Boss Life (26 page)

Bills and payroll will eat at least $35,000 of my cash. I'll have $60,000 left, but I need to pay my credit cards. I have two. The first is dedicated to AdWords. Earlier in the year, the monthly bill was around $10,000. This month, it's $14,000, the consequence of increasing my daily spend. The payment is due on the eighteenth, two days from now. My credit limit on that card is $27,000. If I roll it all over, I'll probably max out the card next month. Hmmm.

The other card payment is $30,330, higher than normal because of the $8,500 deposit to Bob Waks. This card has a $60,000 credit limit. The minimum payment for the AdWords card is $280; for the other, it's $303. If I pay the minimums and roll the rest, my short-term cash position will be $43,747 better than if I pay the whole balance. That's almost two weeks of additional life for the business. Both cards give me a point, worth a penny, for each dollar I spend. I currently have 45,751 points on the Google card and 387,017 points on the other card. The total, 432,768 points, gives me an extra $4,327.68 to factor into my calculations.

I'm fundamentally leery of borrowing money, but I will make an exception if the purchase makes me money and I'm sure that I will be able to pay it back. I didn't mind leasing the mixing pump—the payback was almost immediate, and the loan was secured by the pumps themselves. But rolling over credit card balances just delays the day of reckoning. It's not an investment. It's desperation. Next month I'll be in even worse shape, with an even bigger balance, and then what?

You may be thinking, Why don't you call a bank? Don't they loan money to businesses all the time? Yes, they do. But not after they've heard a story like mine, in which a long-established but barely profitable company enters a downward spiral. Banks want one thing: their money back, with interest. They only want to do business with a company that has a good plan to pay them back, and plenty of collateral available if that plan doesn't work out. They aren't interested in propping up a company that's in trouble. And clearly I'm in trouble. Everything is wrong here—the fact that I've survived for many years without building up a healthy cash reserve indicates bad management, and our disappearing sales indicate incompetent marketing. Showing up, hat in hand, at a bank, when I may be out of business in a few weeks, would show a serious lack of judgment on my part.

Back in 2003, after The Partner bought into the company, we established a line of credit, at his insistence. He called the bankers who had funded his previous businesses, and we got a hundred-thousand-dollar line within a week. All we had to do was personally guarantee it. He had lots of assets, I had my house. But we maxed out that line within a year and didn't manage to pay it down until the fall of 2008. Then my partner took all our operating cash, without my permission, and closed out that account—he was afraid we were about to default and he didn't want the hit on his credit rating. Nothing about that experience, and my subsequent history, has made me want to borrow money from a bank. Even if one was willing to lend to me, they would require my personal assets as collateral. If we close our doors, I don't want to lose my house.

I decide to pay off all $14,000 due on the AdWords card and make a partial payment on the other one. I'll turn in 400,000 points and give them an additional $2,500 from my operating funds. I'll be borrowing $23,830. The interest won't cost much—at 12.99 percent, the charge for the first month is just $258. I'm much more worried about returning the principal. But if I run out of cash, I won't be able to pay anything at all. Better to keep the doors open as long as I can.

On Thursday morning, the sales team is back in the classroom. Bob is lecturing about Self-Management. As he explains it, a particular set of personal habits leads to success in sales. First and foremost: persistence. Every salesperson fails a lot. It might be a significant percentage—we make a deal with 25 percent of our prospects—or it might be almost always, like those poor kids sitting across from us who make cold calls and close one or two of every hundred calls. You can't take rejection personally, Bob tells us. It's going to happen. Get over it. Then he gives us a number of techniques. The first one: visualize success in very concrete terms. Think of that car you want to buy, that vacation you want to take. He suggests that we buy a blank diary and fill it with pictures of the things we desire, cut from magazines. We should leaf through it every day and tell ourselves that making that next phone call, writing that next e-mail, sending that next proposal, is moving us closer to our goals.

