by Cooper, Doug
With a thousand Lapkins in inventory, the sales and marketing plan set, the website and ordering and payment system live, he launched on the first Monday in December to capitalize on the holiday buying season. He got his first order after three days. Two more orders came in the following day and five the day after. He still tried to meet his production goal of ten per day but the packaging and shipping cut into his time. After a week, the hundred he had been making reduced to fifty, and that was how many he sold. The following week, a TV morning show featured the Lapkin on a segment dedicated to novelty Christmas gifts. Orders spiked to over four hundred. He had to stop making the Lapkins and just focus on shipping. The TV spot also triggered a wave of inquiries and requests for interviews. Hits to the website increased tenfold, eventually crashing the site until he could configure more bandwidth and server capacity. Other shows and best-of lists featured the Lapkin. The week before Christmas, orders surpassed seven hundred, about a hundred and fifty more than he had in inventory. Max had to shut down the ordering system and put up a “Sold out! Please stop back after New Year’s!” message, but that didn’t stop the inquiries. The Lapkin had gone viral.
To help get the existing orders out and the backorders filled, Max hired Jake and Felicia, who had helped with the photos. When it still looked like he might miss the Christmas shipping deadline, he asked Jake and Felicia to reach out to friends, relatives, anyone they knew that might want some part-time work. He was hesitant to tap into the network he had built, since most of his friends were casino colleagues as well. He had been very careful to keep the news of his side business quiet. At the office, work-life balance was encouraged, but it was one thing when the life part was family and leisure activities, and another when it was an additional full-time job. Fortunately for him, during the holidays, while there might be enough cheer, there was never enough cash, so there were ample people looking for a quick, easy buck. He was able to get all the orders produced, shipped, and delivered by the promised date.
When Max tallied the final numbers, he had sold 1,247 Lapkins in just over three weeks. With the regular price and the reduced fee for additional orders, he had grossed a few pennies shy of $10,790. Less the $4,988 for materials and another $1100 in part-time labor, he was left with $4,702 in profit. While he was happy to make any money at all, and things had gone way better than he ever anticipated, it wasn’t enough to quit his job. After all, it was Christmas. He might not sell another thousand over the next six months. Even if they did sell a thousand a month, meeting that quota in December had almost killed him. He knew he was going to need help, and the operation had to be running while he was at work. So during the holiday break, he set up two six-hour shifts from ten to four and four to ten. Felicia would run the first shift and Jake the second. Max handled all the sales and marketing, logistics, and back office administrative work. Even if the demand wasn’t strong in January, he planned to just focus on building inventory. Once the stock was replenished and high enough to withstand a significant spike in demand, he could scale back.
When Max turned the shopping cart on the website back on after the holidays, he had expected the orders to trickle in. But within a week, he set a new daily record for orders, and that week he had over eight hundred total orders, surpassing his best week in December. With the additional staff and shift, they were able to produce a thousand a week, but with another increase in orders, they would be right back to the December problem.
One evening while Max was reviewing the order report on his laptop at the kitchen table, the evening crew worked in the living room. The chucking of the sewing machines accelerated into buzzing as the needles picked up speed, plunging through the fabric.
Jake walked over. “Looks like we might hit three hundred today. How are the orders?”
Max rubbed his forehead to alleviate the mounting tension. “Too good. If things continue as they are, we won’t be able to keep up.”
“Have you thought about outsourcing overseas?” Jake asked. “They can probably make these in China for a fraction of the cost.”
“I’m sure they can. I just want to keep things local.”
Jake said, “Well there’s got to be a factory in the US that could make these.”
“But that would probably require a minimum-order commitment and take months to get them up and running. The novelty of this could wear off tomorrow. I’d feel a lot better with six months of order history under our belts before we made a commitment.” Max closed the laptop. He was getting tired. He could always tell because he was growing negative, noticing more of the problem than the solution.
“So let’s expand locally,” Jake said. “There’s all kinds of available space in downtown Vegas. They’re practically giving it away for anyone who wants to open a business, and since you’re creating jobs, they might even subsidize you.”
Max sat back in his chair, interlocking his fingers and putting his hands behind his head. “I don’t know. That just makes it so official. It’s one thing to be running this out of my living room. We’re under the radar. I mean, opening a shop downtown really puts us out there. What will they say at work?”
“As long as it’s not interfering with your job, who cares what they say? It’s none of their business what you do during your off time.”
“I’d agree if they used logic,” Max said. “It’s rarely the determining factor in corporate decisions. If they get even the slightest whiff that I have other interests or commitments, they’ll sacrifice me, if for no other reason than to set an example to others.”
“Let’s do this then.” Jake started sketching on a yellow legal pad on the table. “Let’s cap orders at fifteen hundred per week. We’ll put a counter on the website so people can see how many orders are still available. When those orders are sold, people need to wait until next week.”
Max jotted some calculations on the notepad underneath Jake’s markings. “That could work. Kind of like a line outside of a club. People see the line and think it’s crowded inside, which makes them want to go in even more. We’ll increase the demand by limiting the supply.”
