Daily Snippet

In the early days of my business, I experienced typical ups and downs. But at one point after hiring my second employee, money was extremely tight; in fact, I wasn’t sure how I would meet my next payroll. I was literally sitting at my desk with my head in my hands, staring at my financial woes on a spreadsheet, when I received a phone call from a local optometrist.

The eyeglass store in the mall had just closed, and he had purchased their customer list. He had all of the data on a disk, and he wanted to create a personalized letter to each customer, explaining how he could meet his or her eyeglass needs in the future. This was the early 90’s, so the average person was still struggling to operate a mouse. More complex computer operations were out of the question. “Is that something you can do for me?” he asked.

Of course we could do it. It required nothing more than a simple mail merge in Microsoft Word. But the task didn’t stop there. He wanted us to print the letters as well — 2500 of them. Such services were not part of my “core business”. I owned a training firm, not a Kinko’s. But I needed cash, so I agreed. Because I had limited funds on hand, I quoted him the labor and a reasonable printing charge if he would provide the paper. He agreed.

The next day the doctor dropped off the 3.5″ floppy disk of customer data and five reams of thick, light green paper — exactly 2500 sheets. We quickly created his form letter and performed the mail merge, producing 2500 personalized letters ready to print. At the time, I owned the average printer of the day for a small business. The Hewlett-Packard inkjet printer could feed about fifty sheets of paper at once, but, as I soon discovered, it could not feed the thick, light green paper provided by the doctor. Oops.

If I had been smart, I would have surrendered right then. I would have called the doctor and explained that I assumed he would supply standard, white copier paper and that my printer simply could not handle the task. But I was young, unwilling to admit my mistakes and afraid to fail. So, with the little money that I had, I bought a more powerful laser printer. At that point, I would not even break even on the project. Ouch.

The first 500 letters printed beautifully, albeit slowly, on the new laser printer, and the second 500 letters were humming along nicely when the printer ran out of ink. I soon discovered that ink cartridges for the laser printer were much more expensive than inkjet cartridges, and it didn’t take a mathematician to figure out that I would need at least three more cartridges to print the remaining letters. Now I was spending money I didn’t even have on supplies for the project. Ouch again.

The next day I had to be out of town. I charged one of my employees with the task of printing the remaining letters. When I returned to the office that evening, a note was sitting on my desk. “Debbie, I’m sorry, but I accidentally printed the same batch of 500 letters twice, and quite a few sheets were lost because of printer jams. We have about 525 letters to print, so we’ll need two more reams of paper.” I did what any good entrepreneur would do in this situation. I threw my stapler against the wall. Ouch, ouch, ouch.

Again, I plowed forward. I drove to every store in my small Indiana town in search of thick, light green paper only to discover that it wasn’t a stock item. After a few desperate phone calls, I located the paper fifty miles away. The next morning, I drove 100 miles roundtrip to spend more money that I didn’t have in order for us to complete this dreaded green paper project.

By the time it was over, I lost more than $500 dollars on the project, and I was left with more than 400 sheets of that thick, light green paper to remind me of my foolishness for many years to come.

I learned more lessons from the green paper fiasco than I could ever list, including the important economic principles of “opportunity cost” and “sunk cost”. I should have remained true to my core business; in other words, it would have been better for me to sit and do nothing than to churn endlessly on a foolish project, wasting time and money.

Now, whenever I learn another valuable, painful lesson, I simply smile and say to myself, “That’s another green paper lesson.”

The U.S. job market is tough. Poor economic conditions, downsizing, hurricanes and the exportation of jobs overseas are making it nearly impossible for talented, motivated workers to find quality jobs. A recent college graduate who has been unsuccessful in her job search posted a plea for assistance on one of the many discussion forums on the web. “What can I do to differentiate myself from the other applicants?” she asked. As I reflect on the candidates whom I have interviewed over the years, two stand out above all others.

In the late 90’s, the technology training industry was still booming, and I needed another full-time instructor. I placed an ad in several local papers, and I received dozens of resumes. One of the most intriguing candidates, a woman who worked for a competitor, lived nearly two hours away but expressed a willingness to relocate. After an impressive phone interview, I arranged to meet her at a restaurant for a face-to-face interview.

