The next morning, he sat in his office, dressed in his customary suit and tie, staring off into space. His company was holding on by the slimmest of margins. His bank had agreed to a bridge-loan until the end of the year. This was all that was keeping them going.
About to stand from his desk, Blair made the mistake of taking a call from Tracey Lambert of Playmart, a four-year-old chain of five hundred stores, prominent in the northeast.
“I must have a meeting with you,” the buyer said. “At once.”
“At once?”
“Yes, it’s important.”
Blair grimaced, inwardly furious at this sort of demand. “Could we not discuss this over the phone?” he asked.
“No. I’m afraid not.”
He stifled his comment. This is what had become of the business he cherished. It was all one way, the buyer’s way, or the proverbial highway. And Tracey Lambert was worse than most. Employed for only six months, she had already succeeded in alienating almost everyone in the industry.
“Look,” he tried reasoning with her, “it’s difficult for me to get away right now. Can we not put this off for a few days?”
“No, we could not,” the buyer said with her usual insolence. “I said it was important.”
He sighed, knowing he had no choice.
The drive took two hours. He was using a leased Hyundai until his insurance claim was settled over his lost BMW.
The entrance to Playmart’s head office in Wayne, New Jersey was located less than a half-mile from the corporate headquarters of Toys ‘R’ Us, and the common assumption in the toy industry was that this site had been chosen intentionally. There was no guard station but the impressive grounds were similar, reminding Blair of a sprawling college campus, without the hustle and bustle of professors and students.
He entered the building, registered at the well-lit reception desk, then rode the elevator to the third floor. There, the huge video screen drew his attention, its size representing another obvious jab at its competitor, as if to say, “Whatever you can do, we can do bigger and better.”
Now, he confirmed the location of his pre-assigned appointment, headed for the room, entered, and waited.
Within minutes, Tracey Lambert joined him. There was no smile or greeting, and Blair couldn’t help wondering if her short, shapeless body and excess girth were the cause of her surly disposition.
The minute they were seated, the buyer thrust a sample of one of his current craft items at him: Bead-a-licious.
He spent a minute or two examining the box and was unable to find anything wrong.
“Study the language,” Tracey said.
He turned the box from front to back but was still in the dark.
“My God, are you blind?”
He was used to her insults so he didn’t say anything.
She yanked the sample from his hands and tapped at a number of lines of print on the box with her index finger. “French and English,” she said.
“So?” he asked.
“So?” The buyer’s voice rose. “How many times do I have to tell you people? I don’t want anything but English on my goddamn packaging! This is America, not France!”
You people. Her meaning wasn’t lost on him: lowly sales-types. “Tracey,” he said, fighting his temper now, despite his resolve, “many manufacturers have gone to English/Spanish packaging, others to multilingual, with French and German added to the mix. It doesn’t take anything away from the product. With America’s cultural diversity today, it most likely adds to its sales appeal.”
“I want it off my shelves!”
“But the expense…”
“I don’t give a good goddamn about the expense! You people don’t listen! You think you can do whatever you please!”
“It wasn’t done to hurt you,” Blair persisted. “To save on cost we decided to produce one box for Canada and the United States.”
“Well I don’t like it. The balance of my inventory has to go back to you. What RA number should I use?”
“I can’t authorize a return for something like this.”
“Excuse me?”
“I can’t do it.”
“You can, and you will!”
Blair paused and took a deep breath. “Look, why don’t we compromise,” he suggested. “You keep the goods in your stores for a period of, say, two months. If every piece hasn’t sold by then, you can return the balance, no questions asked.”
Tracey Lambert’s face quickly became infused with an unattractive blush. “I must be talking funny,” she said, “because you obviously haven’t understood me. I want every piece of this crap,” she slapped the box hard, “removed from my stores!”
Blair stood abruptly.
She seemed taken aback. “Wh—where’re you going?”
“I’ve got to get back to my office,” he said, surprised at how meek she’d become.
“What about my RA number?” Her voice had not only softened, it sounded submissive.
He wondered what she was thinking. “Use today’s date,” he said matter-of-factly. “That’ll be your return authorization number.” And he walked out.
He took a seat in his car, leaned back, and shook his head. Not all that long ago, the just completed meeting with Tracey Lambert would have driven him to distraction. No matter how well he understood the relationship between buyer and seller, no matter how often he had to camouflage his feelings because his role was, and always would be, subservient, unfairness ate away at him. It was something that normally remained with him for days, even weeks. Swallowing his pride was one thing; being made to choke on it quite another.
But those very feelings were rubbing off him now as if they didn’t count. Dealing with temperamental buyers somehow seemed inconsequential.
Ironically, he wished it weren’t so.