Dow Jones Close: 12,462.47
Chapter Thirty-Two
Date: Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Dow Jones Open: 16,534.86
Crystal picked up the flute of champagne and gulped her last swallow, her left hand never leaving the video poker machine. The screen was a blur of changing images amidst the rapid slapping of the buttons. Even with just one hand, she worked the machine with the speed and efficiency of a courtroom stenographer.
The bartender, Birdie, immediately replaced her empty flute with a fresh one. We called him Birdie because of his short-cropped hair, the slight bump on his long nose making it resemble a beak, and his long wingspan. He was six-foot three but had the reach of someone much taller. He could stand in the middle of the bar and cover all the stools and the service well while hardly moving. Usually two bartenders were needed. Birdie could do it alone. Another bartender just got in the way, which also meant he didn’t have to split tips with anyone.
Champagne Thursdays, with five-dollar glasses of French champagne, not prosecco or cava or other sparking wine often passed off as champagne, combined with karaoke, brought a mixed crowd into the Parlour Lounge. The sheer fact it had to be advertised with the redundancy of French and champagne said all you needed to know about the customers it attracted.
When Crystal came in, Birdie always made sure to take care of her because he knew she tipped. The ones who tipped never had to wait; the others who didn’t, waited until they figured out it was actually a six-dollar glass, with one dollar going to Birdie. Since Crystal was playing video poker, the drinks were comped, but she still slid Birdie a five every time.
The karaoke DJ took the mic back from the last person, who had butchered a Hank Williams Jr. song. She said, “Let’s give it up for Marshall and his heartfelt version of ‘Family Tradition’…I thi
nk. That was ‘Family Tradition,’ right?” The crowd groaned, then laughed. She said, “Come on y’all. Moneta just kids. We’re all friends here. Just having a little fun. It don’t matter what you sound like, only that you’re having fun. That’s right, it’s Champagne Thursdays at the Parlour. You got me, Moneta, controlling the mic, and Birdie with the power of the pour. Both of us work the same way. The more you tip, the quicker you get served. Keep those requests coming. Up next, we got Angie singing ‘Like A Virgin.’” A skinny woman in her midforties with a cropped halter top and cutoff faded jeans stepped behind the mic stand in the center of the stage. As the music started, Moneta said to the crowd, “Looking at Angie, I think we need to pretend it’s twenty-five years ago.” Angie snarled and stuck her tongue out at Moneta while waiting for the first verse to start.
Birdie walked over in front of Crystal and looked down at the video poker screen. “Any luck?”
Hearing that Angie’s voice was fairly decent, Crystal stopped playing to listen. She picked up her champagne and rotated her chair ninety degrees so she could watch Angie and still talk to Birdie. “Up and down,” she said. “I started with forty bucks and now have, what?” She looked down at the screen. “A hundred eighty-five credits, so I’m up a little over six bucks.”
“This machine hasn’t hit in a while, so you might get lucky,” Birdie said. “You going to treat us to a song tonight?”
Crystal sipped some champagne. “I think I’ll do one. Any requests?”
Birdie didn’t hesitate. “I love when you do Whitney. Anything by her—or no, I know the one I want. How about “I Will Always Love You?” Love that song. You’re one of the few people who can pull it off.”
On stage, Angie finished her song. Crystal downed the rest of her champagne, put the glass on the bar, and clapped for the performance. She turned back to the machine and started playing. Birdie refilled her glass. She pushed another five toward him.
He pushed the money back to her. “Give this to Moneta when you sing.”
Crystal nodded, directing her eyes to the screen. “Did you know that song was originally written and recorded by Dolly Parton in the early seventies, and it’s not about romantic love at all? Dolly recorded it for Porter Wagoner as a way to express her appreciation for him and what he had done for her professionally when she decided to leave his television show. That song reached the top of the charts three times. Twice by Dolly. Once with the original, the second time in the eighties on the soundtrack of The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, then again in the nineties with Whitney for The Bodyguard soundtrack.”
Crystal could talk music for hours. This was all her mom’s doing. Valeria used to play all different types of music, from folk to country to pop to rock to R&B and even rap, despite disapproving of the messaging and violence. Her mom believed all music was connected and that to appreciate any type, one had to study all the types. So when Crystal as a young girl had taken a liking to the Whitney version, her mom made her go back and listen to the original and also to the second release for the movie, which of course Crystal wasn’t allowed to watch because of the adult content. Instead her mom had Crystal study up on Dolly’s life and her impact on music, since she was such a unique and influential figure.
Moneta’s voice radiated through the speakers. “Keep those requests coming, y’all. If you don’t, Moneta is going to have to sing. I work hard enough. Don’t make me sing too. Tonight is for you to shine.”
Crystal looked up from the screen at Birdie. He smiled and nodded toward the stage. She said, “Watch this for me?” He opened up a bar napkin and covered the machine. Crystal stood up, gulped another mouthful of champagne, and bounded toward the stage.