I'm gagging. I don't see myself as someone who needs to drive a Mercedes or go on vacation in Africa to believe that I have succeeded. But Bob's scheme gets me thinking about success. What does it mean for
me
? What do I really want? First on the list: a cure for Henry. But that's not possible. Other than that? I'm happy with my family. My business is not a financial success, but I've kept the doors open for twenty-six years and done a lot of good work. I have almost everything I want.

What would really make me happy would be to stop worrying about money. I'm sick of the tension. My shoulder is always tied in a knot, and my stomach seems to be permanently clenched. I toss and turn all night, then fight to stay awake after lunch. I know how good it feels to have a big pile of cash. That's how the year started. I thought that I had finally figured it all out, but now my confidence has vanished. I'm back where I spent the previous five years—in a state of constant anxiety. How much would it take? What's my number? What should I put into my success diary? Maybe a hundred and fifty thousand in the bank and plenty of sales coming in? A business that's growing instead of dying. An upward trajectory.

Do I deserve success? Does anyone? I don't think so. There are so many people who have been less fortunate than me. I'm not starving to death in Somalia. My neighbors haven't decided to murder me, like in Rwanda. Nazis haven't shown up in my town and shipped me and my family to the gas chambers. I'm a very long way from the worst that life has to offer. I have no right to complain about anything.

I glance at one of the gym guys, sitting on my left. He's written “Camaro” in his notebook and underlined it twice. That brings me back to earth. Just because I'm not heading to Auschwitz doesn't mean that I have to accept failure. My workers and their families are relying on me. It's OK to want to make payroll, to bring home some dough for myself, and to get my company back on track. I need to listen to Bob.

—

WE PICK UP
three small sales on Friday the twentieth, bringing us to $73,468 for the month. Still bad, but at least we've tallied more than we did in all of June, with seven business days to go. Inquiries were also better: sixteen calls and e-mails, but nobody hot to place an order.

Payroll has gone out. The credit card payments have been made. The health insurance payment has gone. The vendors have all been paid. Total outflow for the week: $54,307. Fortunately, on Wednesday and Thursday I received seven more payments, totaling $21,944. In all, during the past five days I've taken in $41,627. So I have a net cash loss of $12,680. I have $63,420 left. Two weeks, give or take.

—

MONDAY MORNING
: relief, of a sort. I've been worrying all weekend, a loop of dark thoughts that keeps repeating in my head. Cash. Layoffs. Failure. Now that the weekend is over, at least I have work to do. And the Eurofurn guys are coming down for lunch today. That will keep me busy for a few hours.

I walk into the shop at seven-thirty. It's a mess, as it's been lately. I tell Steve Maturin that we're going to be having visitors mid-morning and that we need to clean up. He says nothing in return, as usual, but as I head back to the office, I see him gathering the shop floor guys together, with a broom in his hand. At the meeting, I announce the sales from last week. I also go over our cash position but don't explain that we only have money because I rolled over the credit card.

The Eurofurn crew arrives at eleven-thirty. I watch from my window as Nigel, Milosz, and Jeff emerge from a black BMW. They last visited more than a year ago. I hope they don't notice that there are fewer people around than last time. I need this to go well. Their stream of repeat orders would be mighty handy right now.

When we spoke last week, Nigel mentioned that Eurofurn is considering whether to open a separate facility in the States to assemble tables and chairs. We have plenty of room to spare, and if we're making tops, it would be simpler to assemble the tables here as well. That would be more work and more revenue for me, but I'm not sure I can do it as cheaply as the German factory, since we don't have the assembly jigs they use. But I'll deal with that when I need to. I turn on the charm. “Let's take a quick walk through the shop. I want to show you what's going on.”

First we stop at the huge table we're building for the college. It's an impressive sight. The base has been assembled, and the guys are fitting the top panels. There's an intricate logo in the center, consisting of laser-cut letters and pictures. The Eurofurn crew
ooh
and
aah
politely. Then I walk them to a spot near our freight elevator. It's a 5,000-square-foot space that could easily become an assembly area. But when I get there, I realize that this area doesn't look good. It's crowded with excess stuff, it's dark, and the lights are either missing or have flickering bulbs. I try to get them to look past the debris, but this is nothing like the Eurofurn factory.

