by Alex Banayan
“So,” Kamen said, “what are we here to talk about?”
Part of me wanted to tell him exactly what happened with Buffett and ask for advice, but I stopped myself. This wasn’t my personal therapy session. Instead I told Kamen why I’d started the mission, and when I finished, he let out a sad laugh.
“I’ve had a lot of young people come to me expecting that somehow I could give them insights on how to succeed,” Kamen said. He lifted his gaze in thought. “Let’s say there’s a one-in-one-hundred chance you’re going to get something right. If you’re willing to do it more than a hundred times, you start to approach the probability that, eventually, you’re going to get it right. Call it luck. Call it tenacity. You will eventually get it if you exhaust all your efforts.”
“But I’m sure there’s a point,” I said, “and this is the phase I’m going through, where sometimes you go home and feel like you’ve kissed all the frogs. You’ve made out with the whole pond, yet there’s still no prince.”
Kamen leaned in.
“Let me make it uglier,” he said. “You go home, you’ve kissed every frog, and you’ve got nothing but warts on your face. You’re lying in bed thinking, ‘I kissed every frog. I still don’t have a solution. And I don’t even know where the next frog is.’
“But then,” he continued, “you roll around in bed thinking, ‘You got into this because it’s a really big problem. You knew it would be hard. After all this time and effort, if you give up, it’s because you’re weak. You’ve lost your vision. You’ve lost your courage. Sooner or later there’s going to be an answer. The only reason you’re going to give up now is because you’re a coward.’
“But then,” Kamen went on, “you roll around in bed some more and think, ‘Go ahead. Keep trying. You know why you’re going to do that? You’re stupid, you don’t learn from your mistakes, you have a big ego, you’re unwilling to change, you’re recalcitrant, you’re wasting your time, your resources, your energy, and your life. Anybody with half a brain would recognize it’s time to move on.’ ”
“How do you decide?” I asked. “How do you decide when to keep fighting or when to cut your losses?”
“I will give you my ugliest, worst answer…” he replied.
I inched forward.
Kamen looked up, took a deep breath, then locked eyes on mine.
“…I don’t know.”
I traveled thousands of miles to talk to one of the smartest people in the world and his answer is “I don’t know”?
“That’s the question that keeps me up at night,” Kamen said softly. “That’s the issue that bothers me most. Because if you keep going and you don’t get the answer, then you keep going and you still don’t get the answer, then finally you stop—”
“At what point do you stop?” I asked.
“Whenever you decide. By definition, you can’t answer that question.”
Kamen sensed my frustration.
“Look,” he said, “I’m not here to give you a road map. I’m here to tell you: this is what you should expect to see. If I gave you the map Lewis and Clark made, it would be pretty easy to get from here to the West Coast. That’s why everybody remembers the names Lewis and Clark and nobody remembers who read their map and took the trip the second time.
“If you don’t think you can deal with this amount of uncertainty and failure,” he continued, “then wait for Lewis and Clark to deliver the map and you can be one of those people who does a good job following their lead. But if you want to be one of those people who do what these innovators did, be prepared, like they did, to fail and get frostbite and have people not make it. If you’re not prepared for that stuff, that’s okay: don’t do it. There is plenty of room in the world for other people. But if you do want to do it—if you want to go off and do really big things—be prepared for them to take way longer than you thought, cost way more than you expected, and be full of failures that are painful, embarrassing, and frustrating. If it’s not going to kill you, keep trudging through the mud.”
“Let’s say I’m going through that mud,” I said. “Could you at least give me a few tips or a checklist on how to find the right frogs to kiss?”
“Okay,” Kamen said. “Here’s a big one: it’s better to prove it can’t be done than to exhaust the infinite number of ways to fail.”
He explained that when he’s kissed a lot of frogs but hasn’t made progress, he steps back and asks whether what he’s doing is actually impossible. Does it contradict the laws of thermodynamics, Newtonian physics, or some other fundamental principle?
“It’s good to know when you’re wasting your time,” Kamen said. “If you can convince yourself that a problem can’t be solved, you can quit without feeling like a coward.”
Reporters interview Buffett all the time. Of course it’s possible.
“If you keep kissing frogs,” he continued, “and you keep getting nothing but similar results, there needs to be a point where you say, ‘I’m not going to count on luck. I’m not going to keep buying lottery tickets.’ Although I always say ‘tenacity is great’ and ‘don’t be a coward’—brute force is just plain dumb.
“Sure, there may be billions of frogs, but sometimes I’ll notice there are only ten different kinds of frogs. So that’s a good second tip: you should kiss one of these, one of those—but don’t try to kiss every possible frog. First figure out how many kinds of frogs there are and then see if you can kiss one of each kind.”
Kamen went quiet and tapped his fingertips together.
“Restating the boundaries,” he said, “is sometimes what gives you the insight to create an innovative solution.”
He told me a story about the lack of science and technology education in American public schools. Most people claimed it was an education crisis, so they tried to solve it in the same old ways—updating curriculum, hiring more teachers—but nothing seemed to work. Kamen wondered what would happen if they asked the question differently. What if this wasn’t an education crisis, but a culture crisis? As soon as he reframed the problem, new frogs appeared. Kamen decided to create a competition called FIRST, which treats scientists like celebrities and turns high school engineering into a sport. FIRST is now a phenomenon across the country, having impacted the lives of millions of students.
