White Utopia. The kind of place where people bring their shopping carts back to the corral and wave as you drive by. A far cry from the hood in San Diego where we clawed our way out. Now here I was, no college degree, couldn’t spell for shit, just learned how to use a computer, and yet, somehow, I landed a job as a tool designer for a manufacturing outfit in Oregon.
I was designing tools for Boeing and Freightliner, which sounded impressive until you realized it mostly involved sitting in front of a computer all day, pretending to care about tolerances and machining specs while counting down the minutes to lunch. But it paid, and it kept the lights on. Meanwhile, my wife had a “hard” job. Stay-at-home mom. One kid. One single, solitary kid. Her job consisted of taking her to the park, watching TV, talking on the phone, and shopping. But sure, “hardest job in the world.”
We bought a little house that swallowed up every credit card limit we had just to make it livable. We had plans—stupid, idealistic, middle-class plans. Then I read an article about the semiconductor industry. Highest-paid sector. Big money. And I thought, “What the hell am I doing designing wrenches for truck engines when I could be making serious cash?”
I cracked open the classifieds and found something mechanical, something engineer-ish at a company called Tokyo Seimitsu, or TSK for short. My wife, sensing danger to her delicate domestic ecosystem, warned me: “Why do you always have to fuck things up? We’re happy. We make enough. You’re never happy with what you got.”
That was her favorite line. And every time she said it, it made me want to set the whole thing on fire.
I went to the interview anyway. Met my potential boss, Rick Cody, and a couple of senior Japanese managers. They seemed impressed—offered me 20% more than what I was making. So I took the job, threw up my middle fingers at MTS, and officially became part of TSK.
The Portland office was a joke. Like someone had a master plan but forgot to share it. There was no organization, no real work, just an overpriced piece of equipment sitting in the warehouse that no one knew how to use. The place was run by a short, blonde, resting-bitch-face office manager who doubled as a dictator. Next to me was Artie, the drafter. My job was to design, his job was to draft, and above us was Rick Cody, the mechanical engineer who, at fifty-something, still thought he was the smartest guy in the room.
But nothing was happening. We’d go to the driving range during lunch, kill four hours smacking golf balls, then clock out and collect a paycheck. The Japanese management didn’t trust us, and the Americans were too clueless to figure out why.
Then they sent out a guy named Mac. Older Japanese dude, gray hair, looked like a giant panda, quiet but sharp as hell. He was here to actually get shit moving, to make us useful. He’d walk us through the designs, break down how things should work, explain the logic. And I took it all in. I didn’t share it with anyone.
Eventually, I stopped waiting for Artie to draft anything. I started doing it myself. Faster, cleaner, and without the extra steps. One day he confronted me about it. “You’re supposed to design. I’m supposed to draft.”
I looked at him and said, “It’s just easier if I do it.”
He quit the next week.
Mac kept feeding me information, and I kept absorbing it. Meanwhile, Rick Cody would sit there, rolling his eyes, completely out of his depth. He was an engineer who still used long-form math on a whiteboard, trying to solve problems I had already figured out in AutoCAD. It was pathetic. So I stopped telling him anything.
Instead, I went straight to upper management. I had the answers they needed, and they noticed. Rick noticed too, but by then it was too late. Every time a Japanese exec needed something, they came to my desk. Rick would stumble over, confused. “James, what’s going on?”
And Mac would say, “James will tell you.”
It killed him.
First review came up. Rick gave me nothing. Upper management overrode him and gave me a 10% raise. Second year, same routine—Rick gave me nothing, management gave me 20%. By the third year, Rick was desperate. He pulled me into his office.
“You come in at 9:00. Sometimes later. I recommend no raise.”
I lost it. I leaned in and told him that while he was home having dinner with his wife, I was on the clock with Japan. That I was the last one in the building every night, locking up, setting the alarm, doing the actual work.
“That’s why they talk to me,” I said. “Because I’m doing the job you think you’re doing.”
His face went red, blotchy. He looked like he was going to kill me.
The intercom clicked. “James-san, can you come to the office?”
Upper management gave me another 20%.
Then came Semicon in San Jose. Rick volunteered to go, thinking this was his moment to shine. I wasn’t invited. He was thrilled. But two days before the event, I got a call.
“Level One needs immediate engineering support. Artest needs a technician ASAP.”
I packed my bags, kissed my wife and, now two kids goodbye, flew to San Jose, and walked into those companies like I belonged there. Shook hands, listened to their problems, took measurements, and gave them solutions on the spot. The whole thing was smooth.
And with time to kill, I figured I’d swing by Semicon.
The setup was in progress, workers hauling displays, the industry big shots arriving in their suits. I made my way over to TSK’s two-story setup and found Mac. He introduced me to Mr. Koda, the president of the company, along with Greg Sebastian, the VP. Big names. Important people.
Then Rick showed up. Sleeves rolled up, sweaty, covered in grease, looking like he’d been working the floor all day. He sees the president. Runs up, bowing, shaking hands, sucking up. Then he sees me—standing there, clean, in a suit, shaking hands with the executives.
And without thinking, he blurts out, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
The entire group went silent. You could hear a pin drop.
I smiled. “Got called down for some urgent client support. Figured I’d drop by and see how things were going.”
The executives nodded. Rick looked like he wanted to strangle me.
After that, management just bypassed him completely. Emails went straight to me. Conversations happened at my desk. And eventually, Rick cracked. He resigned. The day he left, his face was so red I thought he’d stroke out right there. He probably wanted to.
There was a going-away party. I wasn’t invited.
Didn’t matter.
Because after he was gone, I wasn’t just a tool designer. I was the only project engineer. The only manufacturing engineer. The only mechanical engineer.
And that’s how you bullshit your way into an industry.