Moneta saw Crystal heading in her direction. “Look out, folks. You’re in for a special treat tonight. She can sing, she can dance, and, as you can see, she is also pretty easy on the eyes: the lovely and talented Crystal.” She covered the mic so only Crystal could hear her. “What’s it going to be, luv?” Crystal told her Birdie’s request. Moneta said, “Brilliant. No one ever does that song.” Moneta spoke back into the mic. “So fill up your drinks, sit back and relax, and enjoy this sure-to-be-stunning rendition of Whitney Houston’s ‘I Will Always Love You.’”
Crystal waited for the text prompt on the karaoke screen to start the a cappella beginning so the timing would be right when the music kicked in. The first words flowed in perfect pitch. All conversations stopped. Any eyes that weren’t on the stage snapped to Crystal, and any that were, stayed there. “If I should stay…Well, I would only be in your way…”
As she continued, outside the Parlour several passersby stopped to listen, which only drew more people to see what the attraction was. The bar area filled three and four people deep. Birdie was at his post behind the bar, but he didn’t bother asking anyone if they wanted anything, because no one cared. Everyone was transfixed by the siren on stage.
With her eyes closed, Crystal lost herself in the music, never missing a note. She blended the final lines expertly with the light musical accompaniment. Her voice rose, hitting the final notes perfectly. “You, darling, I love you…ooh, I’ll always, I’ll always lovvve yooooou.” When she stopped and the last of the sound had drifted out into the room, seconds of silence passed. Everyone remained still, basking in the beauty of what they had just heard. Crystal put the mic back in the stand and walked toward her seat at the bar.
Moneta spoke into her mic in a soft voice. “That was Crystal, ladies and gentleman. Let’s show her our appreciation.” The crowd roared, clapping and whistling. Moneta said, “That’s right. Maybe we can get her up here to do another song.” The crowd timed their clap to be in unison, urging Crystal for an encore. Ignoring the attention, Crystal sat down and focused back on the machine. Moneta, recognizing Crystal was done, at least for a while, didn’t push her. She said, “OK, well, after that, you deserve a break. We all do. No one wants to follow that. Let’s all take a pause for the cause, refresh our drinks with one of those five-dollar champagnes on special all night, and keep those requests coming.” She dimmed the lights and flipped on a recorded mix to fill the silence and keep the crowd entertained. “Dancing Queen,” by ABBA, flowed through the speakers.
Crystal, her adrenaline racing following the performance, ignored the compliments and accolades being thrown at her. Fortunately everybody kept their distance. One of the reasons she didn’t like to sing, or waited until right before she was ready to go home, was people always wanted to come talk to her afterward. And it was always the same questions: “Where’d you learn to sing like that?” “Why don’t you sing professionally?” “What is your favorite song to sing?” They meant well, and Crystal knew if she didn’t want the attention, she shouldn’t get up and sing. But for Crystal, singing was more about keeping that part of herself alive and staying connected to her mom, which made it special and also painful at the same time.
She was vaguely aware that the person two seats down was sitting quietly and watching. Head down, Crystal continued to bang away at the machine. When she drew three aces, then followed with another ace and a three for a $2,000-credit win, she took her hands from the keys and sat back in her chair, satisfied to just admire the picture she had worked so hard to create.
The woman who had been watching her slid down one seat, right next to Crystal. “I guess tonight is your night in more ways than one.”
Crystal glanced to her right, ready to brush off a stranger. Seeing it was Penny, she said, “Oh, hey, I didn’t see you. After I sing, I put blinders on.”
Birdie walked down, seeing the big score on the machine. “Did it finally hit? I told you it was due.” He noticed the two of them talking. “You two know each other? Man, this town is so frickin’ small.”
Crystal said, “From the tables. We’ve played together a few times.”
“And the juice place,” Penny corrected her. “We also met there and hung out at Contai
ner Park. We go way back.”
Birdie lifted a bottle from the well and angled it toward Penny. “Ketel and soda?”
Penny pointed at the bottle. “I’ll take the Ketel and the ice with a lemon. No soda.” She turned to Crystal. “Can I buy you one?”
Crystal looked at her glass, which was getting low again. Birdie grabbed a bottle of champagne and extended it toward the glass. Crystal waved him off. “I’m good on the champagne. I’ll have the same thing as her, and take it out of this.” She tapped the pile of money on the bar from the original hundred she had cashed in. “I got this round.”
Birdie put the bubbly back and iced two rocks glasses. “Ooh, girls after my own heart. Drinking straight booze, buying each other drinks. You two strip down to your bra and panties and get in a pillow fight, and I might think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
Penny looked around. “I don’t see any pillows.”
Birdie said, “Let me call housekeeping.” He set the drinks down in front of them. “These are on the house.”
Crystal balled up a napkin and threw it at Birdie as he served other customers. “Such a perv.” She took one more look at her big win on the screen and pressed the button to deal a fresh hand.
“Wait. Shouldn’t you quit?” Penny said. She looked at the payout table on the machine in front of her. “I mean, that’s like the second-best hand you can get, right? The chances of doing better are pretty slim. You should quit while you’re ahead.”
Crystal ignored the conservative warning and kept banging at the keys. “Number one, you never leave the machine on a winning hand. You always play at least one more. Second, these machines are streaky. The winning hands come in bunches. Another good hand, and I don’t have to go into work tonight.”