She's the Boss (21 page)

“But you’re a director now.” My voice carried a trace of accusation. “You don’t need to sell anymore.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I still spend the majority of my time selling aspects of the business. Without sales, there would be no business to manage.”

“So what exactly do you sell?”

“I sell ideas. I sell initiatives.”

“Like what?”

“Like how to lower production costs, how to run the business more efficiently.”

“Hmmm.” I twisted my lips. A thousand questions sprang to my mind. “How long have you been doing this?”

“My first real sale where I’d actually made a large profit? When I was thirteen.”

“What’d you sell?”

“Well before I sold anything, I did your run of the mill market research. After school, I collected soda cans in the cafeteria and sorted through them to find out which drinks were the most popular.”

“Warren Buffet did that too, but he collected bottle caps at gas stations.”

“Yep. And that’s why Warren Buffet is now a major shareholder of the Coca Cola company. But I took a slightly different approach. After collecting the soda cans, I recycled them for a small profit and with that money I bought cases of soda at Sam’s by the bulk.”

“That’s a lot of soda.”

“Yes and no. Usually I bought the half cans.”

“Why half cans and not the regular sized ones?”

“The half cans were cheaper and they were a lot easier for me to haul around.”

“Let me guess, then you turned around and resold the soft drinks at school?”

He nodded briefly in acknowledgment. “The vending machines at school were selling soda for a buck twenty five. So, yeah . . . I cut into their profits.”

“How much did you make on each sale?”

“Seventy-five cents. And I made quite a bit that first year. Three years later, I had saved up enough to purchase my very own vending machine.”

“Why didn’t you just take out a loan from your parents?”

“Didn’t have parents,” Carter deadpanned.

I made eye contact for as long as possible to make sure Carter wasn’t joking. He didn’t bat an eyelid. “What do you mean you didn’t have parents?”

“Mom passed away when I was five. Then my life became a cliché. Dad remarried, my stepmom was a witch and I was sent to live with my grandparents. Looking back, it was all for the better.” He sounded so indifferent about all of it.

Taken aback, I said, “Was your step-mom really that bad?”

“Put it this way.” He laughed harshly. “She’s the kind of mom who eats her young.”

“Oh,” I said inadequately. “How was living with your grandparents?”

His face relaxed into a smile. “It was good. We lived in a small town in northern Minnesota—Roseau.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s ten miles south of Canada.”

“When you say small . . .” I lifted an inquiring brow. “How small are you talking?”

“One radio station and three stop lights.”

“Phwoar! That makes Pocatello almost seem like Manhattan.”

“Like I said, it was small.” He lifted his glass and took a quick gulp of tea. “My grandparents’ house was thirty miles out on a turkey farm.”

“Did you help out on the farm?”

“I did,” he said, brightening. “Every morning I’d go out to the turkey shed with my grandpa and we’d lay out the pine shavings and cedar chips.” He stopped and cracked a semblance of a smile. “And whenever my grandpa put on Willie Nelson, all the turkeys would start bobbing their heads.”

I burst out laughing.

“Yeah.” He rubbed his chin. “You didn’t know? Turkeys love Willie Nelson.”

“No.” I gave another hiccupping laugh. “I didn’t know that. And it’s funny that your grandpa knew that.”

“I know,” Carter said fondly. “He was a pretty cool cat.”

“So, what was your grandmother like?”

“She and my grandpa, they were both hard workers.” He hesitated for a second before adding, “Life wasn’t always easy for them on the farm; most of the local farmers struggled to meet the rock bottom prices of the major turkey producers.”

I rested my chin on my fingers. “And what about you?”

“Me?” He smiled a proper smile and his eyes went crinkly. “I had big dreams. Excuse the pop reference, but I wanted to be bigger than my circumstances. Some people use their family as an excuse not to achieve, and I have no patience with that. Yep, my dad wasn’t around, but I used it as an excuse to want to achieve.”

“So where
was
your dad? Didn’t he ever visit you at the turkey farm?”

He looked down and stared into his glass. “He had a new family. Two sons. Anyway, he flat out told me that he no longer had room for me in his life.”

“What a jerk!” I said hotly.

Carter shrugged indifferently.

“What did you do after you bought that vending machine?”

He spoke slowly, as though addressing a five-year-old, “I scouted the neighborhood for a high traffic spot.”

“D’oh!” I rolled my eyes. “It doesn’t take a genius to come to that conclusion.” I rephrased my question, “Where did you end up parking your vending machine? At your school cafeteria?”

“I wish,” he said ruefully. “But they wouldn’t allow it. I ended up parking it at a dance studio close to the city.”

“Like a ballet school?” I asked idly.

He nodded. “Classical ballet, tap, jazz . . . that sort of thing.”

“How convenient,” I said in a teasing voice, “you could check out the chicks while you restocked your machine.”

“I wasn’t interested in dating back then,” he replied, a little stiffly. “It was classic Business 101. I saw a need and filled it.”

By now, the satay and roti had disappeared into our bellies. I placed a cigarette between my lips, reached for my lighter, flicked the wheel and lit it. I took a deep drag then angled my head to the left, blowing a stream of smoke across my shoulder. The more I learned about Carter, the more I wanted to know. “So,” I asked conversationally, “are you dating anyone now?”

“Why do you want to know?” A smile quirked his lips. “Are you interested in selling yourself to me?”

“No.” I could feel myself begin to blush. “But
you
just did. You got all
up-close-and-personal
with me, drew me in with your fascinating story and now BAM! I’m sold on you.”