The dinner interview was scheduled for 5:30pm, so I arrived at the restaurant ten minutes early. At 5:45pm, the candidate arrived. Late. Strike one. She apologized for being late and explained that she had to pick up her baby from the babysitter. “No problem,” I said. “Good”, she replied. “I’m just going to run out to the car and bring her in.” She flew out the door, returning a few moments later carrying her young baby in a carrier.

The hostess seated us, and the candidate set the baby carrier on the table next to us. As the baby slept, we chatted cordially and surveyed the menus. Initially, I was impressed with her demeanor and communication skills, and when the waitress asked for our orders, I deferred to the candidate. She proceeded to order an appetizer, a meal — and a half-yard of beer! I chuckled as she said it, thinking she would turn and say, “Just kidding. Give me a lemonade.” Nope. Strike two.

I proceeded to interview the candidate, who answered my questions with ease as she sipped her half-yard. Unfortunately, after the meals arrived, the baby began to whimper and fuss. As quickly as she had whisked the baby into the restaurant, the candidate whisked her out of the carrier. She then opened her suit jacket and began to breastfeed the infant. Waiters dropped entire trays of food as they caught sight of this woman with no blanket and no privacy, breastfeeding her infant while drinking her half-yard of beer and interviewing for a new job. Strike three. You’re out.

Amazingly, another candidate stands out in my mind even more vividly. I was hiring a new graphic artist, and I had received a resume from a young man who worked behind the bar at a nearby restaurant. He always seemed amiable, and I heard from several people in town that he was talented. So, I scheduled an interview in my office.

When the young man appeared for the interview, he was dressed in nice clothing, but everything was sloppy. The shirt was only partially tucked, the tie was loosened, and his shoes were dirty and scuffed. None of these issues were deal breakers, but they were worthy of noting. Duly noted. I sat down at my desk and offered him a seat across from me. He proceeded to sit down, slouching down in the chair as if he were about to nap. Not impressive. Strike one.

I asked to see his portfolio, which included samples of his original artwork. He displayed some impressive projects, and he was clearly an artist with potential. Unlike my breastfeeding candidate, he was not conversational. I had to work to get his thoughts on life, work and the position at hand, so I presented him with some open-ended questions. “What do you like the most about your current job?” I asked. He offered a bland, automated response. I said, “Well, what do you like least?”

The young man’s eyes got big, and he sat upright in the chair. “I’ll tell you what I don’t like,” he said passionately. “I’m supposed to get the bar setup by 11:30, right? So, the entire time I’m trying to work, people keep calling on the phone, asking what the lunch special is for the day. It drives me crazy. Sometimes I just leave the phone off the hook so that I can get my job done.” Ummm. Strike two. But at least he was sitting upright now.

I asked him one more question. “If I were to ask your friends to compare you to an animal, what animal would they tell me most represents your personality?” He slouched back down into the chair. Obviously, this was his optimal thinking position. He scratched his head, rubbed his chin, and squinted his eyes. A few minutes passed before he sat back up, pointed at me and said, “A sloth.” I pondered this answer for a moment. “A sloth?” I questioned. “Yep. Overall, I’m pretty lazy. Given my choice, I’d prefer to sleep all day. So, yes, they would say I’m most like a sloth.” Strike three. You’re out.

At age 19 I was married, living in Atlanta, and poor. My life consisted of one thing: work. I worked from 8am to 5pm as a legal secretary for a title company, and I worked at Macy’s from 6pm until 9pm three nights each week. I attended Georgia State University the other two nights. I also cleaned the house of a family with twin boys on Saturday mornings, and I delivered the Atlanta Journal and Constitution every morning from 3am to 6am. Needless to say, I was tired most of the time.

At Macy’s I worked in one of the slowest, least trafficked areas of the store: women’s accessories. In my short evening shifts I made a few sales of scarves or gloves, but most of the time I merely stood behind the counter, watching the video on “50 Ways to Tie a Scarf” as it looped over and over and over again. I was bored. And did I mention that I was tired most of the time?

