這活兒叫“白人穿西裝”

　　———“我把這叫做‘白人穿西裝’的活動。你只要穿上西裝，跟人家握手，就能賺錢。咱們要搞‘質檢’，可都不用真的搞質檢。你明白嗎？”

　　這老外還偷著樂

　　———米奇·莫克斯利稱，“擔任質檢專家，不需要專業經驗———這太好了，因為我什么經驗都沒有。”工作一周，報酬是1000美元

　　美國《大西洋月刊》日前發表一篇文章，作者米奇·莫克斯利講述了自己在中國的經歷，自己沒有任何經驗，卻被當地的企業高薪聘請為質檢專家，而每天的工作就是進入豪華酒店，吃吃喝喝就行了。

　　老外自曝：

　　吃吃喝喝，周薪1000美元

　　不久前，有一家我從沒聽說過的美國駐華企業請我擔任質檢專家，不需要專業經驗———這太好了，因為我什么經驗都沒有。工作一周，報酬是1000美元。我只需住進東營市（這個我從沒聽說過的地方）一家豪華酒店，吃吃喝喝就行了。唯一的要求是白皮膚和西裝。

　　在北京，一個名叫杰克的加拿大朋友向我吐露了其中的奧妙：“我把這叫做‘白人穿西裝’的活動。你只要穿上西裝，跟人家握手，就能賺錢。咱們要搞‘質檢’，可都不用真的搞質檢。你明白嗎？”

　　我明白了。于是，我成了中國的冒牌商人。在這里，糊弄事兒的外國人往往可以輕松掙大錢。我有個朋友是從事電影工作的美國人，別人花錢請他代表一家加拿大企業，發表一篇支持低碳生活方式的講話。還有個朋友乘飛機前往上海，假扮成季節性禮品的買家。雇用冒牌商人是為了打造中國企業夢寐以求的形象。起初，我的漢語教師被我們的豐厚薪酬嚇了一跳，總結說：“讓外國人穿上漂亮西裝，可以讓公司有面子。”

　　“工作”流程：

　　上臺對著市長名流吹噓

　　我們6個人在北京的機場碰頭。杰克向我們介紹了具體情況。我們要代表一家在東營建廠的加利福尼亞公司。我們的任務包括每天前往施工現場，參加剪彩儀式，出席飯局。儀式上，我們中一個人得作為公司經理發表講話。這項任務落在了我的朋友厄尼頭上。他快40歲了，是我們當中年齡最大的一個。他的名片都印好了。

　　到機場迎接我們的是肯。他是個加拿大籍人，留了個寸頭，身穿皮夾克。他告訴我們，他的公司轉包了這個項目。

　　肯開車帶我們前往公司的臨時辦公室：小房間，水泥地面，金屬墻，建在一個院子里。我們看了看制造高技術生產設備的廠房，然后回到辦公室里，只坐了幾個小時。我們聽到厄尼在院子里練習他的演講。

　　第二天上午是正式的剪彩儀式。施工現場附近布置了舞臺，還鋪了紅地毯。漂亮女人身穿紅色旗袍迎接貴賓，擴音器里播放著中國的流行音樂。街上，警察身穿黃馬甲指揮交通。市長和當地名流都已到場，攝影機和記者也各就各位。我們站在前排，身穿西裝。儀式開始之前，站在我身邊的一個工頭還在沖著工地上的工人咆哮。

　　我問他：“你是老板嗎？”他困惑地看著我說：“你才是老板啊。”

　　其實，厄尼是老板。經過簡要介紹后，“經理”厄尼對著100多名來賓發表了講話。他吹噓了公司的一長串國際客戶，強調我們多么高興能夠實施這樣一個重要項目。講話結束后，舞臺上撒下了五彩紙屑，我們身后的泥土地上有人在放炮。厄尼在與市長合影。

　　接下來的幾天里，我們坐在辦公室里轟蒼蠅，看雜志，假裝是一家美國公司的高層雇員，可我后來才發現，這家公司根本不存在。事實上，我們還真挺重要，有兩個人受雇在那兒再待8個月（不過，他們后來倒是接受了質檢訓練）。