“You are?” He grinned widely. “That was a pretty easy sale.”

I took another deep drag and gazed unseeingly toward Carter. In a moment of candor, I said, “You know, my dad left me, too. When I was twelve. Went out of my life.” I snapped my fingers. “Just like that.”

I felt an unexpected pang. All those emotions were still there. Resentment, anger, hurt.

Carter stared intently at me. “Where is your dad now?”

“In jail.” I laughed bitterly. “For life.”

Carter said nothing for a moment, then, “Have you visited him?”

I shook my head firmly.

“Why not?”

My eyes flickered. “Do you see
your
dad?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so,” I said with a faint smile.

In the silence that followed, we looked at each other and shared a moment of mutual understanding.

There was such an air of intimacy . . . it was weird.

“But hey,” said Carter, putting on a bright tone, “look at us right now. We’re doing just fine. And haven’t you heard? The stone that the builder refused will always be the head cornerstone.”

I dragged heavily on my cigarette. “Is that a verse from the bible?”

“Hell if I know.” Carter took a swig of his tea. “I think I heard it from a Bob Marley song.”

We clinked glasses. “JAH MAN!”

I pushed the memories of my dad out of my mind and changed the subject. “So, any more advice you can give me?”

He seemed to consider this for a bit before responding. “Most management philosophy that you read in a textbook or learn in a classroom is not going to be of much use. Once you factor in people’s egos and personalities, even the most sensible theories begin to fall apart.”

“Egos,” I echoed. “I wonder if Lightning Speed is large enough to accommodate both of our egos.”

“Of course it is. But don’t let your ego get in the way. Learn how to delegate. When it comes to project management, the ability to delegate is what separates the good managers from the bad ones. So train your agents, and then let go of a responsibility.”

“Sounds easy,” I said.

“It almost never is.”

“Why not?”

“Egos get in the way. Most Project Managers would rather be seen as the authority than support the authority or the expertise of people who work for them.”

“Well, sometimes it’s difficult to let go of a responsibility.”

“Again,” said Carter, “it all boils down to ego. Some managers convince themselves that they can do everything better than anyone else.”

“Well maybe it’s because they’re afraid that if they give up that responsibility, they’ll become redundant to the company.”

“That’s why it takes a very confident person to become a good Project Manager. You need to have confidence in the people you work for and confidence in the people who work for you. And you need enough confidence in yourself to overcome those ego problems.”

“I have confidence,” I said resolutely. “And I don’t have a big ego. Really. I don’t. I just act like I do.”

“Oh and there’s more,” said Carter. “It’s not just your own ego you need to worry about. You also have to deal with other people’s egos.”

“Great,” I said with heavy sarcasm.

“The good news is the size of someone’s ego is one of the easiest things to figure out. And once you can read ego, understand its impact on business and control it by either stroking it or pushing it, then you’ll be fine.”

“So . . . big egos are bad and small egos are good?”

“Not always.”

“But how can a giant ego even be a good thing?”

“Well, a lot of deals get made simply because someone’s ego is so big that psychologically he can’t afford not to get it done. So always use what you know about a person to your benefit. It’s all about learning how to read people and at the same time, learning how to influence their reading of you.”

I stared at my Jedi master. “How do you do it? Read people?”

“It’s called being street smart. And while it is not teachable, it is learnable.”

“So tell me.” I sat forward in my chair. “How do I learn?”

“It’s simple, really. By the powers of observation. And by listening. In meetings, pay attention to the little things people say or do unconsciously.”

“Like?”

“Like the way a person looks away at the sound of a particular question. Like the way a person chooses to phrase his thoughts.”

“Mmmm . . .” I murmured pensively.

“And pay attention to the cubicles; more often than not, how people choose to decorate their space is often an extension of themselves.”

I sat up straighter. “What can you tell about me just from observing my cubicle?” I cleared my throat loudly. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that my desk is always immaculate. Thank you very much,” I added smugly.

“With you . . .” Carter studied me for a moment. “My gut feeling tells me that your clean desk is a sign of a cluttered drawer.”

Holy Crapola! How did he know? Was this guy a psychic?

“Guilty as charged.” I grinned sheepishly.

“And pay attention to a person’s eyes. The eyes will always tell you what someone is really thinking. In most business situations, people communicate with their eyes what they can’t do with words.”

I opened my eyes wide so they were bulging in their sockets. “What do my eyes tell you right now?”

The corners of his mouth twitched as his gray eyes met my bulging brown ones. “They tell me that I am boring you to death.”

“No you’re not,” I said emphatically. “I thought I was blinding you with my earnestness.”

“Anyway, my point is the clues are everywhere. You just need to be tuned in to them. Most people are not. Either they’re too busy listening to themselves, or they’re too involved in their own agenda to notice what others are doing.”

“And this so called ‘reading’ of people.” I turned my head slightly to blow a smooth stream of smoke across my shoulder. “How does it really help you?”

“Well, for one, it helps me predict how people are likely to react or respond in almost any business situation. And that in turn impacts my actions. In the past, I’ve failed to close a few deals simply because my sit-back attitude and failure to stroke a few egos came across as cold and arrogant.”

“All good advice.” I nodded thoughtfully. “Thanks for sharing your management philosophy.”

“Take it from me, Karsynn,” he said in a level voice, “the only management philosophy that
does
work is the one that acknowledges that
none
of them do. People and problems don’t fit into molds. So just be flexible, but at the same time, strive for consistency.”