Macy’s had a policy that retail clerks were not supposed to begin balancing their registers until the store closed at 9pm. This was a good business policy for a retail store. If a customer wanted to purchase an item at 8:59pm, I was not only supposed to be thrilled to ring them up, but I was supposed to be smiling and chatting with them as I completed the transaction.

I ignored this policy. In my world, with my hectic schedule, every minute was critical. If I could have my drawer balanced when the clock turned 9pm, it meant that I could simply grab my bag of money, deliver it to the customer service counter, and exit the building. I could be in bed by 9:15pm. If any customer dared to disrupt this pattern, purchasing an item during the last 15 minutes of my shift, I usually smirked as I assisted them, openly displaying my disgust. How dare they inconvenience me?

One Friday evening the accessories counter had been particularly slow. Only a few customers had crossed into my department. I was bored, tired and anxious to go home. At 8:45, I began to count the change in my drawer. Of course, this activity had to be handled as a covert operation, quietly and cautiously, to avoid attracting the attention of a manager. Since my register hadn’t seen much action that evening, it was balanced within minutes. With one hand on my money bag and both eyes on the clock, I waited.

And then it happened. An older woman appeared in my department. “No! You can’t buy anything!” I shouted inside my head. She wandered aimlessly around a big table of scarves, running her hand over each of them as her eyes slowly scanned everything in the department — belts, purses, and wraps. Then she walked over to the counter. I wasn’t sure what to do. Would it be better to ignore her so that she would go away or push her into a sale so that I could still rebalance the drawer before 9pm?

“May I help you?” I asked in a hurried voice. “We close in five minutes.” She didn’t respond. Her empty gaze fell on an item in the case below me, and she leaned down. I could feel the minutes slipping away, and I was irritated. “Ma’am, is there something that I can do for you, or are you just waiting for someone?” When I got no response again, I pulled out my cattiest 19-year-old tone of voice and said, “Hellooooo!! Anybody hoooome?”

She stood up, slowly raising her eyes to meet mine. Big, heavy tears were streaming down her cheeks, and her forehead was wrinkled with pain. “My husband died yesterday,” she said softly. “His funeral is tomorrow.” She paused, choking back more tears. “He was in the military, so they . . . they want me to wear . . . long, black gloves.” She wiped her eyes, trying to compose herself. “Can you help me?”

I released my hand from my insignificant bag of money and opened the case below. Together, we examined her options for long, black gloves, and I rang up her purchase. I wasn’t smiling. I wasn’t chatting. But I was helping a hurting woman who happened to be a customer in need of gloves at 8:59pm on a Friday evening.

After she walked away, I turned back toward my register, crying as I counted the money for a second time. I never closed my drawer before 9pm again. More importantly, I learned that everything in life isn’t always about me.

In the summer of 1984 I returned to Michigan from my first year of boarding school in Asheville, North Carolina. I was sixteen years old with no local friends and a driver’s license in hand, so I decided to get a job. I placed an ad in the local newspaper that read, “Ambitious student desires full-time summer job. Can babysit and type.” A veritable mountain of talent!

Soon I was offered a babysitting job in a nearby town — forty hours per week for $2.00/hour to watch two young children. During the first week I established an easy, monotonous routine of diapers, naps, lunch, soap operas, walks around the block, and more naps. I was thrilled to be earning money, but I was incredibly miserable.

The following Monday, my mother called. “A woman just called about your ad,” she said. “She owns a trucking company, and she wants you to call her about a summer job.” My heart was pounding as I wrote down the number. Should I return the call? I wavered between my commitment to this family and my desire for an opportunity that wouldn’t involve a rocking chair and Young and the Restless.

I returned the call. “Your ad leads me to believe that you’re a resourceful young woman. Is that correct?” I had no idea what she meant. “Yes,” I said. “Good. Then why don’t you come in for an interview tomorrow?” My mind was racing. I didn’t want to risk losing my babysitting job. “Well, I can’t come until after 5:00. Is that OK?” She agreed, and we made an appointment for the next day.