　　“事情很多，每個月都要雇人到那兒去待一周。下次的地方也會好一些，有新辦公室”，肯停頓了一下，然后說，“下次帶個電腦過來，你可以整天看電影。”


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Original:

Rent a White Guy

Confessions of a fake businessman from Beijing
By Mitch Moxley

Not long ago I was offered work as a quality-control expert with an American company in China I’d never heard of. No experience necessary—which was good, because I had none. I’d be paid $1,000 for a week, put up in a fancy hotel, and wined and dined in Dongying, an industrial city in Shandong province I’d also never heard of. The only requirements were a fair complexion and a suit.

“I call these things ‘White Guy in a Tie’ events,” a Canadian friend of a friend named Jake told me during the recruitment pitch he gave me in Beijing, where I live. “Basically, you put on a suit, shake some hands, and make some money. We’ll be in ‘quality control,’ but nobody’s gonna be doing any quality control. You in?”

I was.

And so I became a fake businessman in China, an often lucrative gig for underworked expatriates here. One friend, an American who works in film, was paid to represent a Canadian company and give a speech espousing a low-carbon future. Another was flown to Shanghai to act as a seasonal-gifts buyer. Recruiting fake businessmen is one way to create the image—particularly, the image of connection—that Chinese companies crave. My Chinese-language tutor, at first aghast about how much we were getting paid, put it this way: “Having foreigners in nice suits gives the company face.”

Six of us met at the Beijing airport, where Jake briefed us on the details. We were supposedly representing a California-based company that was building a facility in Dongying. Our responsibilities would include making daily trips to the construction site, attending a ribbon-cutting ceremony, and hobnobbing. During the ceremony, one of us would have to give a speech as the company’s director. That duty fell to my friend Ernie, who, in his late 30s, was the oldest of our group. His business cards had already been made.
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Dongying was home to Sun Tzu, the author of The Art of War, and that’s just about all it has going for it. The landscape is dry and bleak, with factories in all directions. We were met at the airport by Ken, a young Canadian of Taiwanese extraction with a brush cut and leather jacket, whose company, we were told, had been subcontracted to manage the project.

The lobby at our hotel was dimly lit and smelled like bad seafood. “At least we have a nice view,” Ernie deadpanned as he opened the drapes in our room to reveal a scrap yard. A truck had been stripped for parts, and old tires were heaped into a pile. A dog yelped.

Ken drove us to the company’s temporary offices: small rooms with cement floors and metal walls arranged around a courtyard. We toured the facility, which built high-tech manufacturing equipment, then returned to the office and sat for hours. Across the courtyard, we could hear Ernie rehearsing his speech.

The next morning was the official ribbon-cutting ceremony. A stage and red carpet had been set up near the construction site. Pretty girls in red dragon-patterned dresses greeted visitors, and Chinese pop blared from loudspeakers. Down the street, police in yellow vests directed traffic. The mayor was there with other local dignitaries, and so were TV cameras and reporters. We stood in the front row wearing suits, safety vests, and hard hats. As we waited for the ceremony to begin, a foreman standing beside me barked at workers still visible on the construction site. They scurried behind the scaffolding.

“Are you the boss?” I asked him.

He looked at me quizzically. “You’re the boss.”

Actually, Ernie was the boss. After a brief introduction, “Director” Ernie delivered his speech before the hundred or so people in attendance. He boasted about the company’s long list of international clients and emphasized how happy we were to be working on such an important project. When the speech was over, confetti blasted over the stage, fireworks popped above the dusty field beside us, and Ernie posed for a photo with the mayor.

For the next few days, we sat in the office swatting flies and reading magazines, purportedly high-level employees of a U.S. company that, I later discovered, didn’t really exist. We were so important, in fact, that two of the guys were hired to stay for eight months (to be fair, they actually then received quality-control training).

“Lots happening,” Ken told me. “We need people for a week every month. It’ll be better next time, too. We’ll have new offices.” He paused before adding: “Bring a computer. You can watch movies all day.”