“Instead of getting frustrated by repeating the same old problem,” Kamen said, “reframe the question in a new way that is amenable to a different kind of solution.”
A different kind of solution…
I’d been focused on how to get Buffett to sit with me for a one-on-one interview. But what if I restated the problem? What if I just wanted Buffett to answer a few of my questions—no matter how or where he answered them?
When you put it that way, there’s still one frog I haven’t kissed…
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Shareholders Meeting
THREE WEEKS LATER, OMAHA, NEBRASKA
It was so cold it felt like frozen needles were piercing my cheeks. The line to enter the arena stretched down the block, curving around the side. We’d been standing in line for three hours, since 4:00 a.m. Once again, it was me versus Omaha. But this time, I had backup.
I’d brought my boys.
There was Ryan: my numbers guy. Actually, it so happened my numbers guy wasn’t too interested in calculations right now. He was bent over and shivering, a scarf wrapped around his head making him look like a mummy. I tried to energize him by asking the odds of Buffett answering my questions. He just mumbled, “I’m…too…cold…to…think…”
There was Brandon, clutching a book under his nose and holding a phone above his head, using it as a flashlight. He hadn’t moved for fifteen minutes. I couldn’t tell if he was deep in the book or frozen stiff.
Of course, Kevin was the opposite of frozen stiff. He was jumping around and smiling while passing out
granola bars, trying to keep our spirits high.
Andre had no time for granola bars. He was circling ChapStick on his lips and flirting with a woman a few spots behind us in line. The sun hadn’t even risen yet and he was already trying to get a phone number.
And Corwin…well, Corwin was so tired he didn’t care how cold it was. He was lying down on the sidewalk and using a flannel jacket as a blanket, looking like he’d never gotten out of bed.
Okay, maybe we were less Navy SEALs and more Dumb and Dumber, but still, these were my boys.
A man in front of us turned around.
“How long have y’all been shareholders?”
None of us were shareholders, so I didn’t know what to say. Thankfully, Corwin came to the rescue, pushing himself up from the sidewalk and pulling up his sagging pants. “Actually, sir,” he said, pointing a finger in the air, “we were personally invited by Mr. Buffett’s office.”
I bit back my smile. While Corwin was right, he was leaving out 99 percent of the story.
Months earlier, Buffett’s assistant had offered me passes to Berkshire Hathaway’s annual shareholders meeting. She probably felt bad for me after all the rejections. Either way, it was extremely kind of her to offer. A pass to the annual meeting is like a ticket to the Buffett Super Bowl. Only shareholders or journalists can get in. At the time, I didn’t see any benefit in going to just sit in the crowd, but after talking to Dean Kamen, I called her back and asked if the offer was still available.
“Sure, Alex. I’d be happy to send you a pass.”
“Thank you! And, actually, do you think I could get a few more?”
“Of course. How many would you like?”
“Uh…six?”
“I, I suppose that’s all right.”
“Thank you so much. And just double-checking—during the Q and A portion of the event, people in the audience get to ask Mr. Buffett questions, right?”
“Alex, Alex…I know what you’re thinking. Yes, people in the audience can ask Warren questions, but you should know that only thirty to forty people get that chance—and there will be thirty thousand people there. It’s a lottery system. And it’s completely random. So, as much as I love your optimism, I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”
Well, I was the king of hopes up.
Cheers erupted from the front of the line as the arena doors opened. Thousands of people began sprinting and shoving. Arms flailed, leather notebooks waved in the air; people shouted, “Pardon me! Pardon me!” It was like a business-casual Running of the Bulls.
My friends and I dove through the mob. Andre jumped down stairways, Corwin slid on railings, Kevin climbed over chairs, and we made it to the front, snagging six seats near the stage.
The arena was massive. I cranked my neck back, taking in the sight of the seats at the very top, which were at least six stories above me. I couldn’t stop thinking that these thousands and thousands of empty seats were about to be filled by people also dying to ask Warren Buffett a question. Directly in front of me was a gigantic black stage, with towering dark curtains and three enormous screens above it. There was a table in the middle of the stage with only two chairs, which were about to be filled by Buffett and his vice chairman, Charlie Munger.
While I had come with high hopes, I hadn’t come with a plan. I thought my friends and I could just figure something out when the time came. If there was one thing I’d learned on The Price Is Right, it’s that there’s always a way.
And now there was no time to waste.
I spotted a sign that read STATION 1. There was a line of people in front of it.
“Ryan,” I shouted, “you’re coming with me!”
At Station 1, a volunteer handed out pieces of gold paper that attendees dropped into a bucket. To the left of the bucket was a black microphone stand. Ryan and I jumped to the back of the line. When we got to the front, the volunteer offered us two lottery tickets.
“Actually, can I ask you a question instead?” This was our first time here, I told her, and I asked how the lottery worked.
