STORY PROPOSAL
All the world may be a stage, but it's still rare that I see a psychological drama played out within a business. At Briggs Ltd., a retail clothing store, the ghost of a father long dead hovered about his son, his voice as harsh and demanding in death as it was in life. It was time for the son to put his own stamp on the company; to do that, he first had to come to terms with his past.
J. H.
The day after he buried his father, Briggs A. Doherty Jr. returned to selling suits at the family clothing store. Already, he felt guilty for disobeying Dad. When I die, the old man had commanded, stuff me in a plastic bag, mail me to the family plot in New Haven, and, for God's sake -- his voice rose -- get back to the store and sell.
Maybe it was a sign of weakness that Doherty couldn't carry through with his father's wishes. He'd locked up the store and gone to the funeral. Not only that, but he'd given all 38 workers the day off with -- gulf -- pay. That was a first in the company's 40 years.
His adrenaline was surging now that he was back at the store. For 19 years, the sales floor had served as his stage, his domain; here was the one place where nobody, not even Dad, could ever touch him. He gazed in the mirror, slicked back his hair, and geared up for his first performance of the day. "Some people just go in the store to watch the show," says Robert Weigner, Briggs Ltd. Inc.'s accountant.
And, damn it, those people were not going to be disappointed. On this special day, they were going to join him in celebrating his own private emancipation. Now that he was running the store, nobody would ever be treated as Dad had treated him; he could never be so tough, so mean, so critical, so explosive. On the morning after his father's burial, Briggs Doherty Jr. knew exactly who he wasn't.
But he had no idea, none at all, who he was.
For years, he had been nothing more than his father's son. Now, at 39, he'd been abandoned by his dad on the doorstep of a $2-million business. "I didn't want to be Briggs's son anymore," he says. "I just wanted to be Briggs." What did that mean? He didn't know, and he had precious little time to find out. His business depended on it; so did his life. Ultimately, the quest drove him deep inside himself and drove the company he had inherited to the brink of ruin.
"I was terrified," says Doherty, now 45. "I just wanted my father to come back from the dead. I wanted him to save me."
Briggs Doherty Sr. always loved rescuing others, smothering them with his kindness. His domineering style came naturally, an outgrowth of his disciplined New England upbringing. As a young boy he once asked his father for $5 to buy a toy golf club. "If you waste your time on golf," his father warned, "I'm worried that you will never be successful."
Briggs Sr. subjected his own two sons, Briggs Jr. and Dan, to the same inflexible work ethic. At the age of seven, Briggs Jr. started working in the stockroom of Briggs Ltd., earning 25 cents an hour. His father had founded the Providence store in 1941 as a custom-tailor shop. As a kid, Briggs Jr. rarely saw his father outside of the store, which gradually branched into ready-to-wear men's clothing. But he could always catch Dad's eye by getting into trouble.
Briggs Sr. rescued him from every scrape. When Junior came home from public school with failing grades, Dad was ready with plans for prep school. In 1962, Briggs Jr. flunked out of his second college. Dad tossed him still another life preserver. Forget college, he said, I'll teach you all you need to know at the store.
Briggs agreed to start as a salesman on a salary of $50 a week. "He's not any different from the rest of you," Briggs Sr. told his employees. "He's just a salesman." It was his way of submerging his son's identity.
Mister Doherty ruled both his family and his company as fiefdoms. No one dared call him Briggs. His unpredictable behavior ensured that was always in command, if out of control.
Employees dreaded hearing extension 33's dyspeptic growl over the intercom. As it cut through the store, workers froze where they stood, amid mannequins displaying midpriced three-button pinstripe suits, blue blazers, charcoal-gray hose, and herringbone topcoats. Please, they'd each pray, not me this time.
In his early days as a salesman, Don Douglas was unlucky enough to be summoned. Get me some cough syrup, Mr. Doherty ordered. Any particular kind, sir? Douglas asked. Anything, he barked, anything at all. Dutifully, Douglas marched down the street to a drugstore, where he bought the latest in liquid cold medicines. He returned and nervously handed it to his boss. Mr. Doherty held the bottle in his hand for a moment and took out his glasses to examine the ingredients. He muttered something unintelligible about them, tightened his grip around the bottle, and smashed it against the opposite wall. As the syrup dripped down the paneling, "the obscene words just flowed," recalls Douglas.
Wisely, Mr. Doherty insisted on having his office door padded to dull the roar from his "chats" with employees. So you had a problem fitting a customer correctly, he'd begin, why didn't you come talk to me about it? He'd review the problem in detail, talking faster and faster, rising to his feet, louder and louder, until he reached such a violent pitch that he couldn't help stumbling over his words. "He'd call you every name for dumb," says Douglas.
Nothing placated him. Hey, Mr. Doherty, a salesman once shouted as the boss was descending from the second floor, I just sold out our whole stock of size 39-regular suits -- to one customer! How many sport coats? Mr. Doherty shot back. The salesman averted his eyes. How many trousers? How many shirts? The salesman stood silent. "For Christ's sake," Mr. Doherty sputtered, "anybody can sell 18 suits. It takes a real salesman to sell them what they don't come in for." You couldn't satisfy Mr. Doherty. But, as his son would discover, you could destroy yourself trying.
Employees who stuck around -- and relatively few did -- learned to live with his erratic behavior. They stayed because they earned a commission in addition to their salary. And they stayed because of Mr. Doherty's dazzling grasp of the clothing business. John F. Sullivan Jr. had worked in retail for 17 years before joining Briggs Ltd. in 1965, but he felt himself no match for his new boss. "He knew men's clothing inside out," says Sullivan. If a coat collar keeps popping up, it means the customer is square-shouldered. An open vent? That customer has an erect posture. He'd pass this lore to his salesmen, giving them an edge over salesmen in other stores.
