by Paul Downs
—
I’M IN MY HOTEL in Kuwait at midnight, but too jet-lagged to sleep. At eight-thirty a.m., I meet my minder from the Commerce Department in Kuwait. He’s a short, cheerful man named Fordham Mathai. He was born in Kuwait to Indian parents, which means he is forever barred from Kuwaiti citizenship. He’s a great admirer and now employee of the United States of America. In contrast to Bahar O’Brien, he’s delighted to see me and makes me feel confident that I will succeed. Over breakfast, he reviews our schedule. The firm whose inquiry started my odyssey, back in February, is missing. Fordham says that he could not establish whether they are reputable, so he has left them off the list. Not to worry; he has found many companies eager to meet me.
Approaching Kuwait City from the south, I see its striking, futuristic skyline. We pass a commercial district that Fordham tells me dates to the 1960s. Companies selling similar goods are clustered together: tire shops, auto repair, fabrics, vegetables. It’s a pattern that predates the Internet and presumes that all shopping is done in person. Customers can walk away from one deal and quickly find another. Merchants live and work as neighbors and agree on appropriate price ranges. It works as long as they all have similar costs and are selling to local people. When I started my business, there were several similar districts in Philadelphia. North Third Street was dominated by machinery dealers, and South Fourth Street had a long row of fabric dealers. The Internet and rising real estate prices decimated both clusters. Suddenly these businesses were forced to compete across a national market. Machinery is pretty much a commodity—one can buy the same tool from any number of dealers. The ones who prospered mastered the Internet, carried large inventories, and had easy highway access. The Philadelphia businesses were stuck with cramped, expensive real estate, in a neighborhood that couldn’t accommodate full-size tractor-trailers. They couldn’t carry enough inventory, and shipping was difficult and expensive. Only a single sandpaper supplier remains on North Third, surrounded now by boutiques and coffee shops. I know the owners well, and they’ve told me that they’re still alive because they own the building, they got a Web site up early, and their product is small enough to ship by UPS. The fabric dealers have put up a better fight, because people still want to put their hands on material before they buy. And bolts of fabric are easy to ship, and a lot of inventory can be placed in a small space. But the dealer that I favored, Brood & Sons, closed up when the two brothers got too old to work and couldn’t find a buyer. The fabric business relies on people who know how to sew. Why bother to make your own clothes when they come so cheap from Bangladesh? And why reupholster that sofa you got from Mom when you can spend less for a new one at IKEA?
We arrive at the first stop of the day: a high-end residential furniture dealer. The shop is filled with expensive furniture made by old, established American companies: dark woods, shiny finishes, lots of carving, brass work, overstuffed upholstery, and gilding. Very different from the spare, featureless look that architects love. Fordham and I are greeted by Kipson Jaja, the son of the founder. He serves us tea, and after pleasantries, I give him the spiel. When I finish, he sighs and tells me that I should have been here ten years ago. Back then, his company furnished the many new government buildings in Kuwait. Now that that work has been completed, he is furnishing only private homes. He promises to keep me in mind. More handshakes, promises to keep in touch, and we depart.
The next stop is in a run-down area dominated by auto body shops. Our target’s store is filled with office furniture made in China. We are directed to a second-floor office. Inside we find the boss, a very busy man. He’s got a lit cigarette in one hand, a cell phone in the other. Something is upsetting him, because he’s yelling into the phone in Arabic. Seeing us hesitating at the door, he waves us in and points to a sofa. He ends the call with a curse, I presume, and snaps the phone shut. “I am Kamil,” he declares, as if daring us to argue with him. “You. Sit there.” He directs me to a low stool in front of his desk. I put my laptop on his desk, screen facing him, so that I have to bend over to advance the slides. I start my pitch, and he says nothing while he watches, furiously puffing on the cigarette. I’ve been presenting for maybe a minute when his secretary arrives with a thick sheaf of papers. She’s stuffed into a tight skirt/loose blouse combo. And she’s no shrinking violet. She pays no attention to me or Fordham, but addresses Mr. K in a stream of Arabic, delivered in an angry tone of voice. She drops the papers onto his desk and starts pointing to places he needs to sign, while keeping up a rapid commentary. She’s leaning over his shoulder, and I can see straight down her shirt. I stop my presentation, speechless. Kamil looks up from the papers and glares at me. “Keep going.” So I do. He lights another cigarette. This pause brings the secretary’s volume up another level. She has at least a hundred pages in her hand, and many need signatures. I decide to simply get through this as fast as possible. Then Kamil’s phone rings again, and he holds it with his shoulder, yelling into it, while alternating more signatures with puffs on another cigarette. The secretary never stops talking, nor does she stand up. The view is unavoidable. The only cover she gets are the clouds of smoke that Kamil blows in my face.
