January/February 1999
By Si Wakesberg
Si Wakesberg is New York bureau chief for Scrap.
I’ll always think fondly of Max Bluestone, whose company was once well-known in the Pittsburgh scrap community. It was he who taught me early on that the scrap industry is indeed a community of people who, though aggressive competitors, are also warm and caring human beings.
And therein lies a tale.
Once upon a time, I was editor of a weekly publication called Waste Trade Journal, which had been established in 1905 and was a pioneer in the scrap field. It thrived, together with many other publications, under the guidance of publisher Charles H. Lipsett, who had a keen eye for what would sell and was able to hire a group of effective editors at modest wages.
When I assumed the editorship of Waste Trade Journal—after stints editing other Lipsett publications—I began a lifelong and intimate relationship with the scrap industry. As editor, I got to know the principals of leading scrap companies as well as leaders of the two major industry trade associations—the National Association of Waste Material Dealers, which later became the National Association of Recycling Industries, and the Institute of Scrap Iron and Steel.
Bringing in the money for our company were veteran salesmen who were steeped in the scrap industry’s history and knew their way around a scrap processing operation. Ben Abrams, Harry Lazarus, Dave Sussman, and Jerry Bernstein—to rouse some names from cobwebbed memories—were salesmen par excellence. They knew their customers, had broken bread with their families, and could seemingly pull ads out of thin air.
Among the sales staff, Howard Sloane’s name loomed large. He was somewhat younger and had the advantage, or disadvantage, of being Lipsett’s son-in-law. His territory therefore was big, covering a sizable portion of the Midwest. Sloane was a keen and energetic salesman with a vaunting ambition. He aspired to be publisher and believed he was being held down. In the office, relations between Sloane and Lipsett became strained and tense. One day Sloane picked up his belongings, walked out, and never came back.
His departure left a deep void in the sales staff. Looking around desperately for a replacement, Lipsett fixed his eyes on me. I knew many people in the industry, I was familiar with the scrap business, and—he assumed—I was available.
Lipsett’s proposal focused on one point: money. “You’ll make more in one month selling advertising than you will all year as an editor,” he said. It was a truth not to be denied and tempting to a young man. But it wasn’t a job I’d envisaged or desired. I didn’t view myself as a born salesman like Harry Lazarus or Howard Sloane.
So we compromised. I accepted a one-week experimental sales trip during which my editorial salary would be withheld and I’d live on what I’d make selling advertising. Then I was given Howard’s territory, which began in Pittsburgh and covered Youngstown, Canton, Akron, and Cleveland.
Which brings me back to Max Bluestone. He was one of the first processors I visited in Pittsburgh, which was then a city of smoke and incredible pollution. I remember Bluestone as a young, handsome, vibrant personality. He took me, a neophyte salesman, into his plant and showed me around, answering my questions and teaching me about hands-on scrap recycling. Most important, he bought an ad.
As I was leaving, he asked, “Where’s your car?”
I didn’t have a car and hadn’t had time to rent one, so I’d taken a taxi to his plant.
“Came in a cab?” Bluestone asked incredulously. “You can’t do that if you’re going to travel around this area. Here, let me loan you one of our company cars.” Despite my protestations, he insisted and I finally took the car.
In my more than 50 years in this industry, I’ve seen such acts of generosity repeated again and again. When my daughter went to Syracuse University, the Roths of Roth Brothers Smelting Corp., a pre-eminent family in that town, heard about it and, without my knowledge, contacted her, took her out to dinner, and introduced her to their family members. I’ve heard stories like that from all over the United States.
On my first ad sales trip, I also had a brush with a recalcitrant advertiser. As I walked in, seeking to renew an ad, the owner told me brusquely, “I’m a friend of Howard Sloane and I don’t like the way he was treated by your company. So don’t come here looking for advertising.”
I slowly began to close my briefcase, saying nothing.
“What are you doing?” the man asked.
“I’m leaving,” I answered. “Thank you very much.”
“Wait a minute,” he said testily. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t give you an ad.”
I looked at him a moment before replying. “Sir, I wouldn’t take an ad from you if you gave it to me on a silver platter.”
At this he became angry. “If I want to give you an ad, dammit, you’ll take it!”
Being young, I was acting on principle, not realizing my remark was an excellent sales strategy. In the end, the owner persuaded me to let him buy an ad. Incidentally, that scrap owner and I became good friends, but our exchange taught me a lesson: I’d never truly feel comfortable selling advertising.
Lipsett was right about one thing: In that one week, I racked up a remarkable record and made a huge windfall compared with my editorial salary. One of my most successful sales occurred in Youngstown, where I secured a large chunk of advertising from Maury Young, a consummate trader of stainless and alloy scrap. Lipsett was so impressed that he sent memos to the veteran salesmen berating them for their mediocre performance. “Look what a new salesman can do in one week,” he raved. “You all ought to be ashamed of yourselves.” It took me weeks to get back into their good graces.
When I returned and told Lipsett that I wanted to return to my editing position, he was absolutely astonished and couldn’t understand my decision. So we compromised. Every two months, for one week, I relinquished the editorship and went on the road to sell advertising. That arrangement lasted about two years, then I just gave it up.
Looking back on my shortlived sales career, I realize how venturing into the field, meeting processors and traders on their home ground, and watching scrap operations firsthand all helped me gain an understanding and appreciation of the scrap industry. That I happened to make money at the same time was icing on the cake. •
I’ll always think fondly of Max Bluestone, whose company was once well-known in the Pittsburgh scrap community. It was he who taught me early on that the scrap industry is indeed a community of people who, though aggressive competitors, are also warm and caring human beings.