Tour completed, I take them to lunch at Chick's Bar and Grill, down the street from the shop. The Eurofurn crew loves it—so authentic, so charming. No pretense, especially compared to the Midtown eateries they frequent. We have a few beers with lunch, and conversation is easy. Then I ask Nigel about the status of the tabletop orders and whether he thinks we could take on the assembly as well. Instant mood change. His expression switches from Ordinary Human to Corporate Neutral. He starts unrolling one of his circuitous non-answers. The decision will be made at headquarters, and they will evaluate all options, taking into account multiple factors and making sure that every consideration has been entertained fully but judiciously, blah de blah blah blah.

I'm not willing to be put off. “Come on, Nigel. Can't you put in a good word for me? We have plenty of room, and we're close to all your markets. Can't you help me here?” Now his face shifts to Corporate Near Panic. He wants to say no, but something in his personality prevents him from being straightforward. He emits another cloud of words. It's like interviewing a politician.

We walk back from the restaurant. Nobody speaks. The Eurofurn guys are poking at their cell phones, and I'm just pissed off. We arrive at their car and exchange polite goodbyes. I'm mulling over the encounter as I go up the stairs. I don't think these guys are ready to give us anything beyond the dribs and drabs we've had so far.

When I enter the sales office, Nick has a broad smile. “Got one!” It's an order from a law firm in Washington, D.C., worth $12,221. And even better, the next day I have a call with a hedge fund in San Francisco. I cue up the model we've prepared, fire up Glance, and talk my way to a credit card payment. Another $8,134 in the pot. We're now at $93,823 for the month.

Our sales training on Thursday is about Unpaid Consulting. Bob Waks is teaching. A buyer, he explains, has a problem. Something in their life, or company, is not optimal, and they need to improve their situation by making a purchase. To that end, they approach sellers. “I have this problem,” they say. “How would you solve it for me?” This sounds familiar. It's how we do business. We wait for inquiries, ask the potential customer some questions, and then come up with a solution.

Bob continues with what happens next. It varies, depending on who is doing the buying. If it's a boss, give a comprehensive proposal. The boss buyer will make a quick decision using the information you provide. Again, this sounds like my life, both in sales and when I shop. Sending a proposal directly to a boss isn't a bad idea, Bob continues, but it's a disaster if you are dealing with mid-level buyers who work for a large organization, whose sole job is to evaluate vendors and make purchases. They're not in a hurry and their criteria for a successful purchase are very different from the boss buyer.

The boss buyer doesn't care so much about nickels and dimes. The mid-level buyer does. The boss buyer wants to get the purchase over with. The mid-level buyer wants to delay a decision for as long as possible. He needs something to do all day to impress his superiors with his diligence and prudence. Mid-level buyers love working with multiple sellers who give them rich, detailed proposals full of useful information and pricing. Armed with many proposals, they play the sellers against one another. When a seller has been responsive in the first go-round, the mid-level buyer asks for revisions. And more revisions. Why not? The hapless seller, eager to please, keeps them coming, and each time he does so, the buyer has another option to consider, another chance to show his bosses how hard he's working when they ask how the project is coming along.

The canny mid-level buyer tells each vendor how great their proposals are, that a purchase is coming soon, and that just a little more help will make a big difference. He may leak the best ideas from one vendor to another that he prefers, or make no decision at all. The job may never have been that important, or the bosses, after seeing a bunch of options, may simply cancel the project. Suddenly, the mid-level buyer disappears. She stops answering phone calls or e-mails, or she sends a short note: “We've decided to go another direction, thanks for your efforts. Buh-bye!”

Nick gives me the raised eyebrows: we've been down this road too many times. Dan slides me a note: “Cali Heavy Industries.” Yes, and Nick's Air Force job. And that jerk from the Kaiser Family Foundation who took Nick through twenty-three proposals and then disappeared forever.