She said I have to show my ID to get a ticket, and then I drop the ticket in the bucket. “Right before the meeting begins, we’ll pull out the names,” she explained. “It’s a straight numbers game. I hope you’re feeling lucky, because the odds are one in a thousand.”
Ryan and I stepped aside and looked for Station 2. Even farther was Station 3. I saw tiny specks on the third level that I assumed were Stations 8, 9, 10, 11, and 12.
“Come on,” I said, grabbing Ryan.
We ran to Station 2 and asked the volunteer for more information, hoping to piece together clues that would give us an edge. We got the same response.
Station 3.
Station 4.
Station 5.
I spoke to as many volunteers as I could, telling them the story of my six months of writing letters to Buffett and why my friends and I were here. All the volunteers repeated the same thing. That is, until one pulled me aside.
“You didn’t hear this from me,” she said, “but at last year’s event, I noticed not all the stations are treated the same.”
“What do you mean?”
She explained that the tickets aren’t put into a single bucket. They’re pulled individually from the different stations, creating about a dozen separate lotteries. The stations closest to the stage had thousands of entries. But the stations in the nosebleed section? Probably just a few.
“That makes complete sense,” Ryan said. “The kind of people who’d sit in the front are probably the same people dying to ask questions. And the people sitting in the shadows probably don’t want any attention.”
Ryan’s face lit up as if all the processors in his brain were firing at once. His pupils narrowed as he scanned the arena. “Looks like there are three thousand people sitting there; a thousand sitting there; five hundred sitting there; a hundred there. And if we just…” He went silent, the numbers flashing in his eyes. Then suddenly he yelled, “Station 8!”
We sprinted back to the front of the arena, yelled for our friends to follow, and raced to the top floor. We made it to Station 8, got our lottery tickets, and placed them all in the bucket. About twenty minutes later, the volunteer started to pull the winners.
My throat tightened. My friends looked just as nervous as I was. Deep down, we all knew that this was my last hope to get Warren Buffett to answer my questions.
The volunteer announced the winners. Although we were told our odds were one in a thousand, out of the six of us—four got winning tickets.
* * *
The arena lights dimmed. My legs twitched with nervous energy as I analyzed the faces around me. There were rows of people wearing suits, hunched over notepads and laptops; then there were rows of people leaning back in their seats, muffins and coffees in their hands, ready to watch the Buffett Super Bowl. I’d met people in line who’d said the Berkshire Hathaway shareholders meeting was so important to them they had locked it on their calendars a year in advance. Some had been coming every year for decades.
The audience fell silent as the giant screens above the stage played an animated clip of Buffett and Munger as fictional judges on Dancing with the Stars. Buffett kept giving zeros to the contestants while Munger got bored and played Words with Friends on a phone. When the show’s host asked them if they could do any better, Munger shot back, “We thought you’d never ask!” The cartoon billionaires leapt out of their chairs and danced to “Gangnam Style,” the Korean pop song that went viral the summer before, and the arena erupted with laughter. “OP, OP, OP…OPPA GANGNAM STYLE!” blasted through the speakers, yet the music could barely be heard over the cheers.
Then a video played of Buffett on the set of Breaking Bad, but instead of doing a meth deal, Buffett and Walter White were dueling over peanut brittle, one of Buffett’s favorite candies. That was foll
owed by a clip of Buffett with Jon Stewart, and then a skit of Buffett with Arnold Schwarzenegger. Finally, the screen went black and I thought it was time for business. But no—disco balls dropped from the ceiling, red and blue lights lit the arena like a nightclub, and the song “Y.M.C.A.” blared, except the letters had been replaced by “B.R.K.A.,” the stock symbol for Berkshire Hathaway. The crowd sang along as if those were their favorite letters in the world. Then down the aisle came a parade of cheerleaders.
Buffett and Munger entered stage right, dancing and singing “B.R.K.A.!,” which triggered a roar that shook the arena like a mini-earthquake. In the aisle to my left, in the midst of this chaos, was Corwin, grinding his hips and moving closer to the cheerleaders. One of them handed him a pom-pom, which he was now shaking over his head, B.R.K.A.-ing with her like it was the first night of their honeymoon.
Buffett sat at the table and leaned into a microphone. “Whew! I’m worn out!”
He started the meeting by announcing Berkshire’s financials and introducing his board of directors, who were seated in the front row.
“All right,” Buffett boomed. “We will now move on to questions.”
I knew that the Q and A portion took up nearly the entire event. On Buffett and Munger’s table were a few small piles of paper, two glasses of water, two cans of Cherry Coke, and a box of See’s Candies peanut brittle. To the left of the stage was a table of three financial reporters from Fortune, CNBC, and the New York Times. To the right was a table of three financial analysts.
The Q and A went like this: a reporter asked about Berkshire’s performance against the S&P index, then an analyst questioned the competitive advantage of one of Berkshire’s subsidiaries. Buffett gave smooth answers, topped them off with a joke, ate some peanut brittle, and then said “Charlie?” to see if his partner had anything to say. Munger usually moved things along with a swift “Nothing to add.” Then the spotlight shot on Station 1. A lottery winner from the audience asked about Buffett’s biggest worry regarding Berkshire’s performance.