Antiguan government might still take the chance to lock me up before I left town. The plane was held at the end of the runway for several of the longest minutes I have ever endured. Finally we took off, and a few hours later I was back at Kennedy, where it had all started. I got a job in the kitchen of a crepe restaurant, and to this day can still crack eggs four at a time. But I restarted my career, from the bottom this time, and managed to achieve moderate success. There was no six-bedroom house, no domestic staff, and I wait my turn in most lines.
I do miss that man of business, though.