When I finally reach my conclusion, Kamil points to the computer. “Go back to start. The World Bank table—how much?” I give him a very large number. It’s a very large table. He scowls and says, “I can get that for a quarter of the price in China. Is all your work so high?” Well, no, I tell him, that was an exceptional job. “Go through slides again.” He stops at a table we made for a company in Ohio that one might find in any office. “How much?” I give him the number. He scowls again. “You are too expensive for me. I can get any of this in China. I am done.”
We head down the stairs in silence. I think to myself, If I can get through that, I can get through anything. Under the worst circumstances, I delivered my message and kept my dignity. I am a real sales professional.
On the way to our third meeting, Fordham tells me, “This gentleman is the top decorator in Kuwait. He has been around for many, many years. Clients are top, top families.” We step off the elevator into a small, beautifully decorated office. The walls are covered with architectural renderings, done in pencil and tinted with watercolor. I was taught to do this kind of work in my architecture classes, back in the 1980s. Nobody does these anymore.
We’re shown into the inner sanctum of our host, Mr. Akil. He’s a short man, oldish, with bronzed skin and a magnificent head of silver hair. A stylish pink silk scarf nestles within his shirt collar. His shirt is open to the waist, revealing an expanse of silver fur to rival his head. A perfectly fitted blue sports jacket, gray slacks, and soft leather slippers completes the ensemble. A decorator, indeed.
I ask him who does his drawings. “Of course it is me who does them!” he says with a smile. “Nobody can draw like this except me!” I ask him whether he is busy. “No, not like ten years ago,” he admits with a sigh. I ask whether he would like to see my work. A smile reappears. “Of course! Did you bring me a book?” I tell him no and pull out my computer. He frowns and asks again, “You don’t have a book? All my suppliers give me a book.” He pulls a beautifully bound volume, with the name of a prominent Italian manufacturer, from a shelf full of similar books. It’s as large and thick as a high school yearbook. I open it and see hundreds of pages of exquisite photographs of upholstered furniture. “It is this year’s book!” he exclaims, the very thought giving him pleasure. “They make another every year. I am the first in Kuwait to get the books.” I apologize for not having a book with me and start showing him the slides. When I finish, he sighs. “You should have been here ten years ago, when they were building the government complex. That work is done now. But I might find some work for you. You must send me your book and I will do what I can.” I tell him that I don’t have a book. “Then you must make one. All the best companies have a book. You will see. With a book, the clients understand what they will get. Send me your book as soon
as you have it done. I would like very much to have it.” I make a half-hearted promise to start work on a book as soon as I get back.
In the elevator, I turn to Fordham. “Can you believe that, those books? That’s really old-fashioned.” Fordham smiles. Mr. Akil has made a good living with his books in Kuwait, and me—nothing so far. So it’s something to consider. And reject. I used printed brochures before the Internet came along. And it was an incredible struggle to come up with something convincing. Photography, graphic design, printing: all expensive, all time-consuming. And immediately after printing, it’s obsolete. You can’t change a brochure. The story it tells is frozen at the moment of its creation. A Web site is so much better for us. Instant additions and subtractions, and we can get away with mediocre photography. We can update the text and prices. Potential clients can see it whenever and wherever they want. And it’s been working for us. With limited resources, I don’t want to dilute my efforts by returning to paper catalogues.
