Call Me "Guts"
by Bill Montgomery

AUTHOR'S NOTE: A brief introduction is required because this piece was written for a fairly targed audience.  This was originally intended for thetruthaboutcars.com, an automotive site that I write for.  The editor thought this was funny but declined to publish it, I suppose because this kind of satire diverted too far a field from what they normally do there.

This was written July 2008, shortly before GM’s decades long death spiral became front page news.  GM’s white-haired Vice Chairman of Global Product Development, Robert A. “Bob” Lutz, now retired, authored a book on business management a few years ago called Guts.  He is known for frequently making outlandish statements like, global warming “is a total crock of s***.”

I proposed that this could be the first in a series of such articles depicting the instability within GM during the company’s final days before its inevitable bankruptcy.  Unfortunately, no dice.

It didn’t take long after I parked my rented Chevy Uplander on Belle Isle to spot the man I had traveled one thousand miles to meet.  His dress was as absurd as his attempts at discretion.  He sat alone on a bench with his back to me tossing bread crumbs to a grousing gaggle of geese.  Despite the ninety-degree temperature, he wore a putty-colored trench coat.  A shock of white hair, partially hidden under a gray Dover hat festooned with a small red feather, immediately told me who my mystery “industry insider” was.  He looked up from behind a pair of aviator sunglasses when he heard my approach. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Montgomery.” 

“Good afternoon,” I replied. 

“How are things at The Truth About Cars dot com?” 

“Well, thank you.  And you, mister, uh…?” 

“I would prefer not to know my real name.  You may call me Mr. Guts.” 

“Guts?” I confirmed, stifling a smile and wondering whether I’d crossed a bridge into Never Land. 

“That’s right.  Walk with me,” he instructed.  We began walking a path along the river. After looking about to make sure that no one was following us he continued. 

“Let’s not beat around the bush.  I’m taking a terrific risk talking to you – I don’t mean from the press, although it would be problematic if any of those vultures saw us together.  I’m talking about the firm.” 

“The firm, Mr. Guts?” 

“Yes, you know.  General Motors.  I swear the walls at RenCen have ears.  They seem to know everything I do.  Yet they don’t tell me a thing anymore.  Which is why I am talking to you.  I need some actionable business intel.” 

“Me, sir?  What can I tell you about GM that you don’t already know?” 

“Don’t get cute with me, Montgomery.  We know your Publisher’s got an informant.”  Guts spit out ‘Publisher’ like a curse word.  “I need to know who the turncoat is.  I need to find somebody that will tell me the truth before it’s too late.” 

“I’m afraid you’re talking to the wrong guy.  Deep Throat is RF’s source.”  Invocation of Farago’s initials stung him.  He winced. 

“Don’t think that I didn’t try to get the name from that sanctimonious SOB.  All he talks about is my compensation package.  You’re Plan B, Mr. Montgomery.” 

We walked along in silence and I wondered whether this storied captain of the automobile industry had suffered a schizoid brake from reality or whether conditions within GM were really that bad.  Or maybe it was a twisted ploy to get TTAC to divulge the source so GM plumbers could plug the leak. 

“I can’t help you.  I don’t know who Deep Throat is,” I explained. 

“Of course you don’t,” he countered strongly.  “But you can find out.  You must find out.  Look, GM is the greatest company in the history of the world.  Far better than the Bavarian schnitzel-brains or Chrysler putzes I used to work for.  We’re producing the finest cars and trucks in the company’s history.  This is no time to roll over and die.  This is war!  If the ‘board of bystanders,’ as your blogger boss calls them, and their puppet beancounter want a fight then this old Marine’s ready to sock it to ‘em.” 

His rant was suddenly interrupted by rock music emanating from his overcoat pocket.  He removed a phone and silenced his Steppenwolf “Born to be Wild” ringtone.  The call signaled the end of our secret rendezvous.  Putting the phone away, Guts stopped and pensively looked at glass and steel Renaissance Center majestically rising from the banks on the far side of the river back-lighted by the late afternoon sun. 

“You know, I can see this island from my office window,” he mused sedately.  “Every day I look at this place and I’m reminded of the brilliant deal makers that formed this great city.  Two hundred forty years ago a British army officer purchased this island from the Chippewa and Ottawa natives for five barrels of rum, three rolls of tobacco, three pounds of red paint, and a wampum.” 

“You know what a wampum is?” he asked intently staring at me from behind mirrored lenses. 

“No sir, I don’t.” 

“It’s some kind of fancy Indian belt made with white beads.  Can you believe that?  This beautiful island for some cheap hooch, a carton of smokes, finger paint, and an ugly belt my wife wouldn’t wear.” 

“Well, that’s incredible,” I muttered, wondering what Guts’ latest diversion from the here-and-now meant.  A black Escalade with smoked windows rolled to a stop on the road behind us. 

“You bet your sweet white buttocks it’s incredible,” he said with renewed vigor before climbing into the back seat.  “And that kind of thinking is going to save GM.  Get that name!  I’ll be in touch.”