These rosewood elevator doors, hand-carved with sylphlike figures, used to slide open on the 11th floor to reveal a sultry blond curled behind an expansive marble-topped reception desk, the walls behind her lined with poster-size photos of nude women, graciously welcoming you to Playboy magazine’s photo department. But last week, on one of Playboy Enterprises’ final days in its hutch at Michigan and Walton, the desk and the blond and the nudes and the world they represent were disappearing fast as the room filled with a ceiling-high heap of trash–brown plastic garbage bags, nicked plywood backdrops, fake French windows, bent bamboo bed frames, and boxes bulging with old shoes, towels, ribbons, confetti, and lacy, racy underwear. Playboy was turning itself inside out in preparation for the move over the weekend to its new location at 680 N. Lake Shore Drive.
“Nobody gets a window,” says one editor, sunlight streaming across her desk through her wide window. “The new building doesn’t have any windows. I’ve worked really hard to get an office with a window, which isn’t easy in this company. Now it’s ‘Did you get an office or a cubicle?’”
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
“There are seven basic types of workstations identified by letters A through G,” a corporate newsletter explains to employees. A and B offices will be occupied by senior executives and group heads. C offices are for corporate vice presidents, D offices go to senior editors, and managers get E offices. F work stations go to administrators. Secretaries and clerks get their own little G work stations.”
“Convenience is a big factor for a lot of people,” says a member of the company-wide task force formed to help calm nerves and disseminate information about the move. One project included a 40-page pocket guide to the new area, including restaurants, stores, and CTA routes, “to show that there’s some civilization in that neighborhood.”
The creepiest part, Imig says, is going through the personal effects of employees who made hasty departures after summary layoffs. He has found old coffee cups and toys and postcards. “One woman left a half-written letter in her desk, and another left without taking her coat,” he says. “It’s almost as if they were raptured away. I can’t wait to go someplace new with no ghosts.”
The photo department has been weeding through “tons” of sets, props, and wardrobes to make way for less spacious new digs. “We saved the good stuff,” says Wells. “Platform shoes from 1961, old boas, satin pillows and sheets.” Stuff not worth saving but too good to throw out was auctioned off to employees.
Staff publicist Elizabeth Norris wears flowery cotton garden gloves as she packs up evidence of her 20-year career. “Why ruin a $20 manicure?” she asks. She painstakingly picks through photos showing her in sisterly embrace with playmates, pretty-pink Playmate of the Year press kits, old memos from ill-fated department heads, celebrity autographs, and a phone message from the Beverly Hills Hilton announcing that “Mr. Hefner called.”