Driving to the next appointment, with a man I’ll call The Sheik, I’m suddenly overcome with exhaustion. I doze until we arrive at a low, windowless building. Inside, there’s a surprisingly fancy lobby with displays showing how The Sheik’s grandfather launched an empire, bringing American-made lanterns to Kuwait. Seventy years later, the family runs a multi-billion dollar conglomerate, ranging from retail stores to pharmaceuticals to automobiles to building materials—all American.
Fordham decides to wait in the car and answer e-mails. I am introduced to Kurtis Johnson, assistant to The Sheik. He’s an American, ex-military, here since the Gulf War, and very friendly. I give him the show. Kurtis praises my work and then says, “I need to tell you what’s going on here. I like your work, and I think the boss should see it, but it’s not a good day today. My boss has a kind of difficult situation. He has a large family, many younger brothers and sisters. They don’t participate in the company, but they all have shares, and they want to make sure the money keeps coming. Once a year they have a meeting. That’s today. I’m not sure he’ll be able to see you, but I’ll go talk to him now.”
Kurtis comes back a few minutes later. “He wants to meet you. Right now. Bring the computer.” I follow him into a magnificent conference room, dominated by a gorgeous maple table. I’d be very proud if it came from my own workshop. Kurtis helps me connect my computer to the projector. After a few minutes, people start arriving, all youngish men dressed in robes. I am not introduced to anyone. Eventually the table is filled, except for one seat at the end. And then The Sheik walks in, beaming, hands outstretched to me in welcome. “It’s an honor to meet you, come all the way just to see us!” He turns to the others. “This is Paul Downs, and his company makes very fine American furniture. He will show us his work. Pay attention.” I launch into my show, pleased at such a respectful welcome from such a wealthy and powerful man.
At the end he exclaims, “Magnificent work! Why have I never heard of your company before?” I tell him that we are small and specialized, and give him a very short version of how Google found us and how we became conference table makers. “That’s fascinating. So what do you want from me? How can we work together?” I tell him that I hope he will call me when one of his projects requires a very special table, of unusual size or design. He replies, “There are two difficulties. First, you should have been here ten years ago, when the government was building. We had so many contracts then that we could not keep up. We could have kept you very, very busy. The second problem is that I have my own workshops, and they do all this work for us. This table here. Do you like it?” I tell him that it is superb, the whole room is stunning. “Thank you. Now, I would like to help you. If you could send Kurtis some of your marketing materials—your brochures, your samples, whatever you have—we can see what happens.” I promise that I will get some to him. And then I give him one of the little trivets that we made to give to the people I meet. It’s nice, but not grand. The Sheik reacts as if I just handed him an enormous diamond. He thanks me profusely and announces to the room that this will be a useful addition to his wife’s kitchen. Then he shakes my hand again and sweeps out of the room.
Kurtis and I spend the rest of the afternoon touring some of The Sheik’s furniture stores. At each we’re greeted by nervous store managers, and my opinion is solicited on all aspects of running a store, even though I know nothing about it.
Back in the car, late in the afternoon, I give Fordham a brief recap of the encounter, and he’s very surprised that I met The Sheik. “He is a very important man, very busy. It is an honor for you.” Given the amount of time that Kurtis spent with me, I think that they were trying to figure out exactly who I am, and they erred on the side of respect in case I turned out to be a good potential partner.
Back at the hotel, I eat a stunningly expensive meal and contemplate the day’s events. Can I be a good partner for any of the companies I have visited? They seem to think I am something that I’m not: a much larger company that can provide all the sales support that comes with size—printed materials, samples, and sustained attention from me. I don’t think I can come up with any of those things without making a serious investment in time and money. Which, if the rest of my business disappears, I may have to do. But it’s obvious that the boom days in the Middle East are over and that I would be competing with local companies that have plenty of capacity and are a safer bet for a local buyer.