The following day I had my first encounter with Pearl Barkman, owner of a trucking firm that hauled gravel in Grand Blanc, Michigan. I have no idea how old she was exactly, but I do know that she had grey hair and was old enough to collect social security checks. I once questioned why she always obscured her Cadillac behind the trucks on the lot, and a woman in the office told me that, technically, Mrs. Barkman wasn’t supposed to be working while collecting her social security, so she needed to hide the car.

Anyway, Mrs. Barkman hired me to work as her Office Assistant for $2.50/hour, which I later realized was illegal since it was below minimum wage; however, it was far more than babysitting wages, so I was thrilled. Mr. Barkman, who seemed a good bit younger than Mrs. Barkman, handled the truckers, the hauling operations and the bidding, while Mrs. Barkman handled — well, everything else.

Mrs. Barkman intimidated me. She had a sweet smile, but she had the personality of a bull fighter. Once, while completing a multi-part form using the typewriter, I made a mistake. I rolled up the form, used my liquid white-out to correct the error, and rolled the form back into position. Mrs. Barkman appeared out of nowhere, slammed her hands on the table and snarled, “When completing a multi-part form in a typewriter, do not EVER — I repeat, EVER — use white-out.” She rolled the form out of the typewriter, flipped over the top copy and said, “See! Your top copy looks correct, but the error still exists on the other copies, which equates to legal problems!” She dramatically tore the form into tiny pieces. “Now do it correctly.”

Mrs. Barkman scared me. She had the appearance of a frail, old Grandmother, but she had the presence of a heavyweight boxer. Once, a big, burly trucker came upstairs from the garage to argue about his paycheck. He didn’t understand semi-monthly pay and believed his check was short by a few days. I listened as Mrs. Barkman explained it to him, but he wasn’t satisfied. He started to yell and shake his fist. I watched as Mrs. Barkman went nose-to-nose with this man, backing him slowly against the wall as she explained it to him again with so much intensity that, even if the man still didn’t understand, he was forced to yield. When he retreated to the garage, she turned around, pointed at me and said, “Sometimes explanations aren’t enough.”

Mrs. Barkman frustrated me. She wanted things to be perfect, yet she asked me to do things I had never done before. Once, she asked me to calculate the daily load tickets. Systematically, I removed a load ticket from the tall stack, entered the numbers into the large desk calculator, and hit the plus sign. I thought I was making great progress when — WHAMO! Mrs. Barkman swooped down like a vulture, grabbed the stack and said, “You will not do this until you can use a ten-key by touch. Here is a list of numbers. When you can add them correctly without looking at that calculator, come and get me.” I spent the next three days calculating numbers, cursing her name under my breath. “Mrs. Barkman,” I finally said. “I think I’ve got it.” I glared into her eyes, never diverting them as I calculated the entire list and then turned the calculator to show her the correct total. She handed me the stack of load tickets and said, “Now maybe you can do what you’re supposed to do.”

Mrs. Barkman pressured me. The first time the dispatcher was out sick, she sat me down in front of the radio. “There you go,” she said. And then she walked away. This was the one task in the office that I never wanted to tackle. The truckers were mean and impatient. “874 to base,” I heard. I was paralyzed with fear. “Dammit all, 874 to base! Cathy?” My hand was shaking as I pushed the button. “Ummmm. Cathy’s out today,” I whimpered. “Speak the fuck up!” he shouted. “Listen, I’m blocked on 69 with a 10-ton and no route.” What the heck? My head was spinning. I ran into the other room. “Mrs. Barkman, I need your help.” “No, you don’t,” she said, without looking up from her paper. “Truck 874 has run into a detour on I-69 on his way to Lansing. He has a 10-ton load, which means he wants to avoid weigh stations, and he needs you to get him there. The map is on the wall. Now go do it.” I did it. And, by the end of my third summer with Mrs. Barkman, I cussed instructions into that radio without hesitation.

Mrs. Barkman mentored me. I didn’t recognize it at the time. I didn’t think I needed it at the time. I didn’t appreciate it at the time. But now, as a small business owner, I realize that, in her own unique way, she was teaching me the myriad of critical skills that I would need to be successful in both life and business. Am I a resourceful young woman? Yes…thanks to you, Mrs. Barkman.