The Company That Hired Me

I was hired in the early 80’s by an absolutely amazing company.  It was a powerhouse, generating profits that most companies could only dream about.  Everything was coming up red and yellow roses.

These were everywhere.

An indication that this company was something more than a mere widget maker occurred to me long before working there.  It was my introduction to KPAA, the Kodak Park Athletic Association, a company funded sports and hobby program.  There were clubs and teams that all the employees could enjoy.  The Camera Club was the largest of its kind in the world, where one could rent cameras, obtain very inexpensive supplies, and make prints.  My Dad used to take me there to make enlargements, nearly for free.  

Another facet of KPAA was the its summer softball leagues for kids, and not just for those of employees.  Anyone could play.  Just gather together a bunch of friends from the neighborhood, sign up, and ride your bikes to the field.

I could have shown you a glorious image of one of these shirts,
but I displayed my boyhood shirt on the wall next to my office back in '04.
Some jerk stole it.
Yes, I know, he did me a favor, but I still hope he got cooties from it.

Even better, the program ran on weekdays during working hours.  Full-time employees oversaw the action and made sure we did not descend into Lord of the Flies behavior.  It was an incredible benefit to the community.

On the day I was hired, the company employed over 60,000 people in Rochester, NY.  It was the peak, the summer solstice, the zenith.  From that day forward, the number of employees and the fortunes of the organization began to dwindle.  One might be inclined to infer that I was the cause, but I remind you that correlation is not necessarily causation.

As a neophyte member of the technical staff, there were numerous forms to fill out and papers to sign.  I really only remember one which would have some importance much later, but when one is flush with the joy of finally being employed in a good-paying job, not much thought goes into where one’s signature is going.

Did you read it thoroughly?
I don't think I did either, on May 2, 1983.
There is at least one clause I'd never sign up for now.

A few weeks after I was hired, I took my lunch to a table in one of the courtyards mixed in among the massive buildings at the Elmgrove Plant.  I was shocked to see a band setting up.  Unannounced, a very competent 4-piece combo serenaded my consumption of salami and cheese.  It was a shame that those viewing the noontime movies weren't aware of the music.

I was to work in the Integrated Circuit Design area.  The design center was located on the third floor of Building 1 of the sprawling manufacturing center that was created to pump out all the Disc cameras in the world.  That’s “Disc,” not “Disk.”  Shortly before I arrived, the plant had done just that.  Consider the manner in which the product was introduced...before a single camera was sold, 20 MILLION were manufactured and stored until the May, 1982 release.  20 MILLION !!!  Who does such things?

As part of the team designing a new generation of Disc cameras,
I received this trophy after the project shipped.
When I heard that the marketing guys had signed Telly Savalas
to advertise this telephoto camera, I knew I had found a home.

Well, only certain types of organizations can afford or manage such releases.  The government comes to mind, in the form of the Post Office and stamps.  And monopolies.  While the company went to great pains to prove otherwise, it was effectively a monopoly for many years because the chemical science and huge capital necessary to "build film" made competing with the giant very difficult.  Considering that the scientific and manufacturing base was coupled with business and marketing arms that were some of the best, and it was no surprise that the company dominated the creation of images throughout the world.

On occasion, a camera would be made with clear plastic covers
so that the mechanical guys could see their parts meshing, mating, whirling and twirling.
Great fun to watch.
The green circuit board I designed just sat there, except for a blinking "ready light,"
and maybe a flash now and again.

But often monopolies sow the seeds of their own demise with actions necessary for protecting their turf.  In 1954 (following similar action in 1921) the company had to endure a "consent decree" from the US government to keep from running afoul of the Sherman Act (anti-trust law).  As a result, film and processing could not be bundled together for a single price.  

While that may seem a minor inconvenience for a giant of a photographic company, the latent effect was that the company became much less of a photographic company and much more of a film company.  While flexible photographic film, the pride of George Eastman, was certainly a source of great profit before that time, and for years after, the reliance on a single type of product in a varied marketplace would prove limiting.  More so as the market began to change.  And more importantly, the psyche of the company became warped.  Decision makers strove to extend the life of film at the expense of all else, sending the company in dubious directions.