At ten the next morning, Fordham and I head off to our meeting near the airport. I show my slides to the owner, Mr. Jabril, who represents a prominent American furniture manufacturer. He compliments my work and lists the problems he has getting custom work from his current company. They aren’t nimble, and their engineering on custom jobs is subpar. On the other hand, their standard products are decent and a good value for his market. He asks about my prices, and I repeat the show, with numbers this time. Jabril tells me the same thing I’ve heard everywhere: “You really should have been here ten years ago. I would like to use you, but I don’t have anything right now. If you can send me your brochures and your catalogue, I can start passing them out when we make sales calls. For now, you should probably go to Saudi Arabia and Oman. There’s still a lot of work there.”
At the airport I give Fordham a hug in thanks for all he has done. Kuwait has been a whirlwind, and Fordham has been a pleasant and enthusiastic companion. He did his best to put me in front of decent companies. He’s a credit to the Commerce Department.
—
TWENTY-TWO HOURS OF FLYING and airports: utter hell. I don’t reach my house until midday Thursday, and instead of collapsing in bed, which I’m dying to do, I get my suit back on and have lunch with my family and my parents. It’s graduation day. Peter has completed high school. Naturally, everyone wants to hear about my trip, so I try to describe some of the highlights. But I never did anything very touristy, so I stick with “I met a lot of nice people, and there’s some work there, but it will take a lot of commitment from me to get it. I don’t know whether it was worth it or not.”
It’s a proud moment when my son gets his diploma, made bittersweet because his twin brother is not there. Nancy and I debated whether to bring Henry home for the evening, but we decided against it. He’d get nothing out of the experience, and it would be impossible for us to relax and focus our attention on Peter. Next Sunday, he’ll fly to San Francisco to begin his job.
We get back to our house in the early evening, and I have to excuse myself and go to bed. It’s been a week of very little sleep and I’m collapsing. Friday morning I decide to stay home for the rest of the day. I’m still exhausted, and I can feel a tickle in my throat—a little parting gift from a fellow traveler. One e-mail to work, telling them that I’ll see them on Monday, and that’s it.
On Saturday, I go out to the shop and find it dark and silent, unchanged while I had my adventure. No, wait. It looks much worse than usual. The trashcans are overflowing, the dust bags on each machine are full,
and scrap and dust cover the floor. What happened? I have a worker just to sweep and empty the trash: Jésus Moreno, who comes from—Mexico? I don’t actually know. Wherever he hails from, he’s an incredibly hard worker, and he’s done a good job so far. I’ll have to sort this out on Monday.
In my office I contemplate the results of a twenty-thousand-mile quest: a dozen business cards. I enter every contact into our database and send each an e-mail thanking them for their time. After some thought, I decide to tell them that we’re working on printed materials and will have them ready by the end of July, and I promise to keep in touch. I write to Shiva, the interior designer for the BigOil project, my point of contact going forward. My message: I’d like to start designing, but I need their final decision as to how many people they want to sit and a measured drawing of the room. I ask her to forward those documents immediately.
—
ON MONDAY, I steel myself and deliver another dismal sales report. We had only ten calls while I was gone and didn’t book many orders, either. Nick sold a job worth $9,742, and Dan sold two: one to a small ad agency for $5,765, and another worth $4,224 to Eurofurn, for some uninteresting painted panels. It’s not the tsunami of veneered tabletops that I was hoping for. The total, $19,731, is far behind our target of $50,000 a week. We’ve missed our numbers again. There’s a ripple of dissatisfaction from the production workers. They know that the sales team are the highest paid people in the company, and I can feel the questions in their minds: why do they get away with continuous failure? It’s a great question, one that I don’t want to answer because I’m not ready for a civil war between sales and the rest of the shop. I try to end on a positive note. I tell them why I have increased the budget for AdWords, and that I’m sure we’ll see some results soon. And that I’ve just signed up the sales team for training. I take them through the logic of it, starting with Sam Saxton’s results. I finish by saying that the Middle East visit went well and that I even came back with a live prospect that might produce a sizable order.