By Ray Downs
By Lindsay Toler
By Lindsay Toler
By Chad Garrison
By Allison Babka
By Lindsay Toler
By Jake Rossen
By Lindsay Toler
ALL THE PRESIDENT-WANNABE'S MEN: The public-relations variation of the light-bulb joke goes this way: "How many PR people does it take to screw in a light bulb?" "OK, how many?" "Um ... I'll have to get back to you on that." We were reminded of that sleazy evasiveness common to the PR profession when we recently called the office of failed presidential candidate and U.S. Sen. John Ashcroft to follow up on a snippy little item that ran in The Hill, an "inside the Beltway" weekly newspaper in Washington, D.C. The item reported that "no fewer than five Ashcroft staffers have jobs whose purpose is to get their boss ink and his face on the tube." We thought five PR flacks was a bit much, so we called Ashcroft's office to ask whether The Hill had it right. After being bounced around a couple of times, we were told to call Steve Hilton, the senator's communications director, who works out of the district office in Springfield, Mo. No luck there, either. Finally we got one David James, assistant press secretary, on the phone from Washington. So we asked our questions: Are there really five people doing PR? Who are they? Names? Salaries? James curtly told us to fax written questions. Fine. Fifteen minutes later, the fax was sent. Two days later, we got a fax back saying there are only 3.5 positions dealing with the press. No names, no salaries. We called James again: Could we please have the names? Here are the 3.5 staffers: Hilton; James; Greg Harris, deputy communications director; and Matt Morrow, communications assistant (he's the half-time PR guy). Now, could we please have their annual salaries? James got huffy. They're "a matter of public record," he said. "We do not make it a practice" to give out salaries, he said. What's the story? he asked. Well, we didn't really have a story, but perhaps now we have one, we said. Three-and-a-half guys in Ashcroft's office are being paid to answer questions from the press, and two weeks of phone calls and faxes still can't get us an answer on their salaries. Now that's a story. Next week. (SA)PAPER, PLASTIC OR CHAPTER 7? Maybe the dumbest remark -- although the competition for that honor is, as always, fierce -- uttered during the recent bankruptcy of the 17 National supermarkets was overheard by Nick Torpea, president of United Food and Commercial Workers Union Local 655. Torpea represents the 758 members of Local 655 who are among the close to 1,000 people who lost their jobs when the National stores couldn't make a go of it. The "new" National was a byproduct of the Schnucks buyout of National in 1995, when federal regulators forced Schnucks to sell off some of the stores they had bought.
Torpea was eating at a restaurant last week when he heard a group of women at a nearby table discussing how crowded the bankrupt stores were as they held their "fire sale" markdowns on groceries. "One woman said, 'I don't know why they didn't do that all the time, with the 25 percent off. They'd have done a lot of business,'" says Torpea. "I wanted to say, 'Ma'am, you can't make any money doing that.'"
Apparently the National stores couldn't make money the conventional way, either, so now all 17 stores will close. Four of the stores are in the city, five in inner-ring suburbs, one in Illinois and the rest in outer areas. Most are smaller stores in older neighborhoods, which doesn't bode well for that concept or those neighborhoods.
Torpea was surprised that two stores that don't fit that mold -- the one in Arnold and the one at Clayton and Baxter roads -- didn't fare better. "They're not bad-looking stores -- nice parking lots," says Torpea. "I just thought they would do better than they did."
Had Schnucks been allowed an unfettered buyout of National in '95, it would have ended up with 100 stores. The Federal Trade Commission, at the urging of Attorney General Jay Nixon's office, forced Schnucks to find a buyer for 24 of the markets. "Our goal was to have choice for consumers by requiring a divestiture of stores," says Mary Still, a spokeswoman for Nixon. "By putting together a package of enough stores for someone to buy, it was hoped we would have a competitive situation there. There's limits to what you can do."
Critics of the deal say Schnucks dumped stores it didn't want. The fact that only six or seven of the stores -- in South County, St. Peters and near Lafayette Square -- are rumored to eventually reopen under different ownership shows that the other 15 or so weren't desirable when Schnucks cut them loose in '95. "The new operators didn't come out with the best locations, in terms of size and viability," says one worker. "None of the three operators in the community -- Schnucks, Dierbergs or Shop 'N Save -- have expressed any interest at all in the stores now. What does that tell you? Coincidentally, Schnucks still holds 13 of the 17 leases, so their interest will be in getting them filled in any way, shape or form."